Chapter 1C

The Helvetia Heights section of Eden was perhaps the worst ghetto on the planet of Mars. Located just five kilometers from downtown, it was a ten square kilometer area that had once been where the financial and business offices of the Eden construction industry had been based. Now it was nothing but public housing complexes full of third and fourth generation unemployed and their families. The streets of Helvetia Heights were ruled not by the police, who only came in when they were called and only in teams of four or more, but by the street gangs and the dust dealers. One did not leave one's apartment in Helvetia unless one was prepared to shoot it out with a group of hardened teenage criminals. To live in Helvetia Heights was to live in unending despair and hopelessness.

Helvetia Park was almost directly in the center of this most dangerous area. It was a four square block area that had been a quaint showpiece in happier times; a place where smiling parents took their children to play and feed the ducks in the pond. Now the irrigation system had long since ceased to operate, the trees and shrubs had all been killed and marked with gang graffiti, the grass was an overgrown ugly brown, and the playground equipment was nothing but broken, rusting hulks. Children no longer played in the park. Their parents would have been mad to allow them anywhere near it. These days the park was the domain and home base of the 51^st Street Capitalists, a fiercely possessive and well-organized gang that supplied much of the dust that was distributed in the neighborhood.

Matthew Mendez sat upon one of the scarred plastic picnic tables near the south entrance of the park with his friend, Jeff Creek. They each had a bottle of Fruity that they were sipping out of from time to time and a marijuana pipe that they were smoking out of. The alcohol and the marijuana were part of the monthly allotment that was allowed of them by the Martian welfare system. They both had cheap 3mm pistols holstered to the waistbands of their shorts and concealed with oversized T-shirts. The pistols were mostly worn out of habit at this point in their young lives. The Capitalist members would not harass them in any way. Matthew and Jeff had been respected members of the gang until recently "retiring" as the term went. They had sold dust, had helped produce it, and had fought bitterly with other gangs for territory. Both had drawn the blood of others in the name of dust distribution. As retired veterans they were entitled to free passage through gang controlled areas and respectful treatment by current members. It was part of the code of conduct that the Capitalists had developed over the years and swore blood oaths to uphold upon initiation. Many other gangs in other parts of the city had similar rules.

Matthew had just turned eighteen years old a few days before. He was a tall, well-built young man of Hispanic heritage, the descendant of one of the original Martian agricultural workers that fled WestHem at the beginning of the Agricultural Rush. His ancestors had certainly led a more fulfilling life than he was leading so far. Like most Helvetia inhabitants, he had never been out of the city of Eden in his life. He had not, in fact, ever been out of the neighborhood of Helvetia except to make the occasional drug pick up near the Agricultural processing plants. He, like his father before him, had been born into unemployment and welfare. His grandfather had been the last of the Mendez clan to earn a paycheck.

"So you gonna make it official with Sharon, or what?" Jeff asked as he packed a pinch of the brown waste marijuana that was distributed to the ghetto class into his homemade pipe. "You're eighteen now and everything's nice and legal. You don't wanna keep livin' with your parents, do you?"

"I don't know, man," Matthew said with a sigh, taking another sip out of his Fruity. This was the same question that Sharon, the lanky, skinny girl he had been seeing for the past six months continually asked him as well. "Getting married just seems so... I don't know, programmed into us. I mean, I don't love Sharon. We just like to fuck now and then."

Jeff shook his head in amusement. "Love?" he scoffed. "What the hell does that got to do with it? You think I love Belinda? She's a fuckin' bitch and the less I see of her, the better. But she got me my own apartment, didn't she? And pretty soon she'll get me a kid and the extra money and food that goes along with it. If you go waitin' for love, you're gonna be thirty years old and still living at home. There ain't no love in this place."

The Martian Welfare laws stated that only a married couple was entitled to a public housing apartment. For this reason it was a ritual among the ghetto class to marry young, almost as soon as they were considered adults by the legal system. And once the couple had the one child they were permitted, they were then entitled to a two-bedroom apartment and an increased food allowance. For this reason young married couples of the ghetto class tended to pump out their one child before their twentieth birthdays. But Matthew did not like doing what everyone else was doing. He could not help but suspect that it was all part of some sinister plan formulated by those that kept everyone in hopeless squalor. "I just don't think having your own apartment is any reason to get married," he said, lighting a cigarette. "That wasn't what the institution of marriage was intended for."

"Institution? You belong in a fuckin institution," Jeff accused. "You are sometimes just too goddamn much to take. Like when you insisted on graduating from high school because it might help you get out of here someday. You remember that?"

"Yeah," Matthew agreed. "I remember. I took a lot of shit from the rest of the Capitalists for staying in school."

