Greenies

Chapter 27

Aboard the MSS Ballbuster (formerly the WSS Mermaid)

Mars orbit, 24 kilometers from Triad Naval Base

September 18, 2146

"We're in the departure corridor, Brett," said Ensign Mandall, who was in charge of the helm. "All set to align for our de-orbit burn once get a heading."

"I'm down with it," said the now official Commander Brett Ingram of the now official Martian Navy. The Owl-class stealth attack ship that had once been known as the WSS Mermaid had returned in triumph to Triad Naval Base two weeks before. Its battle damage had been repaired and its crew augmented with an additional thirty-seven recruits, bringing it up to more than two thirds of normal staffing. As the first captain of the ship, Brett had been given the honor of naming it. Most of the crew — especially those who had served aboard it during Operation Interdiction — felt he had chosen wisely. The MSS Ballbuster it now was and it was preparing to depart for its first mission under that moniker.

"The LRD is deployed and ready, Brett," said Zorba Frank, the communications technician. He had just raised the three-meter Laser Receiver Dish that would allow Naval Command to transmit their deployment orders via encrypted communication laser. For security reasons no one aboard — not even Brett — had been told Ballbuster's mission beforehand.

"Static," said Brett, who was wearing red MPG shorts and a red MPG t-shirt with the recently created Martian Navy emblem on the breast. He was velcroed into the command chair and sipping from a cup of tea. He hated tea but currently there was no coffee of any kind available on Mars at any price. "Lock our laser transmitter on NAVCOM's dish."

"Locking," Frank said. A few seconds later — "Done."

"Transmit our current position, speed, and alignment so they can send back our orders."

"Fuckin' aye, Brett," Frank said. He pushed a few tabs on his screen. "Sending. I've got an acknowledgment via encrypted radio link."

"Static," Brett said. A minute went by before Frank reported a com laser had been received. He ordered it shipped unencrypted to the terminal in his quarters and then activated the ship's intercom system. "Wassup, dawgs?" he said. "This is Brett, your lovable yet competent captain. Our orders have been sent from NAVCOM. Sugi, if you'll meet me in my quarters we'll decrypt and review them and then give everyone aboard a chance to refuse them. Is everyone down with that?"

There was no answer to his rhetorical question. He unstrapped from his chair and floated upward, electing to leave his tea behind. "Mandall, you've got the con."

"I've got the con," Mandall replied automatically.

Brett propelled himself across the bridge to the sliding hatchway that led to his cramped but private quarters. Before he could touch the panel Frank called to him.

"Sugi on the com, Brett," he said. "You want me to patch him into your quarters?"

"Fuckin' aye," Brett said. He touched the panel, opening the door, and floated into his quarters. He spun around and pulled himself down to a seat at one of the chairs before his desk. The computer terminal had lit up, showing an audio link with Lieutenant Commander Sugiyoto, his executive officer. He touched the link. "What's up, Sugi?"

"Hey, Brett," Sugi's voice replied. "I'll be about five minutes or so if you're down with that. Got a waste tube down here in the shitter next to the kitchen that's not sucking real well. Spilled little piss droplets all over the fuckin' place when someone tried to use it."

"Can't someone else fix it?" Brett asked.

"Nobody else aboard this ship has the experience with zero gravity toilets that I do," Sugi said with a chuckle. "Remember, I spent a lot of time fixing the motherfuckers before our people were nice enough to liberate us from the WestHem Navy."

"That is true," Brett said. "Come as soon as you can, and be sure someone is watching how you fix the damn thing. I don't need my XO floating off all over the ship every time someone clogs a relief tube."

"Fuckin' aye, Brett," Sugi said. "I shouldn't be long."

He signed off. Brett leaned back in his chair and fastened the velcro strap to keep himself from floating away. He was more than a little curious about their orders in this hastily assembled mission but he guessed he would have to wait a few minutes. Working toilets took precedence over orders any day.

"Computer," he said, "give me InfoServe prime bank. SNN feed."

"Coming up," the computer replied.

"Replay the last top of the hour update recorded."

"Replaying," the computer told him.

Not many Martians watched the big three channels. This had been true before the revolution and was even more true after it. Those who did watch it, particularly the news channels, usually did so out of amusement more than anything else. Brett was one such person. He got a perverse sense of enjoyment out of seeing the spin WestHem was trying to put on every defeat or setback they suffered. He had been too busy preparing his ship for deployment over the last three days to even listen to rumors about their "official" explanation for the ass kicking they'd endured by the MPG down on the surface.

The transmission — collected from a communication satellite in Mars orbit by one of the many receivers on the Ballbuster and then recorded — began. Kathleen Condor, the latest anchor for the popular Satellite News Network appeared before him. SNN was widely accepted by Earthlings as the epitome of integrity in news reporting and had enjoyed a greater than forty percent market share of the news audience for more than a generation.

"Good evening," Condor said, looking seriously into the camera. "This is Kathleen Condor, live in Denver to update you on the latest developments on Earth and throughout the solar system.

"Topping our news tonight is the latest from Mars regarding the shocking and surprising pullback of the troops from Operation Martian Hammer — Phase Two. For that we go live to Stephanie Campbell aboard the Martian Hammer flagship, the WSS Nebraska. Stephanie?"

Stephanie appeared a second later although she was not really live at all since it took radio signals almost fifteen minutes to make the trip from Mars to Earth. The SNN executives, however, tried to make sure that things looked live to their viewing audience. Therefore Stephanie had actually started her transmission fifteen minutes before the top of the hour in a carefully planned dance, the timing insuring she would pop onto the screen right when expected.

"This is Stephanie Campbell," she said, "reporting live from the WSS Nebraska where the naval personell, the marines, and the civilians accompanying the task force are still reeling from the news that our combat marines on the surface were forced to withdraw in both Eden and New Pittsburgh while they were within an hour of liberating those cities from the icy grip of the radical Martian separatists. It was confirmed yesterday that the reason for the abrupt pullback was a lack of ammunition and breathing air. The marines on the surface fell below critical levels in both operational areas while within sight of their objectives, forcing many to turn around and head back to their respective landing zones, forcing others — a thousand or more it is now reported — to surrender to the brutal Martian death squads because they did not have enough air to make it to safety."

