Chapter 14

Slurry, Ken, and Rigger Johannesburg, Slurry's boss, stood atop the elevated first tee block of the Point Three-Eight Golf and Country Club. Their golf bags, which were strapped securely into robotic wheeled transporters, sat idly behind them. The grass of the tee block and of the fairway that stretched out before them was a lush and rich green, neatly trimmed and maintained by an army of city paid landscapers. The ceiling over the golf course was very high, almost 500 meters up.

Slurry was peering through a set of digital enhancement binoculars and range finders that had been issued to each member of the threesome along with the transporter carts. "It looks like they're far enough away now," she told her companions, referring to the foursome that had set off on the hole in front of them. "Go ahead and fire it up, Ken."

"Fuckin' aye," Ken said, plugging a white golf ball and a plastic tee into the springy grass between the championship tee blocks. He stepped back from the ball and peered down the straight fairway. He could not see the pin but he could make out two lakes and three sand bunkers in the general vicinity of the landing area. "What's the range on this hole again?" he asked Slurry.

She consulted her PC, upon which a course schematic and ball locator program had been loaded. "768 meters from the blue tees," she told him. "Par four."

"768 meters," he said wonderingly. "Ain't that some shit?"

Though Ken and Slurry were both golf enthusiasts, this was their first trip to the infamous Point Three-Eight Club, which derived its name from the fact that it was the only course on Mars to utilize natural Martian gravity instead of the artificial kind. Mars gravity was .38G, equal to about a third of standard Earth gravity.

"Remember," said Rigger, who had invited them and had paid the outrageously high price demanded for a round, "air pressure friction will be the same as on any other course. We're still at Earth sea level standard. It's just the gravity that's different. This means your ball will go a little more than twice as far as on a regular course and any mistakes you make in aiming or slicing will be compounded by a factor of two."

"As if I wasn't bad enough as it is," said Ken, who was exaggerating considerably. Since starting his career as a Hummingbird pilot he had ample free time to perfect his golf game. His Martian Golf Association official handicap stood at a solid 9, much better than the 21 he had maintained in his previous life.

He lined up for his shot and took a few practice swings, getting the feel of the club in the reduced gravity. Finally he addressed the ball and took a deep breath. Slurry and Rigger stood silently behind him, not wanting to disturb his concentration. He took one last look down the fairway and then at the ball. Smoothly and confidently, he took his shot, the driver making good contact and blasting the ball away from the tee with a resounding and satisfying smack.

"A tight pussy of a shot," Rigger said, impressed. "I think you're gonna like it."

Ken just stared, amazed, as the ball flew effortlessly in a high ballistic arc, still going up after passing the 200-meter mark. It dwindled with distance and soon disappeared from his sight entirely. The monitor on his PC, which was tracking the ball by means of a cellular triangulation receiver, told him it had landed 538 meters from the tee block and rolled another twenty meters after that. He had just hit a golf ball more than half a kilometer.

Rigger, a veteran of this course and a 4-handicap player, quickly outdid him. He blasted his tee shot 567 meters directly down the center of the fairway.

"Nice fuckin' shot," Slurry said, putting her own ball into the ground. Though she was a 6 handicap herself, she was quite unused to maneuvering about in reduced gravity. When she took her swing her weight shifted more than she wanted it too. She lost her balance and fell to the ground next to the tee, uttering a grunt of embarrassment. Her golf ball traveled less than a hundred meters, arcing off into the deep rough alongside the fairway.

"That's an ass-fuck with a reversible drill," Rigger commented as his protégé picked herself up off the ground. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."

"Now I know what the WestHem marines went through when they tried to jack the planet from us," she said good-naturedly. One of the major factors in the WestHem defeat during the Martian Revolution had been the unfamiliarity of the invading marines with reduced gravity. They had found it difficult to walk on the surface and up and down hills, frequently stumbling and falling. They had also found it hard to hit the dirt when under attack since the gravity pulled them much more slowly toward said dirt than they were used to.

