Chapter 1D

William Smith, at the age of fifty-six, was hands down the richest man on the planet Mars. The CEO of Agricorp's Martian operations, he lived in opulent splendor in a penthouse suite that took up the 217^th, 218^th, and 219^th floors of the most exclusive housing building in the city. He and his wife and three servants were the only one's currently living there since their two children (exceptions to the one child per female ratio were available to the very wealthy) were back on Earth attending college. Even so, their quarters had more than a thousand square meters of living space available to them: an unthinkable amount on a planet where construction costs were five times that on Earth. Their entire bottom floor consisted of nothing but an entertainment room where politicians and lobbyists and other corporate heads could gather for black-tie parties. A state of the art sound and video system, complete with the latest holographic theater set-up, and a full service wet bar larger than those found at O'Riley's and made of genuine polished oak imported from Earth were the features of this floor. There was also a huge picture window that looked out on the edge of the city, giving an impressive view of the contrast between the barren wastelands of the surface and the modern steel and glass building of the inhabited area. On the second floor of the suite were the servant's quarters, kitchen area and secondary bedrooms, areas where Smith and his family rarely, if ever, ventured. On the top floor, which was also the top floor of the building itself, were two master bedroom suites complete with private baths and sunken Jacuzzi tubs and two complete office suites, one for Smith to work in and one for his wife to organize her charity events and plan her parties in. Smith's office was naturally the larger of the two. It featured a picture window that looked out on the financial district of Eden and it's many towering high-rises — including the Agricorp building itself.

Smith and his wife, both of whom were natives of Denver on Earth, hated their quarters. Though they were arguably the largest and nicest on the entire planet, they found them to be cramped and confined, not at all like their monster 4000 square meter mansion in the Aspen section of Denver or their 3000 square meter winter retreat on the island of Maui. It was a constant irritant to the third generation corporate manager that he was forced to live in a common apartment building while stationed on this dry, boring little planet that just happened to produce most of the products his company sold. He longed for re-assignment back to Earth, to corporate headquarters where he could go outside when he wanted to and where he could concentrate his energies on controlling real politicians instead of wasting away playing the game here with ignorant wanna-be's.

He was currently sitting in his office suite behind his large, genuine oak desk, sipping out of a martini and smoking an imported cigarette. On the wall above him a large screen Internet terminal was on and playing the inauguration of Governor Whiting, a politician that had been carefully groomed through the years as she had risen in stature and importance. His cigarette fell unnoticed from his mouth as he stared at the screen and heard the words she was saying. He could not have been more surprised and shocked if Laura Whiting had suddenly spontaneously combusted on the podium. She had called Agricorp corrupt! She had mentioned them by name and called them that! She was up there telling the planet how his corporation and others manipulated the political system with campaign contributions! Worse than that, she was actually telling those ignorant greenies that she governed that she wanted them to be independent! That she wanted to nationalize the agricultural industry! Was she completely insane? What in the hell did she think she was doing? She was their pet politician! She had been bought! More than six million dollars in contributions had been transferred to her election account for this run alone. More than two million in unreported bribes had been laundered and sent to her personal account. She had been set up to sign into law more than sixteen bills benefiting Agricorp that were being passed through the legislature this term. She had been set up to veto more than ten that were considered a detriment. She couldn't do this! It was inconceivable, impossible! It was madness!

Before Whiting was even two minutes into her speech, Smith's Internet terminal on his desk began buzzing, the female voice informing him that multiple vid-links were being requested. Of course the computer also told him who the callers were and it was no surprise that they were the lobbyists and other upper-management members. He ignored them for the moment, although he knew he would be calling a conference for damage control with them very soon.

"Computer," he said to the desk mounted terminal, "get me Steve Lancaster. Try him at home, he should be there right now."

"Contacting Steve Lancaster at home," the computer obediently replied. The screen, which had been blank, suddenly flared to life showing the interface for the communications software.

"Highest priority," Smith said. "I want him to answer."

"Connecting," the computer told him.

Steve Lancaster was the Martian operations CEO of InfoServe, the Internet and media corporation that controlled approximately forty-five percent of the market share of WestHem and its colonies. Agricorp and InfoServe had a long-standing advertisement contract and were about as friendly with each other as two unrelated industries could be. Lancaster was not exactly a friend to Smith — people at their height on the ladder did not really have friends, just contacts and associations — but he was about as close to one as possible. They had played golf together many times at the pathetic excuse for country club that Eden boasted and their wives were members of the same charity groups. As Smith had expected he would, Lancaster came online immediately, his handsome face showing shock and alarm.