"Ran out of ammo and air," Brett said with a chuckle. "Not bad. Simple but functional."

"Of course the big question," Campbell continued, "has been how could such an oversight have occurred? How could two complete armies have been allowed to deploy for combat operations with insufficient ammunition and breathing air? Well, over the past twenty-four hours we have been starting to get some possible answers to that question.

"General Douglas Wrath, who, as you are all aware, has been deemed largely to blame for the training and maintenance debacles that led to the failure of the first landings to achieve their goals, is considered a key factor in these latest failures. Investigators have discovered that General Wrath only ordered the bare minimum amount of ammunition and spare breathing tanks for deployment in this operation. The reasoning for this is undetermined at this time since Wrath is confined to the brig and refusing to answer questions until his formal court martial proceedings are begun, but is has been suggested that Wrath sacrificed critical storage space for these staples of combat in order to accommodate private suites for an oversized staff that consisted mainly of female 'secretaries' and 'transcription technicians'. In any case, the marines used up the majority of their ammunition and breathing air in the first phase of the operation, leaving a severe shortage for the second phase landings at Eden and New Pittsburgh.

"Of course the blame cannot be wholly placed on General Wrath for this most critical of failures. General Todd Browning, who replaced General Wrath after phase one and who was regarded by many as a military genius for his innovative plans to liberate two of the Martian cities despite the earlier failure of his predecessor, somehow failed himself to notice that he did not have sufficient supplies on hand to complete these ambitious missions. Browning, when interviewed earlier today, placed the blame for this oversight on one of his aides — a Major Thomas Wilde — stating that Major Wilde supplied him with inaccurate figures prior to the latest landings and vastly underestimated the minimum air and ammo consumption expected during phase two of the operation. Browning acknowledges that he was ultimately responsible for these figures and admits that he did not order a double-check of them before releasing the landing ships for the operation. Both General Browning and Major Wilde have been relieved of duties and confined to the brig pending further investigation by the JAG's office. General Dakota Dickenson, who commanded both futile attacks upon the city of Eden, has replaced General Browning. Interviewed earlier by one of our imbedded reporters, Dickenson expressed anger and frustration at the mistakes made by Generals Wrath and Browning, saying they were directly to blame for the loss of the hundreds of marines lives in both phases of the operation and for the capture of more than a thousand marines by the Martian insurgents. "It's our darkest hour" Dickenson was quoted as saying.

"In other developments on Mars, reports of the most brutal of atrocities against those marines that were captured due to lack of breathing air are starting to filter out. Martian citizens loyal to WestHem have reported that all of the wounded men captured at Eden were fed alive into the city's cremation furnaces feet first in order to extend their suffering. This has got to be one of the worst..."

The door buzzer to Brett's cabin suddenly sounded, interrupting the stream of lies and quarter-truths.

"Computer, mute SNN," Brett said. It did so without replying. Brett pressed the intercom tab on his screen. "That you, Sugi?" he asked.

"Fuckin' aye," was the reply.

"Computer, open door," Brett said.

The door slid open and Sugiyoto came drifting in holding something wrapped in a napkin. He propelled himself across the room, did an agile forward somersault in which he kicked off the ceiling of the cabin and plopped right down in the chair next to Brett.

"Nice maneuvering," Brett said.

"Thanks," Sugi said, taking a little bow. "You never lose it, you know?"

"Especially after only two weeks."

Sugi held out the napkin to his boss. "You gotta try this shit, Brett," he said. "The best fuckin' thing you've done so far is getting a real chef on this tub of bolts. That bitch found a way to heat oil in an enclosed container and she cooked up a bunch of chili verde chimichangas."

"No shit?" Brett asked, taking the deep fried burrito from his executive officer. It was still warm as he took a bite. It was delicious, up to the usual standards of Martian cuisine — which were quite high. "Mmmm," he grunted with pleasure. "The is fuckin' premo shit." He took another bite, chewing noisily.

"Yep," Sugi agreed. "No matter what kind of orders they got for us, at least we'll be eating like Martians."

"Speaking of which," Brett said, swallowing down his latest bite. "How about we see just what they have in mind for us?" He looked up at the ceiling. "Computer, myself and Commander Sugiyoto are both present. Decrypt our operation orders and display on the main screen."

"Commander Brett Ingram's voice is recognized," the computer said. "Lieutenant Commander Sugiyoto, please speak for the voice authentication process."

"Sugi likes erect clits," Sugi said.

"Voice authenticated," the computer said. "Orders decrypted and on the screen now."

They both looked at the screen.

TO: WSS BALLBUSTER, COMMANDER BRETT INGRAM

FROM: MARTIAN NAVAL COMMAND (NAVCOM), ADMIRAL MATTHEW BELTING

ORDERS FOR BALLBUSTER DEPLOYMENT ARE AS FOLLOWS:

PROCEED UNDER STEALTH CONDITIONS TO APPROXIMATE POSITION OF -010.000 x +087.300 x -240.000

DECELERATE TO SOLAR ORBIT VELOCITY AND CONFIRM WITHDRAWAL OF ALL WESTHEM SPACE VESSELS.

AFTER VERIFICATION PROCEED TO HIGH POLAR EARTH ORBIT FOR STEALTH OBSERVATION OF WESTHEM AND EASTHEM ORBITAL INSTALLATIONS UNTIL RELIEVED.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: WEAPONS TIGHT. FIRE IN SELF-DEFENSE ONLY.

STANDING BY TO EVACUATE ANY CREWMEMBERS UNWILLING TO GO ON THIS MISSION. PLEASE ADVISE ANY CREWMEMBERS ELECTING TO REMAIN THAT, FOR SHIP SECURITY, THEY WILL BE HELD IN ISOLATION UNTIL SUCH TIME AS BALLBUSTER RETURNS.