The threesome walked off toward their balls, their electric carts trailing obediently behind them. All three were sipping from bottles of beer even though it was only 0800 in the morning. Ken had long since learned to disregard the taboo against pre-noon drinking he had been raised with.

Slurry's second shot was a bit smoother. She blasted it out of the rough and back into the fairway 340 meters downrange. They then had to wait a bit while the group in front of them cleared the green. As they did they all passed a joint back and forth, getting pleasantly stoned.

"You know what smoking bud does to me," Slurry warned Ken after exhaling her last hit.

"Why do you think I gave you some?" he asked slyly, knowing that before the round was finished she would be giving him a blowjob at the very least. Marijuana made her extremely horny.

"Schemer," she said, slapping at him playfully. It was a gesture that was mostly sincere but Ken, even through his own stoned haze, was able to see the underlying dread that seemed to pop up in her more and more frequently these days. Their relationship had never completely recovered from whatever had happened to Slurry that one awful night.

In most aspects they were still happy newlyweds. They spent as much time together as they possibly could. They went golfing at least once a week and botching every weekend. Every night after work they ate dinner together, either a home cooked meal or one prepared at one of the many favorite restaurants they had discovered. Most importantly, however, their ability to communicate with other-the foundation of their relationship-was still intact. They still loved talking to each other and were still best friends. Their favorite activity remained nothing more than simple conversation. It didn't matter if the subject was historical literature or aspects of the Martian constitution or who had the nicest tits at each other's respective workplace, they could and did still talk.

But at the same time, something had definitely changed about Slurry. She had clearly marked certain conversational subjects as off limits and she absolutely refused to talk about them. The most significant of these subjects was whatever it was that had pissed her off so badly on that night two months before. True to her word, she would not discuss it, would, in fact, hardly acknowledge that the incident had even occurred. If he tried to bring it up, either directly or in a roundabout way, she would change the subject, clam up completely, or, if he persisted, simply leave the room. The other taboo issue was that of children. Any attempt he made to reopen that topic was just as neatly cut off at the knees.

Still, things had gone as they should as long as Ken stayed away from those forbidden topics. Most of the time he was able to forget about the dark spot on their marriage, as Slurry seemed to have done. As she had said she would, it seemed she had forgiven him in advance for whatever it was that she thought he was going to do to her. At least that was how things had been until three days ago.

On that day, Slurry had called him at the end of her workday and told him she had an emergency meeting to attend and would be home late. She had come home at the time she said she would, and didn't smell of intoxicants, but ever since then her attitude had undergone another significant change. It was subtle, something only her husband would have noticed, but to Ken it was as plain as the nipples on her tits (as the Martian expression went). She didn't smile as much and her conversations with him seemed strained, even when discussing benign and neutral things. She wanted to spend more time alone, often shutting herself into the study for hours. He had even detected the swelling and redness of eyes, the telltale symptoms of crying. As with everything else that fell under the umbrella of being related to that night, she refused to discuss it with him or to even acknowledge there was anything to discuss. Even when asking him to go on this golf trip-something that had once been a high point of their relationship-he sensed an air of dread and sadness about her. The smile and affection he'd just enjoyed-though a shadow of its former self-was the best he'd had from her all week.

Rigger finished up the hole by sinking a neat, twelve-meter putt for birdie. Ken, though he had put his ball on the green in a regulation two shots, still ended up with a bogey since he was unfamiliar with putting in .38 gravity. Slurry, even more unfamiliar with reduced gravity, finally managed to chip on the green with her fourth shot and three-putt for a triple-bogey.

"You'll get the hang of it, Slurry," Rigger promised as they cleared the green and headed for the next hole.

She gave him a sour look, the same one she'd been sporting for most of the past seven days. "Yes," she said. "If there's one thing I'm getting good at, it's getting used to things, huh?"