"It would seem that you're watching the inaugural address," Smith said to the screen, his words and image being transmitted through the Martian Internet to the other side of town.

"I'm watching it," Lancaster confirmed, shaking his head a little. "I'm not sure if I believe what I'm seeing however. She's gone off the deep end. What the hell does she think she's doing up there?"

"I've never seen anyone throw their entire career away in less than a minute before," Smith said. "I don't know what prompted this ranting — whether its mental illness or low blood sugar or whether, like she said, she's been planning this her entire career — but whatever the reason, we'll deal with her shortly. The important thing is that we cut that broadcast right away before she puts any strange ideas into the heads of these greenies."

"I'm on it," Lancaster said. "I'll call the main broadcast building and have them cut the live feed. We should be able to kill the transmission inside of a minute."

"Do it," Smith said. "And what about ICS and WIV? Do you have contacts with them?" ICS and WIV were the other two major Internet corporations of WestHem. Between the three of them they owned every major transmission, publishing, communications, and movie-making entity in WestHem. If they all shut down their stations, there would be nothing for the greenies to watch.

"I do," he confirmed. "I'll get them on a conference call as soon as I get us shut down. I can't imagine that they would protest that. That won't completely kill her though."

"MarsGroup," Smith said with a groan as he was reminded of the independent Internet service that was owned by a small collection of Martian investors. Of course the three big networks had tried to strangle them many times in the past, both by smearing them in their own news programs and publications and by refusing to sell them shows or content. Even so, MarsGroup had managed to survive for more than three decades now. Though they mostly produced low-budget news programs and reports and hokey Internet sit-coms or adventure shows, enough of the greenies tuned in or utilized them to keep them barely in the black each year.

"MarsGroup," Lancaster confirmed. "They have cameras and reporters at the inauguration as well. We couldn't get them excluded. Quite frankly, we didn't really even try since the public relations problems would've outweighed the benefit. I have no say with their CEO. In fact, she is often quite antagonistic to me."

"I'll see what I can do," Smith said. "Perhaps she'll listen to me if I offer her a little advertising business during prime-time. You get the real media shut down and I'll call her up."

"Right," Lancaster said doubtfully. He seemed about to say more but didn't. Instead, he signed off, his image disappearing and being replaced by the communications software screen once again.

"Computer," Smith said, "get me Dianne Nguyen of MarsGroup. Search every database you need to and call any address you have to, but get her. Highest priority."

"Contacting Diane Nguyen," the computer told him and then went to task.

While it was making it's attempt, Smith looked back up at the screen on the wall, where Laura Whiting was still ranting about independence and greedy corporations. She was now suggesting that the Martian economy be completely separated from the WestHem economy. Christ, she truly had gone around the bend. As if that would ever be allowed. As if that would work even if it were. She was talking about communism. Nothing more or less than communism. Just as she began to move to the next subject the screen suddenly went blank as the InfoServe feed was cut. A graphic appeared a moment later pleading "technical difficulties".

"Thank you, Steve," Smith said gratefully. He made a quick check of the other channels, the ones owned by ICS and WIV and found that they had been cut as well. Even better. "Computer," he told the terminal. "Switch broadcast channel on screen two to MarsGroup primary."

The computer had been programmed not to reply to commands such as that, just to do it. The screen flicked over and he was looking at Laura Whiting once again, still in the process of destroying her career and possibly her life.

"This planet is ours, people," she told her audience. "We, the Martians, are the ones who were born here, that have lived our lives here, that love this planet. We are the ones that plant and harvest the food that Agricorp and the others sell for profit all over the solar system. We are the ones that built the structures that we live in with our own hands. We are the ones who set off generations ago to colonize this planet and make a new home for ourselves. And we are the ones who are being held down by the people of Earth who claim ownership of everything that we do. Ask yourselves, people, what do the Earthlings do for us? What do they do? They sit in their high-rise offices and count the money that they make from our sweat and toil. They sit up there and make decisions that affect the lives of all of us. A fingerprint on a computer screen and they've just signed an order that puts thousands out of a job. Another print on another screen and they've just bribed a politician who otherwise might have made your lives a little easier. This has got to stop. It has to end and we have to be able to control our own fates."

"Dianne Nguyen coming online," the computer spoke up just as Whiting was gearing up for another rant. The volume was automatically turned down on the broadcast so that the communications terminal could be heard.