AWAITING YOUR REPLY, NAVCOM.

MESSAGE ENDS.

"Hmm," Sugi said, reading it over. "I thought it was gonna be something hard. It's just back to business as usual for one of these tubs."

"Yep," Brett said, "only this time we're flying for new bosses, ain't we?"

"Fuckin' aye," Sugi agreed.

Brett passed the orders onto the crew via the intercom system. He told them that since the Martian Navy was a voluntary service, anyone who thought the mission too dangerous was free to resign and leave. No one took him up on the offer.

Less than an hour later the acceleration alarm was sounded and the fusion engines lit up, pushing the Ballbuster toward its first mission.

MPG Base, Eden

September 20, 2146

The last of the WestHem landing ships had departed the surface six hours before. Though there was much work to be done — not the least of which was collecting their dead from the trenches — all MPG combat troops had been pulled back inside and given a seventy-two hour pass in celebration of their victory over the WestHem marines. Some worried what would happen if the landing ships decided to come back down during this seventy-two hour period. After all, the armada was still up there in orbit. Intelligence assured them — and the Martian citizenry — they had nothing to worry about. The landing ships had already come down and gone back up twice since arriving. This was the absolute limit of their operational parameters. It was theoretically possible that they could borrow enough hydrogen from the armada ships to make another controlled landing but there was no way in hell there could be enough liquid oxygen left to oxidize that hydrogen. The landing ships were stuck up there for good. Mars was safe from all but space bomber attack, and even that was thought unlikely at best.

The MPG cooks had once again outdone themselves in serving up a veritable feast for the returning combat troops. They had assembled a buffet filled with filet mignon slabs, prime rib slices, chicken parmesan, and stuffed pork chops. There were fresh artichokes with garlic mayo, asparagus, corn on the cob, and broccoli covered with cheddar cheese sauce. There were baked potatoes by the thousands, mashed potatoes with rich beef gravy, various kinds of rice dishes, and, of course, that tried and true Martian favorite: macaroni salad with egg slices. The only things that weren't available were any kind of alcoholic beverages, any kind of tobacco, and any kind of coffee drink. Currently none of these items could be found for sale on Mars, not even on the black market.

"Premo fuckin' chow," Xenia said, munching on the garlic mayo smeared heart from her second artichoke.

"I have never felt so full in my life," said Belinda, who was leaning back in her cafeteria chair, sipping from a bottle of AgriCorp root beer.

"No shit," said Jeff, who had put away two full plates of food himself. After a week of eating nothing but food paste and drinking water, his stomach wasn't quite sure how to handle real food.

The three of them were off in a corner of the cafeteria by themselves, having drifted there by unspoken consent. Drogan, who had been briefed on the crazy-ass plan by Jeff over the last few days ("no fuckin' way somethin' like that can work long-term," she'd opined, "but it's a premo way for both of you to score a little X-pussy") had elected to go sit with the rest of her squad instead, knowing they would want to be alone with her. Belinda and Jeff had taken turns explaining their thoughts, feelings, and hopeful plans to Xenia as they'd eaten. She had listened, sometimes with surprise, sometimes with anger, sometimes with arousal. And then she had changed the subject, refusing to speak of triads and love any longer.

Xenia popped the last of her artichoke heart into her mouth, drained the last of her soda, and then let fly a trumpeting, unladylike belch that actually echoed off the nearby wall. She did not excuse herself, of course. On Mars, one never excused one's self for either burping or farting. "So," she said, "are we ready to blow this scene and go hit the hospital?"

Jeff and Belinda looked at each other. They looked back at Xenia.

"Don't you think we should maybe talk about... you know... what we were talking about?" Belinda asked.

"No," Xenia said, standing up. "I think we should go visit our friends in the hospital. Maybe we'll talk later."

"Xenia..." Jeff started.

"Or maybe we won't," she said firmly, her expression not amused. She turned and began walking toward the main base corridor.

Jeff and Belinda stared after her for a moment, watching as she walked away from them.

"Did we piss her off, you think?" Jeff asked.

"I'm not sure," Belinda said. "Maybe we just gave her too much to think about right now. Maybe this was the wrong time to bring up the whole triad thing."

"Maybe," Jeff said. "Come on. We'd better catch up with her."

They trotted to catch up and fell in behind her just as she made it to the main access corridor.

"Look, Xenia," Jeff said. "We're sorry. We thought it was a good idea. We didn't know..."

"You're still talking about it," Xenia said, not slowing her pace. "Right now we're going to the hospital. This is not the time."

"Sorry," Jeff muttered. He said no more on the subject. Neither did Belinda.

They reached the security checkpoint and the sound of laughter and hundreds of ecstatic voices could be heard coming from just beyond it. Jeff saw that instead of the usual four MP's standing watch there was now a reinforced platoon, all of them armed with police tanners. Beyond them, out on Macarthur Avenue, he could see hundreds of civilians milling about, apparently in the process of partying their asses off. There were women, men, old people, children, many carrying signs that said things like FREE AT LAST! or THANK YOU MPG!! WE WON'T FORGET!! The smell of marijuana smoke was very heavy in the air.

"What the hell's going on?" Jeff asked one of the MPs, a woman in her late twenties whose ID tag on her armor vest identified her as Corporal Twister.

"A celebration of victory, that's what's going on," Twister told him with a smile. "They've been partying out there ever since the official cease fire was announced. They're mobbing everyone who walks out in an MPG uniform."

"Mobbing?" Belinda asked.

Twister grinned. "Not in a bad way," she said. "I think you'll enjoy their gratitude. A lot of the troops that went out are still out there. I've never seen anything like this."

"Anything like what?" Jeff asked.

"Let's just say that a lot of people are exercising their newly won freedom."