Ken let the comment lie, even though he knew it was directed at him. They mounted the next tee block, which overlooked a monstrous 876-meter par five that doglegged 45 degrees to the right. Slurry employed her binoculars and found the foursome in front of them was just approaching their initial drives. They settled in to wait, Rigger pulling out a cigar and Ken pulling out a cigarette. They sparked up, puffing fragrant tobacco smoke into the still air. Rigger and Slurry passed a few looks between them, seeming to employ some sort of silent communication Ken was unable to fathom. He was just about to ask what was going on when Slurry spoke up.

"Ken, there's something that... well... that Rigger and I want to ask you," she said, having trouble getting the words out.

"What's that?" he asked, looking at them carefully. Their expressions were pained and serious at the same time.

Slurry sighed. "Because of your... well... your background, the MHAD has asked me to ask you if they could... well... employ you in a certain capacity."

"My background?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Do you mean my..." he cast a look at Rigger. "My origins?"

"Rigger knows about you," she said. "I hope you don't mind, and I know I should have asked you first before sharing details of your life with my co-workers, but it seemed like a very important thing."

He was a bit taken aback by the fact that she had done this. Though he was not nearly as paranoid as he had once been about revealing his background, it was still something he preferred to keep close, if for no other reason than to avoid being labeled as different. "It's all right," he said. "Kind of, anyway. But what exactly do you mean about... employing me? Does someone want to interview me?"

"Not exactly," Slurry said. She looked to Rigger for help and he promptly picked up the thread.

"Ken," he said, "please don't be angry with Slurry for sharing your unique upbringing with us. She did keep your personal life to herself until a certain issue recently came to our attention at the MHAD. This is an issue she felt you would be able to assist us-and subsequently the Martian government itself-with. That is the only reason she let us know where you'd come from."

"What issue are we talking about here?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I can't really give you any details at the moment. If you agree to help us you will be cleared for top-secret material and then everything will be explained in detail."

"Well, what is it you want me to do?" he asked next. "I'm not going to agree to anything if I don't know what it is first."

Slurry and Rigger looked at each other again, both sharing another moment of silent communication that ended in mutual shrugs. "Let's just say," Rigger finally said, "that your intimate knowledge of twentieth and early twenty-first century life in America would be invaluable to a project being put together. You don't have to decide whether or not to do it right now. All we ask for is your agreement to go through the security clearance process so we can then explain what we wish you to do. If, at that point, you do not wish to help us, it is your right and obligation as a Martian citizen to tell us to go fuck ourselves. Every other member of the project would be expected to do the same."

"I see," he said, although he really didn't.

"So... so... what do you say?" Slurry asked, her eyes giving Ken mixed messages. She seemed to be desperate for him to agree and disagree at the same time.

He looked at Rigger, seeing he was eagerly anticipating a reply as well. He obviously wanted Ken to say yes. Rigger was one of the most emotionless people Ken had ever met. Whatever this project was, it had to be big to make him act antsy like that. He looked back at Slurry. "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

"Uh... sure," she said.

They stepped off the tee block into the shadow of a portable restroom about 30 meters away. Rigger stayed behind.

"What do you think I should do?" Ken asked Slurry. "I presume you know exactly what's going on here, right?"

"Not exactly," she said. "But I know most of it. Enough."

"I can see you have mixed emotions about... about whatever we're not talking about here. Tell me what's on your mind."

She sighed again, going through some sort of internal struggle. "Part of me wants to say you should tell us to take a flying fuck at Phobos. But that's the personal part of me, the heart." She shook her head. "Oh fuck it, I won't be violating anything by saying this much. What we're going to ask you to do is dangerous, Ken, maybe one of the most dangerous things ever attempted."

"Dangerous in what way?" he asked.

"Physically, emotionally, metaphysically, every which way," she said. "I don't think I can say any more at the moment, but my point has been made, I think. This is not just an interview for your knowledge. You'll be asked to put your life on the line."