"Of course you did," Jeff said. "Nobody graduates from high school around here. What's the fuckin' point? You think someone's gonna give you a job? You? A third generation vermin? You just can't accept the fact that you're going to be vermin until you die, can you?"

"I refuse to accept it," Matthew replied, unoffended by the outburst. He knew that he annoyed the hell out of his peers at times. "If there's a way out of this ghetto, I'm going to find it. I don't want my kid to grow up in this shithole, do you understand?"

"This shithole is all we got," Jeff told him. "We're vermin. Our kids will be vermin. Our kids' kids will be vermin. Nothing is going to change that, man. You hop in a time machine and go forward a couple hundred years and you'll see your great, great, great grandkids hanging out in this park and sellin' dust or whatever people use to get high with then."

"That's where you're wrong," he replied firmly, with all the zeal that an eighteen year old could muster. "I will not have any kids while I live here, while I don't have a job. I won't bring a kid into this life."

Jeff started laughing, almost spilling his grass out of his pipe. "You kill me sometimes," he said. "Is that why you voted for that stupid bitch Whiting? You think she's gonna get you a job?"

"Probably not," Matthew admitted. "But she seems... oh... different than the rest of them somehow. She caught my attention. She says she'll help the welfare class out."

"Yeah, she's going to take the money away from Agricorp, who owns her, and give it to us. She's gonna get us jobs picking tomatoes out in the greenhouses. You don't really believe that crap, do you?"

"No," he admitted. "She's probably just smart enough to tell us what we want to hear so she can get votes out of us. After all, no one else has ever tried to tap the ghetto vote. But if she went to all the effort to touch bases with us, the least I can do is take the time to log on and vote for her. Hell, it only took me five minutes and it didn't cost me nothing. Why shouldn't I have done it? And maybe if more of us vermin did that, we'd have a little bit more of a voice."

"A voice?" Jeff chuckled, shaking his head once again. He handed over the pipe that he had just filled. "Here," he said. "Feed this to your voice."

Matthew took the pipe and applied a disposable lighter to it, taking a large hit. The knowledge that the intoxicants were being provided to him by the planetary government as a calming measure did not stop him from imbibing. What the hell else was there to do? As always the cheap grass, which was mostly stems and seeds, burned his throat and lungs. But if you smoked enough of it there was a pleasant buzzing effect, particularly on top of the effects of the Fruity.

Ten minutes later they were pleasantly intoxicated. The pipes and baggies of marijuana had been stowed in their pockets and the bottles of Fruity, now empty, had been tossed aside onto the grass. The two friends leaned back and watched a group of younger Capitalists a few tables over. They were squabbling over whether they should go down to the tram station and try to score some pussy or head down to the border area and try to clash with some members of the rival 63^rd Street Thrusters. Matthew was of the opinion that their time would be better spent pursuing the first option — he was a firm believer in the philosophy of sex before violence — but he kept his feelings to himself.

"What you doing?" Jeff asked as he saw his friend remove his personal computer, or PC from his pocket. "Gonna check your stock reports?"

The PC was a small device that everyone over the age of ten or so — ghetto class or not — carried with them at all times. It was a wireless communicator and Internet access machine. It was used for all financial transactions and for identification purposes. Matthew unfolded his and turned it on. The screen lit up with the opening display. "I'm gonna watch the inauguration ceremonies," he answered. "See what kind of bullshit she promises us."

Jeff looked at him in for a moment, convinced that he was joking. Finally, reluctantly, he was forced to conclude that his friend was serious. "You're shittin' me," he said. "You're actually going to watch a politician get sworn in? You're going to watch that?"

Matthew shrugged, stubbornly refusing to be embarrassed. "Why not? What the hell else is there to watch? She'll be on every channel." He looked at his screen and spoke to it. "Computer, give me broadcast media mode," he said. "MarsGroup primary."

"Making connection," the pleasant, sexy voice that he had programmed the PC with replied. "Connection active. Enjoy your show."

"Thank you, baby," he told it, peering at the eighty-millimeter screen before him.

Jeff watched all this in wonder. Now he had seen about everything. His friend was truly ready for the nuthouse. He had not only voted for a politician but now he was watching her on Internet. Actually watching a political swearing-in. "Tell me the truth," he said. "You got the hots for this bitch, don't you? You wanna fuck Laura Whiting."

"Oh yeah," he answered sarcastically as the face of a MarsGroup reporter graced the display. In the background could be seen the podium where the ceremony would shortly take place. "I'm really into women that are the same age as my mom. They make me horny as hell."

"Whiting's never been married has she?" he asked next, looking over Matthew's shoulder at the screen in spite of himself. "You think she's a lesbo? I bet she munches the old carpet."

Matthew shrugged again. "So what if she does?" he asked. "The best thing could happen to us is to get some politician up there who hates men. After all, men are the ones who run all the corporations that fuck all of us over. Maybe she'll get rid of them and replace them all with ball-busting women."