Jeff looked a little closer and was surprised to see that acts of open sexuality were taking place all over the place out there. There was a man and a woman lying on the corner of one of the planters, both completely naked, the woman's legs spread wide, the man thrusting enthusiastically between them. Closer to the gate three women, all of them naked, were engaged in a twisted tangle of arms and legs, their faces all licking and sucking various parts of each other's bodies. Just behind them two men were engaged in a lustful sixty-nine with each other while a group of female MPG soldiers cheered them on while kissing on each other. All of this was going on and nobody was trying to put a stop to it. A few groups of Eden Police officers were standing around the fringes just watching with amusement.

"This has been going on for five days now?" Jeff asked.

"Yep," she confirmed. "It's actually pretty sedate at the moment. You should see it at night."

"Damn," he said, his eyes trying to take everything in at once.

"And before you go out," Twister said, "allow me to be the first."

"The first?"

She grabbed his shoulders and turned him toward her. Her head came forward and she planted a huge kiss on him, her tongue sliding deep into his mouth. A cheer from outside accompanied this act. She pulled away and reached down to give his crotch a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for freeing us," she told him. "Now go out and enjoy the fruits of your labor."

"Uh... you're welcome," Jeff stammered.

Belinda and Xenia were each kissed and groped as well — Xenia by one of the female MPs, Belinda by one of the males. When they were released they walked out through the front entrance onto Macarthur Avenue. Immediately all three of them were surrounded by scantily clad Martians and more than a few naked ones.

"Jesus," Jeff said as two women pushed their bodies against his and stuck their tongues in his ears. A third — one of the naked ones — grabbed him from the front and jammed her tongue in his mouth while taking his hand and putting it on her left breast. He dutifully squeezed it. All three of the women thanked him over and over for freeing Mars. A man stepped forward and put a marijuana pipe in Jeff's free hand.

"There you go, my ass buddy!" he yelled over the noise. "The finest AgriCorp green there is. I work in the fields and I picked it myself just for this occasion! Take a hit!"

Jeff put the pipe to his mouth and three more people shoved laser lighters forward to light it for him. Meanwhile, the naked girl who had kissed him had dropped to her knees and was pulling his shorts down. Jeff coughed out the hit as he felt her mouth upon his manhood, slurping at him.

"She's such a cheap slut," one of the other girls said with a laugh. "Don't you just love her?"

"Fuckin' aye," Jeff agreed, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. The two girls took this as an invitation to start kissing and sucking on his neck. He let them work on him for about a minute before gently disentangling himself, explaining that he had to get to the hospital. They pouted a little but let him go. He pulled his shorts back up, covering a turgid and wet erection and didn't make it more than two steps before another woman, this one in her forties, grabbed him and stuck her tongue in his mouth as well, her hands squeezing at his ass.

"Thank you," she told him between kisses. "Thank you for making us free!"

"You're welcome, baby," he said, unable to help but give a few squeezes to her tremendous breasts.

Xenia and Belinda were both getting mobbed as well. Xenia's shirt had been pulled up and a man and a woman were suckling on her breasts. Belinda was tongue kissing with one woman while a man was down on his knees before her, orally servicing her. They finally disentangled themselves as well and put their clothing back in order.

"Now that's what we were fuckin' fighting for!" Belinda said happily as another woman stepped forward and kissed her on the mouth.

"Fuckin' aye," Xenia agreed, giving a squeeze to the crotch of someone who was offering her a marijuana pipe.

They began to work their way toward the MarsTrans station on the next block. It took them almost twenty minutes to reach it because people kept stopping them, kissing them, groping them, allowing them to grope them back, and giving them hits off pipes and joints and even the occasional bong. Every one of them thanked them profoundly and sincerely for what they had done. By the time their train pulled into the station all three of them were stoned out of their minds and brimming with sexual arousal.

The train was about half full. They made their way to the back of one of the cars and every person they passed thanked them, most with just words, a few with kisses and gropes. They found a row of seats and sat down just as the train pulled out of the station.

"That was quite a welcome home," Belinda said. "I think it made everything we went through out there worthwhile."

"You ain't shittin'," Jeff said. "I ain't never had me no blowjob in the fuckin street before."

"I'm fuckin' horny," Xenia said, her eyes a little glassy. "I don't think I've ever been hornier." She looked at her two companions. "Both of you, fuck me, right here, right now!"

Belinda smiled. "What's the magic word?" she asked.

"I love you," she told her. She turned to Jeff. "I love you too. I love both of you deeply and completely. Now fuckin' fuck me!"

"I don't think she's being sincere, B," Jeff said sadly.

"Me either," Belinda agreed. "It's the horniness talking again."

"Are you out of your fuckin' minds?" Xenia yelled at them. "I could get laid anywhere, by anyone right now." She stood up. "Attention, everyone in this car!"

Everyone turned around in his or her seats to look at her.

"I'm extremely horny right now and I want to get fucked! Is there anyone in this car who would be willing to fuck me right here and right now?"

Hands went up from every man on the car and from well over half of the women. Even a few of the children raised their hands.

"Sorry, false alarm," Xenia said. "At least for now. If these two dawgs here don't wanna do the job, then I'll get back to you."

There was some good-natured groaning and a few teasing remarks about teasing thrown back at her. She sat back down.

"You see," she said. "It isn't just sex I'm after. I could get that if I wanted it. I want sex from both of you, the two people I fucking love! Now are you going to give it to me, or what?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then both of them shrugged.

"It wasn't exactly what we were dreaming of I'm sure," Belinda said, "but I'll accept your sincerity at face value on the grounds that I'm hornier than I've ever been as well."

"I'm down with that," Jeff said, standing up and pulling his shirt off his body.

And so their first act of love with each other took place on a half-empty MarsTrans train. It was quick, forceful, and very satisfying. It was also quite entertaining to those passengers who were lucky enough to have picked that particular car to ride in.

Eden General Hospital was a bit of a contrast to the celebrations in the street. It was packed to well beyond capacity, the overflow having spilled out into two adjoining office buildings. Harried doctors, nurses, and other technicians move frantically here and there. Every available floor space was filled with cots in which wounded MPG soldiers or wounded WestHem soldiers were being housed and cared for. Scores of uniformed MPG soldiers — undoubtedly on the same mission as Xenia, Belinda, and Jeff, wandered here and there. A large line of them had formed before a main desk terminal that was staffed by four security guards.