Metaphysically? What the hell did that mean? He let that lie for the moment. "Well, I do have some common sense, Slurry," he told her. "If I think whatever you're talking about is too dangerous, I will say no."

"You won't think it's too dangerous," she said gloomily. "If you agree to hear what we have to say, you'll say yes. I already know that."

"You can't know that," he said.

"I do," she said stubbornly, insistently.

"So you want me to turn you down?" he asked. "I will if you ask me to. This isn't hydro-diving into Saturn, apparently. If you really think it's too dangerous, if you really don't want me to do it, I won't."

She let her head fall down for a moment, so she was staring at the cement path that led to the shithouse. "Oh Laura," she moaned. She looked back up at him. "That's what my heart is telling me to say," she told him. "But I'm also a Martian and I have to listen to my brain as well."

"And your brain says?"

"My brain says this is something that could potentially affect the entire history of Mars. It's that important. And your involvement in what we want to do is a vital part of what is being planned. You could mean the difference between Mars standing and Mars falling."

"You're shitting me," he said.

"I wish I were," she replied. "I'm not. You really would be a key part of this... this mission. And so, even though I know the danger, even though I know what you're going to..." she trailed off, as if she had almost said too much. "Even with all that, I have to ask you to come in and hear what we have to say. I have to beg you to do that, in fact. Mars needs you, Ken. Please help us."

"Are you sure, Slurry?" he asked, unconvinced of her sincerity.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "I'm sure."

"Okay," he said. "I'll go in."

The next day the process of granting Ken one of the rare top-secret security clearances issued by the Martian government was undertaken. Since Ken was a first generation Martian, meaning he had been born on Earth, he technically did not qualify for such a clearance since virtually all of the spies who passed information to EastHem and WestHem were first generation. Common sense, however, was something that could be applied to any rule and used to overrule it and such was done in this case. This did add an extra layer of scrutiny and bureaucracy to the process, which, in turn, meant the process took nearly three times as long as usual. As such, it was nearly two hours before all of the background checks were done and the order granting his clearance was signed by Governor Mitsy Brown herself.

That night Slurry told Ken he had been approved and would accompany her to the capital building the next morning to take the secrecy oath and receive his briefing. Though he was scheduled to work at his normal job, the executive branch of the Martian government intervened with the head of the construction department and he was removed from the flight schedule and reassigned to Martian government service. He would continue to draw the same salary and his job would be held for him until his return. It was the same process used when one was assigned to jury duty or to legislative service, so no one thought it unusual.

He rode downtown with Slurry the next morning, catching the 0900 train and entering the capital building by 0930. She accompanied him up to the 96th floor, where the Martian Intelligence Services utilized most of the office space. After clearing a security checkpoint they were directed to the office of Flint Packing, the director of the MIS. He was a short, rounded man of Pacific Islander ancestry. He directed Ken and Slurry to sit before his desk and then explained the ramifications of the top-secret security clearance to Ken.

"What this means is that you will be privy, not only to sensitive information but also the means by which it was gathered. There is not much we consider worthy of this distinction under our constitution and, in the early post-revolutionary days we actually attempted to make all such distinctions illegal. What we have found, though, is that there are certain things a government does in the protection of its citizens that simply has to remain secret when an antagonistic relationship is going on with another government, or, as is the case here, with two other governments. The lack of secrecy in our early days is what led to the problem we are facing now, Ken."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You'll find out later, I'm sure," he said. "In any case, that is why a certain select few, most in the Intelligence department and the upper reaches of government, are given a top secret security clearance. Your wife Slurry, as I'm sure you know, is neither a high ranking government official nor an intelligence officer, but she and her colleagues at the MHAD are privy to the methods with which we gather information about EastHem and WestHem and that is why she is restricted from talking about it."

"What methods are those?" he asked carefully, thoughts of torture and truth serums going through his head.

Packing seemed to read his mind. He chuckled in amusement. "Nothing cloak and dagger like what you're thinking," he replied. "Most of what we get is from our computer technology, isn't that right, Slurry?"