"An all lesbo ruling class?" Jeff said, smiling as he imagined the possibilities of that. "Now that's something I'd vote for."

The stage was hot beneath the overhead spotlights as she stepped onto it in her high-heeled shoes, a serious expression upon her face. She shook hands with her future Lieutenant Governor, a shallow, career politician like herself who was owned by MarsTrans and Tagert Steel Refining. It was no secret among those on the inside that he and Laura were bitter enemies. Not only were their sponsors competing companies but they were not even in the same political party. Laura wondered what her second in command was going to think about what she was about to do. Undoubtedly he would attempt to take political advantage of it and force her from office. Would the drive to remove her gravitate around him? If MarsTrans and Tagert Steel had their way it would. But what would Agricorp do? Would they try to form a quick alliance with him? This seemed a likely possibility.

Outgoing Governor Ron Lee, who was enjoying his last five minutes of high office, shook her hand next. He greeted her warmly and introduced her to the audience, smiling graciously and congratulating her just as if he hadn't attacked her viciously on the Internet during his campaign, accusing her of everything from sexual perversion to money laundering for dust dealers. She accepted his congratulations without bitterness. Lee was no worse than anyone else in this business. He had just been doing what everyone else did to win. It was the system that encouraged such things, not Lee himself. What would he think about what was about to transpire? Had it ever occurred to him to use the office for the ends that she was about to, even fleetingly? Probably not.

The Chief Justice of the Martian Supreme Court delivered the oath of office to her. He was a wizened, gnarled old man of ninety-three that had been appointed to the court nearly thirty years before. Once the terror of those who dared challenge the rights and privileges of the agricultural corporations or their subsidiaries, he was now quite senile, his duties having long since been taken over by senior members of his legal staff. His role in the ceremonies was kept as brief as possible to avoid having anyone notice that their lead justice barely had the mental capacity to tie his own shoes. He had been grilled continuously with his lines and shot up with dopasynthamine, a powerful neurological drug that would give him momentary clarity for the broadcast.

"Repeat after me," he told her, his voice barely audible though, of course, it would be magnified by the directional microphones for the broadcast. "I, Laura Whiting..."

"I, Laura Whiting..." she said, holding her right hand up while her left rested upon her heart. She found herself looking a rivulet of drool running from His Honor's mouth and trying not to giggle at the ridiculousness of this production.

"Do solemnly swear..."

"Do solemnly swear..." she intoned.

"To faithfully execute the offices of... uh..." he hesitated for a moment, forgetting what he was supposed to say. Thankfully those in charge of the production had anticipated this. A tiny speaker, mounted in his right ear, provided the missing words for him. He listened to it, took a moment to process the fact that the disembodied voice was helping him with his lines, and then continued. "... uh, Governor of the Planet Mars."

"To faithfully execute the office of Governor of the Planet Mars."

And so on it went. They covered the upholding of the Martian constitution and the laws and challenges of the sacred office, so help her God. The old man before her required only two more prompts to get it right. It was much smoother than the last swearing in, four years before, when he had urinated on himself during the ceremony.

"Congratulations, Governor Whiting," he told her when he finished, holding out his hand to her.

"Thank you, your Honor," she replied, letting a smile cross her face as she shook with him. It was now official. She had been sworn in and, according to the constitution that she had just promised to uphold, she was now the governor. There was no turning back now.

The applause from the crowd went on for better than three minutes. Their enthusiasm was genuine enough. Laura was very popular among her former peers in the legislature, even across party lines. She was regarded as a politician's politician. They knew that if they could enlist her support on one of their bills or amendments, that it stood a good chance of being bullied through the system. Laura's way with words and pushiness with opposing views was legendary. While they were clapping, the Chief Justice was whisked quietly away where he would be shoved into a waiting DPHS cart and driven to the nearest private hospital to be treated for the rather nasty side effects of the dopasynthamine.

The applause died down as she mounted the lectern before her. On the front of it was the great seal of Mars, which showed a view of the planet from space, complete with its two tiny moons. A black microphone stuck up from the top of the lectern and a 200mm Internet screen was discretely installed in the top of it. On the screen was the text of the speech she had submitted as her inaugural address; a speech she had no intention of actually giving. Her real speech was in her head.

Now that the time had actually come to show her true colors she felt the nervousness that had been plaguing her for the past two weeks, whittling nearly five kilograms of her body weight away and destroying her slumber, fade away. A cool calm overtook her as she looked out over the audience, at the sea of political and corporate faces, at the scattering of media members. They were about to receive the shock of their lives. She couldn't wait to see their expressions.