"We'll never find anyone in here," Belinda cried. "Look how many people there are."

"Yeah," Jeff said, looking at some of the soldiers in the lobby cots. He saw people with arms and legs missing, with horrible facial injuries, people on ventilators, with holes drilled in their necks. "I had no idea there were so many."

"Come on," Xenia said, pointing to the line of troops. "Let's get in line. They should be able to tell us where to go."

They waited in the line for more than forty minutes before making it to the front. Once there they gave Zen's name to the security guard. He looked it up on his computer. "He's in the Bangkok Building next door. Second floor, sector Bravo six. The notation says he's able to have visitors."

"How about Matt Mendez?" Jeff asked. "I commed his dad and he told me he was here too."

"You know his date of birth or his social?"

Matt rattled off his date of birth.

"Upstairs," the guard told him. "Fiftieth floor, nephrology wing. He's accepting visitors as well."

"Right," Jeff said. "Thanks."

"You wanna go visit your friend first?" Xenia asked.

"Yeah," he said. "If you don't mind."

"You want us to come with you?" Belinda asked.

"You're my bitches now, aren't you?" he asked them. "Of course I want you to come with me. We'll be quick."

They walked to the elevator and had to wait another twenty minutes before being able to board one of the cars. The trip up to the fiftieth floor took another ten minutes. They emerged into a sterile hallway and followed the signs to the Nephrology Department. It was a small ward that had been designed for perhaps twenty patient beds. Currently it was housing well over a hundred. Most of the patients had visitors with them, adding to the overcrowding. Still the mood seemed more festive than somber and the smell of marijuana smoke could be detected even here.

They wandered up and down the rows for a few minutes until Jeff recognized Andrew and Carla Mendez — Matt's parents — sitting in one of the chairs. He headed over, his two companions trailing behind. Andrew saw him first. His eyes lit up and he stood, rushing over to greet him. Jeff was startled to see how much weight Matt's dad had lost. He looked almost fit now.

"Jeffery Creek, you little punk dust runner!" Andrew said, holding out his hand for the traditional Capitalist handshake.

Jeff gave it to him and then pulled him into a hug. "How the fuck are you, pops?" he asked. "What you been doing? Working out or something?"

Carla came forward and gave him a hug as well. "We've been working in the agricultural fields ever since you two dumb-asses signed up for the MPG," she said. "We figured we might as well see what this whole working thing is all about."

"Goddamn right," Andrew said. "We got almost four hundred of them credits in the bank now. Thanks to you and Matt, they'll still be worth something tomorrow."

"We kicked their fuckin' asses, didn't we?" Jeff asked. He broke the embrace and walked over to the bed, looking down at his best friend since childhood. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Just a little skin off my ass is all," Matt told him, leaning forward. They hugged, forgoing the Capitalist handshake by unspoken consent. "How the fuck are you? Glad to see you made it. We heard you ground pounders took a hell of a beating out there."

"I'm too fuckin' smart to die out in the field," Jeff said, releasing him. "I'm glad to see you made it too." He stood up. "Let me introduce you to some really static people I met. This is Xenia and Belinda. They were on one of the tank crews in my ACR."

Matt nodded at them and told them he was pleased to make their acquaintance. He then turned back to Jeff. "Are these two the reason you smell like you've been bathed in pussy?"

Jeff actually blushed a little. Xenia answered for him. "We're the reason," she confirmed. "We couldn't contain ourselves on the train ride over here and... well... you know how it is?"

"I know how it is," he said. "The nurses and even a few of the doctors have been real thankful to me since I got here."

"Hell," said Andrew, "I even got a blowjob from one and I'm just his dad."

"No sense in bragging, Andy," Carla said with a frown.

"The fuck there ain't," Andrew shot back.

They talked for a few minutes, telling their tales of their part in the war. Jeff was amazed that such a minor wound had almost killed his friend and had resulted in the death of both of his kidneys.

"So what happens now?" he asked him. "You doing that dialysis thing?"

"Yep," Matt confirmed. "Once every two days for two hours. It sucks ass. They tell me that once things settle down around here they're gonna grow me some new kidneys."

"How much is that gonna cost you?" Jeff asked.

"Not a fuckin' thing, they say. According to Laura Whiting, all healthcare for soldiers is free."

"She's even saying she wants to make it that way for everyone," Andrew put in.

"Free health care?" Xenia said. "Goddamn. She is a fuckin' radical, isn't she?"

They parted ways a few minutes later after much hugging, handshaking, and profane declarations of their fighting prowess. They promised to get together as soon as possible once things settled down. The three of them then made their way back to the elevators and down to street level where they entered the Bangkok Building.

They found Zen Valentine in an equally crowded room on the second floor. He was lying on a sheet, shirtless, a large bandage covering a good portion of his back and chest. Two intravenous lines were dripping into his arms and a tube snaked out from his side. Sitting next to his bed was an elderly woman wearing denim shorts and a cropped half-shirt.

Zen saw them approaching and his eyes lit up. "Xenia! Creek! Belinda!" He leaned forward. "You made it through the war!"

"Fuckin' aye, we did," Xenia said, leaning in and giving him a big hug and then slipping him some tongue in the finest Martian tradition.

"You taste like pussy," he said knowingly. "Does that mean you made your choice?"

"My choice was not to choose," she said. "I'm stuck with both of them."

"No shit?" he asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"No shit," Belinda said. She leaned and gave him a hug and some tongue as well.

Jeff gave him a hug. He held back on the tongue portion. Zen didn't seem to mind.

The elderly woman coughed politely. "Not to interrupt this little reunion," she said. "But don't you think some introductions are in order, Zenny?"

"Zenny?" Jeff said with a smirk.

"Not a fuckin' word about that to anyone," he warned, blushing.

Belinda and Xenia chuckled.