Nguyen's face appeared a moment later on his screen. It was a pleasantly feminine face of Southeast Asian descent, very youthful, although its owner was actually in her late forties. Nguyen, Smith knew, had once worked for InfoServe as a low-level manager. Her climb up the ladder had been stopped short in her early days because of her Martian birth and education, both of which were considered inferior in Earthling corporate circles. Still, like most Martians, Nguyen was eerily clever at certain things and, after quitting InfoServe, had been one of the prime movers and investors to get the joke that was MarsGroup rolling in the early days. "What can I do for you, Smith?" she asked now as she answered her call. Her expression was serious but it seemed as if she was hiding a smile.

"Dianne," Smith said warmly, as if she were his closest acquaintance, as if he hadn't worked madly over the years to strangle her company and its advertising contracts. "How are you this evening?"

Nguyen wasn't buying it however. "Let's cut the bullshit," she said with typical Martian crudity. "I assume you're calling about the inauguration speech."

He took a second to gather himself. "Why yes, that is why I'm calling," he said at last. "It seems that Ms. Whiting is... well... having a bit of a nervous breakdown up there. She is saying some very embarrassing things. Things that she will likely regret later."

"She sounds pretty much in her right mind to me," Nguyen opined. "I notice that the three bigs have all cut their feed. I presume you're calling to ask me to do the same?"

"In the interests of décor," he said. "Yes, I'm asking if you will save this poor woman some later misery. Obviously the Martian people do not need to hear the kind of drivel she is spouting up there. It would be best for all concerned if their access to the feed were to be cut completely off."

"Forget it," Nguyen told him. "We're sticking live with her. She's beautiful up there. She's saying things that should've been said along time ago."

"She's committing libel and slander," Smith said, still speaking reasonably — as one colleague did to another. "It would be a breach of ethics to stay online with her as she commits this crime. As a media provider there is a professional obligation not to broadcast such inflammations to the public. In some cases I could see how you would even be held accountable for not..."

"Oh please," Nguyen interrupted, rolling her eyes at him. "You are talking to me about ethics? About libel and slander? You who have directed all of your subsidiaries not to advertise with me, who have forbidden your workers to even subscribe to my service? You can just take yourself a nice, high, flying fuck at Phobos, Smith. The feed remains live and any subsequent speeches by Whiting will be carried live as well."

"I'm warning you, Nguyen," Smith said, raising his voice now. "If you don't..."

"Bye now," she said, bringing her hand into the camera's range long enough to offer a small, contemptuous wave. With that, she went offline, her image flickering away.

"Goddamn greenie bitch," Smith said to the communications screen. He tried to several more times to get her back but only received her answering screen, which he left angry messages on.

With nothing else to do at the moment, he turned the volume back up and continued to watch Laura Whiting's speech.

Laura was elated as she spoke into the microphones, as she looked at the sea of shocked faces staring up at her from the audience chambers. No matter what else came of this night, it felt glorious to finally throw aside the mask of proper politician that she had worn for so many years now. She felt as liberated as she hoped to make her planet.

Now that she had everybody's attention, now that she had explained what she hoped to do with her term and why she thought it needed to be done, she moved into the next phase of her speech: the phase in which she tried to prevent her removal before her work was done.

"I have made a lot of new enemies in the last five minutes," she told the planet. "I like to think that I have made some new friends among the Martian people, but you can bet your ass that the wheels of my removal are already starting to turn at this very moment. My guess is that strings have already been pulled by the movers and shakers of this world and this broadcast has been cut off by all of the so called 'big three' Internet providers. If my words were broadcast for more than three minutes, it would surprise me indeed.

"But I would also be surprised if MarsGroup Internet, the only Martian based media, followed suit with the big three. My guess, my hope, is that the one media provider with any sort of integrity is continuing to broadcast my words to you all. That is my hope because you really need to hear what I have to say next. You really need to hear how they are going to try to hamstring my proposals for this planet before they even get started."

She looked at the reserved seating, where the legislature members all sat, her eyes tracking from face to face. Most of them looked away when her gaze fell upon them. "You in the legislature," she said. "You have the power to impeach me from this office. It is written into the planetary constitution and it is your duty to do so if I commit abuses of power or crimes against the people. In this instance however, I have done neither. I have committed no offense against them that you can legally impeach me for. Nevertheless, you will be asked to open an investigation into my actions, probably shortly after you leave the chairs you are sitting in. Representatives of whoever your sponsors are will contact you, and they will tell you to begin an investigation and they will tell you to vote to impeach me. And since you are all bought people — bought and paid for in campaign contributions and thinly veiled bribes offered by lobbyists for Agricorp and MarsTrans and InfoServe and a dozen others — you will be expected to do as you are told and make me go away. That is the way this great political system works, that is the way our planetary government and our federal government works. That is why we vote to tax John Carlton of Eden or Barb Jones of New Pittsburgh but to cut taxes for Agricorp or InfoServe. That is the way things are."