"My fellow Martians," she said into the microphone, her voice not only traveling through the public address system but into the digitizing equipment of more than twenty news services. Her words would be broadcast to everyone on the planet and would even be beamed back to Earth in case anyone cared to watch it there. It would also be instantly transcribed into print and published on news service sites on the Internet. "Let me begin this evening by thanking you for electing me to this most trusted office. Without your support, without your taking the time to cast your ballots for me, I would not be standing here right now, facing you as your newly inaugurated governor. I would particularly like to thank those of you in the welfare class, the residents of those high-rise public assistance complexes in the downtrodden sections of our planet. I have tried to reach you during this campaign, tried to penetrate the wall of cynicism and apathy that has grown up around you through the generations. I am to be your governor as well and it has given me hope that a significant number of you listened to my words and took me at least seriously enough to vote for. I assure you, your trust will not be abused."

Confused looks began to pass among the reporters. As was customary they had all been given advance copies of the speech that she was to give and had already read through it. They realized that she was not following the text. She was supposed to have begun by thanking her many corporate and financial supporters and then delivering an endorsement for Agricorp coffee beans that was thinly disguised as a joke. What was she doing? Thanking the welfare class? The vermin? Was she going as senile as the man that had sworn her in?

"And for you of the working class," she went on, deviating even further now. "I thank you as well. Like the welfare class, you have battled the apathy that our corrupt political system has fostered to cast your votes in record numbers."

There was a gasp from the crowd at her words; a gasp that was echoed by all that were watching the live broadcast. She had called the political system corrupt! Of course everyone knew that it was corrupt, but politicians were not supposed to say that! Was Laura Whiting going crazy?

"You have given me a mandate," Laura went on, hardly able to suppress her glee. Though the true dynamite of her speech was yet to come, she had crossed neatly over the line. There truly was no turning back now. "Working class and welfare class have spoken to me quite clearly and I shall respond to what I believe are your wishes. The intent of our government, of the WestHem constitution, is that laws and legislative functions are to be the wishes of the people. The intent of the Martian constitution is supposed to be the same. Elected representatives are supposed to propose and pass laws that are for the betterment of the people of Mars. The people!" She paused for a second, her eyes tracking over the crowd, seeing just the expressions that she had hoped for: shock and disbelief. "Somewhere along the way that idea became perverted and twisted. Because of money, because of so-called campaign contributions and lobbyists and corporate sponsorships, the definition of 'the people' has changed to mean corporations. Agricorp, MarsTrans, InfoGroup, a dozen others just here on this little planet. They bribe us politicians with outrageous amounts of money and call it a contribution. In return, they expect complete loyalty from that politician. They expect that politician to vote for laws and to propose laws that are in their best interests. And their best interests are almost always contrary to your best interests; you, the common Martian people; the people who work and live on this planet or who are confined to squalid hopelessness in the ghettos. Who represents your interests? Who proposes laws that are for your benefit, for your prosperity? We, the people you have elected to office are supposed to do this, but we do not. So who do you have? Who can you turn to?" She paused again, staring into the collection of cameras. "You have nobody," she said. "Nobody until now."

"This system of government that we have is an atrocity before humankind," she went on. "It operates on the principals of greed and corruption. It has led directly to the horrid crime and unemployment problem that this planet faces. It was responsible for the bloody war with EastHem fifteen years ago in which tens of thousands of innocent Martians were slaughtered to try to protect a WestHem monopoly on hydrogen. Our little planet produces trillions in agricultural products. Our food — food grown, tended, and harvested by Martian workers — feeds the solar system. Our iron ore and other minerals support the space faring society that we live in. Our factories build the ships that travel from planet to planet. Without Mars and the exports we provide, WestHem and even EastHem could not exist as they now do. We are the crown jewel of the solar system. Each year our gross planetary product is a staggering 800 trillion dollars. 800 trillion!

"Now think about that for a moment, fellow Martians. 800 trillion dollars worth of products are produced every single year on this planet. That is more money than you or I or any individual person is capable of even comprehending. So with all of this money being made every year by our hands, or labors, in our agricultural fields and mines and factories, why is it that the vast majority of us are living in abject poverty? Why is it that more than one quarter of us are living in sub-standard hovels and are unable to escape from them? Why is it that our schools are overcrowded and underfunded, with actual waiting lists for enrollment in some parts of the planet? Why is it that there are only six institutions of higher learning to educate our people; a shortage that is so vast that only the upper crust of the elite are afforded the opportunity for a college education? Why is it that our police departments are dangerously understaffed and that our prison space is so lacking that even those who commit murder cannot be kept locked up? Surely with 800 trillion a year in gross planetary product, with more than 230 trillion in raw profits, we should be able to fund a few police officers or build a few schools and colleges. Why can't we do this? Where is all of that money going?"

Chapter 1D »