"Guys," said Zen, "I'd like you to meet my grandmother, Dr. Marjorie Valentine. Gram, this is Xenia, Jeff, and Belinda. Jeff here is one of the infantry guys we fought with in the gap. X and B were in my tank with me. They're the ones who hauled my ass out of the wastelands and got me to the medics."

"You're the ones," Marjorie said, beaming at the two women. "I thank you for what you did, for the planet and especially for my Zenny." She hugged each of them furiously, kissing them on the lips. She then turned to Jeff. "You're a hot piece of ass, ain't you? Let me thank you for your service." And before he realized what was happening, her lips were on his and her tongue was in his mouth. He was squeamish at first until he realized she was an extremely good kisser.

"Thanks," he said, a little breathless, once she released him.

"Anytime," she said, gazing at him lustfully. "And in any case, I'm not Dr. Valentine anymore. The WestHem fucks took my license away back in 2108. I'm just plain old Marjorie now."

"I heard about how you got fucked," Xenia said. "Just like those corporate assholes, ain't it?"

"It was the way of the solar system," Marjorie replied. "At least until now. Now you youngsters have given Mars a brand new chance. We're free because of you and everyone like you. Free to pursue our own course. I never thought I'd live to see it, but now that I have, I'm determined to live to see what becomes of us next. I think this Laura Whiting bitch has got us on the right path."

"So you don't think she's Queen Laura the First?" Belinda asked.

"Setting herself up to be just like the old bosses?" Marjorie asked.

"Yeah," Belinda replied. "That's what some of the people are afraid of. That we'll end up even worse off then we were before the revolution."

"An interesting question," she said, pondering, seemingly pleased that they were trying to tap into her wisdom. "Why don't we burn one and talk about that?"

"Burn one?" Jeff asked.

"Fuckin' aye," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a silver case. She opened it and pulled out a fat joint. "I hope everyone likes Libby Lowdown. I've always been partial to that shit." She pulled out a laser lighter, sparked up the joint, and took a tremendous hit of it. While holding the hit in her lungs she passed the joint to Jeff. "Here you go, lover," she squeaked.

"Wow," Jeff said, taking it. He took a hit of his own, drawing deeply of the sweet smoke. Halfway through Marjorie hit him in the shoulder.

"Watch the spit on the end of the joint," she yelled. "If I want your spit I'll suck it off your tongue again."

"Sorry," Jeff squeaked, blushing.

"Youngsters these days," Marjorie huffed. "Always using pipes and bongs to smoke their shit. There's no fucking joint etiquette anymore. They really should teach that in school."

The joint was passed around until it was but a roach. Everyone watched his or her spit at the end, not wanting to incur the wrath of Marjorie. It was very good shit, almost as good as Agricorp Green. All five of them were in the stratosphere.

"Now then," Marjorie said after putting the roach into a separate case full of other such roaches. "You were concerned about the Queen Laura thing. I won't deny it's possible that we're dealing with a potential fascist dictator here. I won't deny that everything she has done to this point could have been an elaborate plan to seize power from the WestHems and set herself up as supreme ruler of this planet. It is possible that we could end up worse off than we were before."

"That's kind of a depressing thought, Gram," Zen said. "I thought you were in favor of Laura Whiting."

"I was and I am," Marjorie said. "My God, what I wouldn't give for a nice glass of Chardonnay right now. Oh well... the price of being free. Anyway, I was just trying to point out the worst-case scenario from this chain of events Laura Whiting has set in motion. I don't think we'll come to that. I can't explain why I feel what I do but I trust our governor. She is different. She actually seems to care about us. If this has all been a power scheme for her, it was an elaborate and far-reaching one. I honestly think that she is exactly what she seems to be."

"That's a relief to hear you say that," Belinda said.

"Well, don't be too relieved," Marjorie said. "Even if Whiting is exactly what she purports to be, we're still in for some rankin times in the next few years."

"What do you mean?" Jeff asked.

"The quest for power and for rule is a very powerful narcotic," Marjorie said. "There is a power vacuum in place on Mars right now. Laura Whiting is the governor of this now free planet. She has twenty-two former legislature members who joined her at the beginning of the revolt. These twenty-three people are all who are running the planet now. Others are going to try to get in on this ruling thing. Many of them will have nothing but their own self-interest in mind. And, if I read my history correctly, those who are the most charismatic will be the ones who are actually the most snake-like. We Martians are going to have to be very careful to avoid letting any of these people obtain positions of high power."

"What can we do to avoid that?" asked Belinda, terrified at the images that Marjorie was invoking.

"You can be diligent, you can use your common sense, and you can speak your mind when you need to," Marjorie replied. "You need to realize that there will be attempts to betray this revolution by small groups of people or individuals who just want to rule. You have to filter through their lies, examine every political person who tries to insert themselves into the power structure in your name. History is full of betrayed revolutions. I hope before all that is holy that you people who won this one for us won't let it be betrayed as well."

Martian Capital Building, New Pittsburgh

September 25, 2146

0900 hours

Governor Laura Whiting — who was technically only the acting Governor — called the meeting of the fledgling Martian government to order. They were in the legislature chambers, which had been designed to seat one hundred members in comfort and had accommodations for up to six hundred visitors in bleacher style seating in the rear. With only twenty-three people present, the large chambers seemed almost empty.

"Good morning," she told everyone from her podium at the front of the room. "The first order of business on the agenda is the reply to our offer to open negotiations for an armistice we received from the WestHem Executive Council early this morning. I'm sure you can all guess what the jest of that reply is."

A chuckle traveled through the seats. Yes, they could all guess. Laura had sent her message to Earth four days ago, offering to open negotiations for a permanent armistice and peace treaty with WestHem. In the request Mars offered to immediately resume food and steel shipments and to begin negotiating a POW exchange. Mars' terms for such actions were public WestHem recognition of Mars as an independent nation and the extradition of General Wrath and General Browning on war crimes charges. Instead of responding right away WestHem had cut and edited the message until it seemed like Laura was taunting the WestHem public, expressing hatred for all things Earthling, and threatening to kill even more hostages. This edited tape had been playing non-stop on all three of the big three for three days now.

