Chapter 6: Terrorism

New Pentagon, Military Headquarters
Denver, WestHem
Friday, July 3, 2150

“You asked to see me, Major Amos?” Willister Finch looked up from his desk at John Amos.

“Yes, sir. You asked for a proof of concept for a fifth column, Martians who could be convinced to become spies, form terror cells and otherwise be disruptive. I am ready to report some preliminary results.”

Finch looked at Amos curiously. “You’ve been able to find such Martians from here on Earth? When our agents in place have not been able to?”

“It’s as I said before, General, we’ve been looking in the wrong place. The Greenies aren’t satisfactory candidates. Instead, we need to concentrate on the ex-Marines and ex-Navy still on Mars. Appropriate pressure techniques can be used on them to make a percentage, potentially a high percentage, into agents,” answered Amos.

“And you’ve done this?”

“You wanted a proof of concept, prototype results.” He picked up a remote for the wall monitor and said, “Permit me, sir.”

At Finch’s nod, the major called up a vid of a MarsGroup News segment. In it, the journalist was describing a recent incident in Procter, where a former WestHem Marine went crazy and began shooting up a park outside the municipal office building. The report specified that the police had killed him, but not before he wounded half-a-dozen innocent civilians. He also reported that a Martian had been found who had sold him the handgun and he was being charged as an accessory. It concluded with the fact that nobody understood why Ron Devischenko had done what he did, though there was some suspicion he had a hidden form of post-traumatic stress.

When it was over, Finch looked at Amos curiously. The major said, “It took us some time, but we were able to find Private Ronald Devischenko of the 235^th Recon Regiment, who was captured during Martian Hammer. He still had a sister here on Earth, in Chicago. We arrested her and made a vid of her in the police station. That vid was sent to Private Devischenko, along with the suggestion that he do something violent and noticeable.” He pointed at the monitor. “That was his response.”

“So, it worked.”

“Yes, sir. However, it was very difficult to find a suitable target. We have no access to Martian military records of where the ex-Marines and ex-Navy are. We were reduced to searching broadcasts and using facial recognition software to find somebody. That is not a practical method.”

“No, probably not. Did it blow back on our agent or whoever contacted him?”

“Not as of this time. We also need a way to contact selected individuals, and there is always the likelihood that some of the people selected will not be susceptible to this form of pressure,” admitted Amos.

Finch snorted. “If somebody threatened me with harm to my brother, I’d probably laugh and say they were welcome to him!”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Well, it worked, though I am not sure randomly shooting up a park will accomplish all that much. Still, it’s proof of concept. You’ll need to find more candidates, a lot more, and more reliably, and then come up with targets that will make it all worthwhile.”

Amos nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“And the girl?”

“Does it matter?”

Finch didn’t respond, but simply motioned for Amos to leave. In WestHem, and EastHem too, some people mattered.

Most didn’t

Martian Capital Building
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Friday, July 3, 2150

“Marcus, we have a problem.”

Marcus Slackass, Colonel, Martian Planetary Guard and Director of Planetary Intelligence, looked at his deputy, Astor ‘Ass’ Blaster, and said, “We always have a problem.”

“Well, you sure aren’t going to like this one.” Blaster had just knocked on his door and disturbed Slackass’ afternoon. He had been hoping to get out early for once and spend the weekend playing hide the salami with his lover and administrative assistant, Jenny Vermin.

Slackass pointed at a chair and said, “Tell me.”

Blaster said, “The Procter City police have been all over that crazy Marine who shot up the park a few days ago before getting killed...”

“The one where the ex-Marine had PTSD?”

“That’s just it. He didn’t have post-traumatic stress. Nobody they talked to, his friends or coworkers, said he had any symptoms. Nobody could understand it. Not even the ‘collector’ he bought the gun from. He said the guy, Devischenko, looked like he had been crying, but seemed coherent and rational otherwise.”

Slackass looked at his deputy oddly. “He was crying but coherent and rational and then he shoots up a park? Really? And why is this a problem for the MPI?”

“Because they found a couple of files on a thumb drive. He had erased them, but the Procter police tech division got curious and scanned the drive and the computer. The files were from Earth!”

“WestHem?”

“Uh huh. It took them a while to sort it out, but once they saw the files, they contacted the local MPI office. They thought it was serious enough they had a Hummingbird bring it here for us to verify. Devischenko was under orders to get a weapon and shoot up a store or park or someplace private. They also sent him a picture of his sister being arrested by the FLEB and being strip searched and abused, with a warning that worse would happen to her if he refused.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Yeah! We tracked her down, too. They killed her anyway, raped her, too,” said Blaster.

“Why? What for? What good does it do them to have this guy shoot up a park?” asked Slackass.

“What if this is part of the same scheme that involved arresting and killing the families of four ex-Marines? It seems awfully similar.”

Slackass said, “To do what? Blackmail ex-Marines into attacking us here? Jesus, these guys are sick!” Blaster responded with a puzzled face. “Put somebody on this and start figuring out if this is some new sick scheme.”

“Yeah.”

“You really know how to fuck up a weekend, Ass.”

Dolorov Complex Apartments
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Friday, July 3, 2150

“Honey, I’m home!”

Genevieve ‘Jenny’ Vermin came out of the bedroom. “So you are.”

Marcus whistled and said, “Wow! Nice outfit!”

Jenny smiled. She was barefoot and wearing shorts and a top, the standard Martian mode of dress, but totally non-standard. The top was a very fine and transparent skintight white mesh, and so were the shorts. Jenny had also skipped out on any underwear; the only items she wore under her clothing were a pair of nipple rings, a matching navel ring, and a ring through her clitoral hood. “I thought you might like it.”