"Fuckin' aye," she agreed. "It's uh... quite a bit more advanced than what most Martians think."

"Exactly," Packing said. "And if Slurry or anyone else at the MHAD were allowed to talk about how they came by their findings, it wouldn't be long before either a WestHem or an EastHem spy heard about it as well. If the Earthlings actually knew how much of their computerized information we were actually able to read... well, who knows what would happen? In any case, that's the reasoning behind the top-secret clearances. Now let me explain just what the clearance means to you. You down with it?"

"I'm down with it," Ken agreed.

"Fuckin' aye," he said with a satisfied nod. "If you lay some derm on the clearance screen, what you'll be agreeing to is this: You will be privy to sensitive information in your capacity as an intelligence consultant-which is what your title will be. You will agree not to discuss or otherwise disclose anything you hear or see in this capacity with anyone who does not possess a top-secret clearance as well. This includes all forms of communication-verbal, written, photographic, drawing, even forms of communication that have not been developed yet, such as telepathic. The duration upon which you are not allowed to discuss any particular subject is infinite, or, until such time as the information becomes declassified-something that does happen from time to time. Furthermore, you are discouraged from even mentioning that such a thing as a top-secret security clearance even exists in the first place and, if such a thing does exist, that you hold such a clearance. Are you down with what I'm saying here, Ken?"

"Yes," he said. "You're saying that I need to keep my freakin' mouth shut, no matter what."

"You're down with it," he said. "Now if you do not keep your freakin' mouth shut and you release any forbidden information, whether willingly or unwittingly, you will be subject to criminal charges that carry a penalty of five years in prison at the very least. Furthermore, you will be kept in isolation if convicted in order to prevent you from revealing any other information. And if the information you do reveal results in the death of someone, you will be charged with murder as well. I'm sure you're aware of the penalty for that."

"Fuckin' aye," he said.

"Now of course, common sense still applies here, as it does in any situation, and can be used as a defense for violation of the secrecy oath."

"What do you mean?" Ken asked.

"Well, for example, suppose the government was doing something illegal, or immoral, or something that had a high potential for causing harm. Let's say you went to your briefing and were told that we were developing a genetically engineered virus that was going to be released on Earth and kill large numbers of their population so we could then invade. That's an extreme example, of course, but in that case your common sense would tell you that violation of your secrecy oath was the right thing to do, right?"

"Right," he agreed.

"In fact, in that case, I imagine you could be subject to criminal charges if you did not violate the secrecy oath. That is a precedent that goes all the way back to the Nuremberg trials in 1945."

"I understand," Ken said.

"Good," Packing told him. "So, now that you understand the ramifications of the secrecy oath, let's go ahead and review it and you can lay some derm."

This took less than five minutes to accomplish. Ken read through the actual text of the oath on Packing's computer screen. It was four pages in length and basically spelled out exactly what Packing had just explained. Like all Martian documents, it was written in plain language instead of indecipherable legalese, as an Earth document would have been. When he finished reading it, he put his fingerprint on the pad, signing it. And just like that, he now held a Martian top-secret security clearance.

"Let's get to the briefing," Slurry told him. "It starts at 1000."

They thanked Packing for his time ("No skin off my ass", he replied) and then left the office, heading back to the elevators and going up to the 118th floor, only two stories from the very top. Ken began to feel a bit nervous as the doors opened up and they emerged into a carpeted hallway. The upper five floors of the capital building, he knew, were all assigned to the executive branch of the government, which meant the governor's office.

"Just who is going to be at this briefing, anyway?" he asked Slurry, who seemed a bit nervous as well.

"Some very important people," she told him. "Very important."

It was 0958 hours when they came to the door where they had been told to report. EXECUTIVE BRIEFING ROOM was printed on the panel. Two uniformed Martian Planetary Guard security police stood outside, sidearms strapped to their waists and M-24 assault rifles slung over the shoulder portions of their body armor. They were polite and efficient as they ran weapon and explosive scanners over Ken and Slurry and then checked their fingerprints on a computer screen for confirmation.