"In any case," Laura said, "I'll go ahead and play that reply now for the record. I'll also release a copy to MarsGroup so they can start playing it as well." She tapped a few buttons on her podium screen and the video file opened up, both before her and on the large screen behind her. She pushed the "play" tab.

The face of Loretta Williams appeared, looking years older than it had in the beginning of the conflict. "This is in reply to the offer of negotiation of armistice that was sent to us by the terrorist leader Laura Whiting of Mars. I will make this short and very clear. There will be no armistice of any kind with you thugs that are holding Mars hostage. To even call this conflict a war is insulting to all those brave marines who participated in it. You are illegally holding a WestHem colony against the will of the people who live there and we will not rest until Mars is liberated and its people allowed to live out their lives in democratic peace. All terrorists we captured during Operation Martian Hammer are being returned to Earth where they will be tried for their crimes and executed if found guilty of murder or treason. In addition, when our next task force arrives and liberates that planet Laura Whiting, Kevin Jackson, and any soldier who picked up arms against us will also be tried on charges of murder, treason, and crimes against humanity. You would be well advised to spare your people further bloodshed and surrender yourselves now. Only if you agree to this term and to unconditional surrender of Mars back to WestHem rule will we agree to speak with you in any way."

The screen went blank as the message ended.

"So then," Laura said, sipping from her tea, "the usual WestHem blathering bullshit. I'm afraid that is pretty much what we were expecting all along. It looks like we're going to have to fight them again at some point."

This caused some tittering among the legislature. One of the members, Steve Hotbox of Eden, asked to be recognized. Laura did so.

"Like all of you here, I'm extremely proud of what the MPG did to keep this planet in our hands during the war," he said. "I myself have a son who has been in the MPG for years. He served with the 5^th Heavy Artillery Battalion in Eden and was nearly killed when the WestHem air strike took out his gun. We lost a lot of people in this war and we just barely hung in there. As General Jackson said in his briefing, the marines were within thirty minutes of taking Eden from us when they decided to turn back. It was only their loss of morale that saved us."

"That is true, Steve," Laura said. "What is it that you're trying to say here?"

"I'm wondering what's going to happen the next time they send troops after us. We beat them because they underestimated us and because we had some pretty good tricks up our sleeve. I'm not trying to take anything away from the MPG or General Jackson. Both performed brilliantly. But now the WestHems know just how they should estimate our abilities and they know all of our tricks. Won't they send twice as many men and machines next time? Won't they focus on a single city instead of splitting their forces? I'm wondering whether it's wise of us to take such a hard line with WestHem on this armistice."

"I take it that Jack Strough has been visiting your office?" Laura asked.

Hotbox sputtered a little. "Well... yes, but I had my doubts about this long before Mr. Strough entered the picture."

Laura sighed. Jack Strough, the president of the cargo handler's union, the man who had been a constant thorn in the side of the revolution ever since they first took the planet from WestHem, was now expanding his pain-in-the-ass status into Martian politics. In the past two weeks he had organized nearly every labor union on Mars into a loose alliance of laborers and was using this power to project his wishes into the Governor's office and into the offices of the remaining legislature members. "I have listened to Mr. Strough's proposals myself," she said. "He is suggesting that we accept 'de facto' independence from WestHem but that we allow their corporations to retain control of the various industries on the planet."

"That is correct," Hotbox said. "And I believe that Mr. Strough makes a lot of sense. WestHem is never going to accept losing Mars. They are going to keep sending more and more troops here until they take it back and condemn all of us to an ongoing military occupation. Those of us who fomented the revolt will be tried and executed."

"Our troops did not fight and die out there for de facto independence, Steve," Laura said angrily. "They fought and died so we could be free — completely free — of the WestHem system of government. What he is suggesting puts us right back under WestHem control."

"No, that's where you're wrong," Hotbox argued. "We get to elect our own leaders and the MPG gets to stay intact. They won't send any more troops to Mars to try to liberate it. The corporations get to keep their holdings but the Martian Federation of Labor that Strough is proposing will set all wages and working conditions for every Earth based corporation. In addition, we'll be free to continue trading with EastHem, something we were not allowed to do under the previous system. This will allow the expansion of the agricultural fields and the steel fields and open up a prosperity that will last for generations."

"And we would still be on WestHem's system of currency," Laura said, "and subjected to their corporate mentality." She shook her head. "That is not what we were fighting for, Steve."

"I understand that, Laura," Hotbox said. "Honestly I do. But I don't think we're going to be able to hold this planet indefinitely. A lot of the workers out there are in favor of this plan — more every day."

"We will hold this planet forever if we remain unified," Laura said. "As we speak right now, our factories are churning out tanks, guns, APCs, bullets, aircraft, and every other supply needed to fight a war. General Jackson plans to increase MPG manpower by more than two hundred percent in the next six months and to beef up every aspect of our defensive capabilities. If this is allowed to go forth, the WestHems will be soundly defeated out in the wastelands again no matter what they send here. Their one chance to take this planet back from us has come and gone — unless we fail to remain unified and that is exactly what Jack Strough is trying to do. He is pitting our vital labor force against those of us who are trying to keep them free. And when you allow him into your office and bring his seditious drivel into these chambers you are helping him."

Hotbox looked like he'd just been slapped across the face. He literally couldn't come up with the words to reply to her.

"We don't need to open an issue on this or vote on it right now," Laura said. "Strough is out there trying to turn our labor force against us and to give our planet back to WestHem because it suits his needs. I have more faith in our workers than that, however. If it becomes a truly divisive problem, we'll talk about it then. In the meantime, how about we move onto the next item on the agenda?"

Hotbox gave no protest to this suggestion. Neither did anyone else.