“Sorry about being late. Something came up...”

“Ssshhh! You know the rules. Work is work and home is home. Monday morning you can go back to the office and discover what your very talented staff have discovered about whatever the problem is. When you called, I cancelled our reservations at Pedro’s. Think this outfit would have been appropriate at Pedro’s?” Jenny asked with a smile.

“I think it would have been very popular,” Marcus replied, smiling back. Pedro’s was a Mexican restaurant on the second floor of the Dolorov Complex A building. By Martian standards it wasn’t particularly risqué, and Jenny’s outfit wouldn’t have been the most outlandish ever seen; by WestHem standards it would have gotten her arrested on charges of indecency and Pedro’s closed permanently.

“I had our whole evening planned,” she told him. “First, Pedro’s for dinner and drinks, maybe a few bonghits, and then back here for some fornication and relaxation.”

Marcus smiled. “Fornication and relaxation?”

Jenny nodded. “Fornication, followed by relaxation, and then another round of fornication, followed by some more relaxation, and so forth, right until you’ve collapsed of a heart attack.”

“Well, a man has to die of something.”

She sniffed theatrically. “You are kind of funky. Go shower and change and I’ll call down to Pedro’s and have them deliver a few burritos. By the time you are cleaned up, we’ll have time for a drink before dinner arrives.”

Marcus smiled. “I knew there was a reason the MPG sent you back to school. You are so smart!”

“Honey, I knew how to take care of this kind of business long before the MPG ever heard of me. Now, go change.”

Marcus laughed at Jenny and headed for the bedroom. She was right; a long day and the nerve-wracking news Blaster had given him had given him a case of the sweats. He undressed and tossed his clothes in the hamper before stepping into the shower.

Jenny was probably the best thing that had happened to him since the Revolution. He was thirty-eight, a former WestHem Marine lieutenant who Kevin Jackson had recruited to join the nascent Martian Planetary Guard prior to the Revolution. He grew up as close to upper middle class as it was possible for a Greenie to be. His parents both had high level jobs at Shilling Munitions. Jenny was almost a polar opposite, former vermin from the Libby ghettos, barely twenty-five, and with only a third-grade education at the time of the Revolution. She also had some of the highest test scores seen in the aptitude tests given by the MPG when she applied for a job. She had been assigned to Marcus as a potential assistant, and he had turned right around and enrolled her in school for half the day. She was far too intelligent to be wasted as a mere assistant.

Or not. Jenny had a very grounded sense of herself. Shortly after going to work for Marcus, she had fallen for him, and they began a personal relationship. Shortly before Martian Justice she had moved into his apartment with him. It was Jenny who insisted that Marcus begin taking time off from work. One night he had been on the verge of pulling another all-nighter at the office when she asked, “Is the WestHem fleet in orbit right now preparing to launch landers filled with a million Marines? No? Then you are coming home and having a decent dinner and getting a blowjob and a good night’s sleep! Now, do I need to pinch you by the ear and drag you out through the lobby?” Marcus had laughed and allowed Jenny to take him home, feed him, fellate him, and provide a good night’s sleep.

Marcus showered and pulled on some clean shorts and t-shirt, returning to the living room to find Jenny making tequila sunrises. “Dinner will be here in ten minutes,” she said.

He sat down in his favorite armchair and motioned for her to come closer. “Whatever will we do in the next ten minutes?”

“Not that! I am going to need way more than ten minutes for what I want!” Jenny laughed. “It is going to take you hours to make up for missing our reservations!”

“Hmmmm ... maybe I should I have stayed at the office.”

Jenny got off the couch and sat down on Marcus’ lap. “And like I have told you, unless the Earthlings are landing Marines, you can come home at a reasonable hour.”

“Okay.” He put his arms around her and inhaled her scent, a mixture of EastHem perfume and her own powerful musk.

“Marcus, how long do you plan to be a spymaster?”

“Huh?”

Jenny kissed him and asked, “Do you plan to continue running Planetary Intelligence for the rest of your life?”

“I never really thought about it. Why?” he responded.

“It’s not good for you. It’s not good for anybody, not for long, anyway. What we see, what we learn, it’s just not good for us. You can’t swim in a sewer and not get messy.”

Marcus considered what he had been involved in earlier that evening. WestHem was blackmailing Marine prisoners they had abandoned and disavowed, forcing them to attack and kill Martians by threatening and killing their WestHem family members. If that wasn’t a sewer, what was? Before he could say anything, the doorbell rang, and Jenny climbed off his lap. “Refresh our drinks.” She headed towards the front door.

Marcus smiled when he heard Alejandro, Pedro’s youngest son complimenting Jenny as he handed over a large bag. Jenny brought it to the dining room table. “Sounds like Alejandro likes your outfit, too.”

Jenny smiled brightly. “I think he prefers my jewelry.”

“That’s pretty spectacular, too,” he told her. “Now, what do you mean by asking how long I am going to stay in MPI? You want me to quit?”

She shook her head. “No, but I want you to think about it. I know that WestHem is coming back. I know that they are planning another invasion. I know that and I know that you know that. What happens afterwards? Are you going to stay in until the fourth invasion? The fifth? When will you have given enough of your soul, and what will you have left when you do?”

Marcus stared at her for a moment. For the first time in twenty years, he was considering something beyond serving Mars. Was there a life after the MPG and the MPI? “Can you let me think about this, Jenny?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just ... the MPG has been part of my life since I was a teenager. What would I do?” Jenny simply waggled her eyebrows.

After dinner, he asked, “What is a beautiful young woman like you doing with a guy almost old enough to be your father?”