"Go on in," the first guard said when the process was complete. "The governor is expecting you."

"The governor?" Ken asked incredulously.

"Fuckin' aye," the guard replied, pushing a panel and allowing the door to slide open.

The briefing room was fairly large, taking up enough square meterage to accommodate four or five standard offices. The centerpiece was a large table, about twenty meters long by five meters wide, with about fifty chairs arranged around it. Each chair had a small computer screen mounted on the table before it. The front and back of the room both contained large, wall-mounted screens big enough to watch movies on. Gathered near the front of the table, sitting in the chairs just under the northern screen, was a group of people of varying ages. Ken instantly recognized the woman sitting at the head of the table as the governor of Mars. The guards had not been kidding.

"Come in, come in," the governor told them, waving them over. "You must be Ken and Slurry Frazier, our twentieth century experts. Rigger told us about you. What the fuck's the haps?"

They both muttered that nothing much was the haps and shuffled their way over to the table, taking seats next to Rigger Johannesburg, who was the only other person Ken knew by face. Rigger greeted them quietly and thanked them for coming.

"Ken, Laura," Mitsy Brown said, "Can we get you some coffee? Or maybe a cigarette?"

"No, thank you, Governor," Ken replied nervously, awed to be in the presence of such an important woman.

"No, thank you, Governor," replied Slurry, who was, if anything, even more anxious.

"Oh fuck that 'Governor' shit," Brown said. "Call me Mitsy. I'm an ordinary citizen. I swallow cum one jizz at a time, just like everyone else, okay?"

"Yes, Gov... uh... Mitsy," Ken stammered. "I'm sure you do."

"And she's pretty fuckin' good at it too," one of the other meeting participants, a man in his twenties, said, causing a round of laughter to erupt at the table. Ken blushed, trying to imagine having a meeting with the President of the United States in his day and having someone make such a remark. But Mitsy Brown didn't seem to mind. She was laughing as much as everyone else.

When the laughter trailed off, Mitsy Brown put on her time-for-business face, signaling to the other participants to do the same. She picked up her coffee cup, took a sip, and then looked at the group that had gathered before her, making a point to meet each set of eyes one by one. "Now that we're all present," she said, "we will begin. The first thing I'd like to do is go around the table and have everyone introduce themselves and get everyone down with what you do." She turned to the man on her right, the man who had made the remark about her being pretty fuckin' good. "Roscoe, why don't we start with you?"

"Fuckin' aye," he said. "I'm Roscoe Reamer, Planetary Security Advisor."

Brown turned to her left, where a black man in his late teens sat. He caught the look and introduced himself next. "I'm Ron Sampson," he said. "I command a field intelligence contingent with the MIS. My guess is that I will be in charge of the intelligence aspect of whatever field operation is being planned."

"Very insightful, Ronnie," Brown told him. "You are indeed correct." She turned to an early twenties woman of Hispanic origin who sat next to him and gave her the look.

"I am Commander Margo Huffy, Martian Navy, special operations division. I'm the captain of the MSS Calistoga, one of the stealth monitoring platforms."

Seated directly across from Commander Huffy was an exquisitely fit man in his mid-teens. Brown looked at him next and he introduced himself as Lieutenant Jiffy Spankworth of the Martian Planetary Guard special operations division. He commanded a special forces platoon-the MPG equivalent of US Navy Seals or US Army Rangers. Brown then turned to Slurry and Rigger, each of whom introduced themselves as members of the Martian Historical Advisement Department. At last she turned to Ken.

"I'm Ken Frazier," he said. "I'm a Hummingbird pilot for the construction industry. I'm not exactly sure why I'm here but it seems I've been tagged as a historical expert of some sort."

"Indeed you are, Ken," the governor said. "Perhaps you should tell us why you're such an expert in twentieth and early twenty-first century culture."