She gave them a softer look and lowered her voice a little. "But it doesn't have to be that way. There is nothing in the Martian constitution that mandates you vote or act as those who have given you campaign contributions wish. The reason we all do it anyway is because we wish to be reelected, to pretend that we really have power for another two years or four years or six years. This has been going on so long that most of you have forgotten who you're really supposed to be working for. Well this time, in this instance, I'm going to remind you. You legislature members were elected by the common Martians to serve and to them is who your loyalty and your votes are owed. Every last one of you is of Martian heritage. Every last one of you is the descendent of those who left Earth to seek out employment here, on this new world. You are all Martians and when those Earthling lobbyist start calling you tonight and telling you what you're supposed to do, I want you to remember that you work for Mars and the Martian people, not Agricorp and InfoServe and the other soulless corporations. If you refuse to impeach me for daring to defy those corporate masters, this planet will be free within a year. If you cave to their pressure and vote me out, we will continue to languish under their rule. Remember who you are and where you came from and do the right thing for once in your careers."

She paused, taking a breath before continuing. "However, since I realize that my words alone may not be enough to convince you, I will take this time to bring up another point. The voters of each of your districts have the right under the constitution to organize and hold a recall vote that is capable of removing you from office. Thanks to media control and various other factors over the years, this is something that has never been done before. The option to do so however, is there and there does not have to be a specific reason for this action. This is something that the people are able to do at any time and there is no appeal process, there is no way that friends in the corporations can reverse such a thing. All it takes to get such a thing started is a little organization on the part of the voters and ten thousand fingerprints on a petition."

She looked from the legislature seats back up into the MarsGroup cameras, the only one that she knew were still live. "This is where the people of Mars come in. This is where those of you that have elected me can help me stay in office so that I can help you be free. An impeachment drive against me is going to begin in earnest tomorrow morning, my first day of full duties in office. If you, the people, do nothing, I will be impeached and drummed out within the week. But if you take the time to email your elected representative, if you tell him or her that you will organize a petition to remove them from office if they vote for an investigation and an impeachment, and then if you follow through with this threat in the event that they do, I guarantee you that they will do what you ask.

"That is my challenge to you, people of Mars. I have taken the first step to get us free of the tyranny we live under. I know that independence is what the vast majority of you wish. Now is the time to act. You can either stand with me and continue to move us towards freedom, or you can do nothing, let me be drummed out, and things will continue here on Mars as they always have. The time is ripe, my friends and it will never get riper. You have a voice in the governor's office for the first time. I implore you, I beg of you, help me follow through with this separation. Let your voices be heard. With your help, all of us will be free.

"That is all I have to say. The rest is in your hands."

With that she gave one last smile and left the podium, leaving the stunned audience and a stunned planet in her wake.

Corban Hayes was the regional chief of operations for the Martian branch of the Federal Law Enforcement Bureau, WestHem's highest law enforcement agency. A native of Los Angeles and a fourth generation FLEB director, Corban hated the planet Mars as much as any Earthling and couldn't wait until his next promotion when he could get out of this dreadful place. Of course now that Laura Whiting had gone apparently crazy and spouted a bunch of anti-corporation sentiments on live Internet, that promotion just might be swirling down the great toilet of bureaucracy. It had been his office, his investigators — who were supposedly the best in existence — that had done the background check on Whiting back when she had announced her candidacy for high office the previous year. He had put his fingerprint on the documents that had declared her an excellent candidate with no known "conflicting loyalties" or "unsuitable ideals". His agents had poured through her previous life for more than a month, searching for anything that might have hinted at problems for the government and therefore the business interests that controlled it. They had examined every law that she'd authored or voted on, every speech she'd ever given, every financial transaction she had ever made. She had been squeaky clean, which meant of course, that she only took bribes from her sponsors and that she only voted for or authored bills that had been approved by her sponsors. It meant that she had never been heard to utter an unkind word about her sponsors in public. In the world of politics, that was impressive indeed.

Chapter 2A »