"Very well," Laura said, taking another sip of her tea. "You mentioned trade with EastHem, Steve. Coincidentally enough, that happens to be the next item we're dealing with. We received the following message from the EastHem ruling council yesterday regarding a possible expansion of trade. If they are suggesting what I think they are suggesting, some of these shortages we've been experiencing might just be coming to an end. Let me play it for you."

She pushed the play tab and the face of Anthony Billings — the Chief Executive Councilmember of EastHem appeared. Unlike Loretta Williams, Billings was actually looking quite spiffy compared to the first time they'd contacted him, and with good reason. The influx of Martian food products in exchange for fuel had revitalized all of the EastHem corporations and their economy was booming for the first time in generations. "Good evening, Ms. Whiting and honored members of the interim Martian governing council," Billings said, smiling pleasantly. "We have been following the events on your planet and I would like to be the first to congratulate you on your brilliant victory over those who tried to derail your new democracy in its beginning stages. Several members of our joint chiefs have been much impressed by how you fought your military campaign and have expressed a desire to buy your General Jackson a stiff drink if they should find occasion to run into him.

"Now that you are completely free from WestHem tyranny and it appears you will remain so, it is my suggestion that our two nations establish formal diplomatic channels, including the stationing of an ambassador and staff in each other's capitals. With your permission, we would like to make the first gesture of friendship in this regard and send a complete diplomatic team to your planet. All we ask is that you house them in a manner they are accustomed to until such time as an embassy can be built. If you give the go-ahead, this team will leave immediately and be at Triad in four and a half weeks.

"The first order of business this team would like to discuss with the new Martian government is an expansion of the trade agreement we reached after you forcefully removed yourself from WestHem rule. As you are probably aware, our economy and the famine that existed in parts of our nation — particularly the African portion — have improved remarkably since we entered into this agreement for your food products. And I'm sure I don't have to point out that our hydrogen shipments were what allowed you to achieve your impressive military victory.

"Now we believe it would be in the best interests of both of our peoples to expand trade between us. Mars is most assuredly the breadbasket of the solar system and there are many things besides the basic staples you provide that our food distribution corporations would enjoy purchasing from you in order to feed a market for luxury cuisine. Most specifically, we would like to secure a contract for additional cuts of beef that are above the fine staple items you already provide. We would like to purchase veal cuts, lamb and mutton, turkey, and various high end produce items such as mushrooms, asparagus, lettuce, strawberries, and, most valued, those famous Martian artichokes we've heard so much about. We are also interested in another one of your famous agricultural products: cannabis. Currently there is very little cannabis grown in EastHem because all of our agricultural land is being used for more vital items. We used to purchase cannabis from WestHem but, sadly, they invoked a trade embargo with us when we recognized the Martian government as legitimate and began trading with you.

"In order to keep the trade deficit between our two nations on an equal footing, we are prepared to supply you with some luxury items that you are currently doing without due to your conflict with WestHem. In specific, we would be willing to offer you coffee from Java and other parts of Indonesia, tobacco from our Turkish plantations, and, most important, alcoholic beverages of the finest quality from all over our great nation. We could import to you beer from the Germany region, wines of varying type from the France region, and hard spirits from our finest distilleries in Scotland, Russia, China, Japan, and Australia.

"Under the current political situation we would still not be comfortable offering arms, ammunition, or other war materials, but just about anything else is open to negotiation. The diplomatic team we propose to send would have full treaty making and trade agreement authority.

"If this is an acceptable offer to you, please reply as soon as possible.

"In continued friendship, Tony Billings."

Laura clicked off the tape and looked out at the legislature. "Well," she asked. "What do we think about that?"

They were unanimous in their support of negotiating a trade agreement. Despite the surplus food they were already sending to EastHem, the Martian warehouses and holding facilities were literally stuffed to overflowing with excess food products since they were no longer sending any to WestHem. This was particularly true of artichokes, most fruit items, and medium grade marijuana. That had thrown out hundreds of tons of all of this because of rotting from disuse over the past two months.

"Coffee and smokes again," one of the members sighed with pleasure. "The sooner the better, I say."

"And booze," someone else put in. "EastHem always was the best at making hooch."

"Except for wine," someone countered. "There's nothing like a good California Merlot."

Before an argument could get started on the pros and cons of EastHem alcoholic beverages, Laura put the motion on the floor. Should they accept the offer of the EastHem diplomatic team? The motion was seconded and voted upon. There were no nays in the chamber.

"Very good," Laura said. "I'll send off a message to the EastHem council as soon as we adjourn here. Now, there's one last thing I'd like to put out for you to consider. The WestHem citizens that are stuck on this planet."

"The corporate fucks you mean," said Jenny Bongwater, one of Laura's most enthusiastic supporters.

"Call them what you will," Laura said. "There are more than two hundred thousand WestHem citizens here on Mars and most of them would like to go home, I'm sure. I think it's time we started getting them there. I would like to send a message to WestHem inviting them to send ships here to pick up their citizens. Such ships would be stopped at the one hundred thousand kilometer radius by our navy and searched for weapons or spy equipment and then they will be allowed to land at Triad."

"The WestHems will never agree to that," Steve Hotbox said. "It would mean they would be offering some sort of recognition to us if they did."

"We'll try to work it so it doesn't have to be announced publicly, but I think we should make the offer. I for one don't want those people cluttering up my planet any longer than they need to be. All they're doing is sitting in their penthouse apartments and eating our food and making nuisances of themselves. Let's start working towards purging our planet of them once and for all."

This motion was not unanimous, but it passed.

Laura adjourned the meeting shortly after and went back to her office. She had some messages that needed to be composed.

Planet Mars

The weeks went by on the newly independent Planet of Mars and the people who lived on it slowly began to adjust to the fact that they were now the ones in control of their own destiny.

Jeff Creek, Belinda Maxely, and Xenia Stoner spent most of their seventy-two hour pass in Xenia's apartment near the MPG base exploring the possibilities of the triad that had formed. They had sex in every conceivable arrangement and even Belinda began to enjoy the sensation of a phallus inside of her instead of a plastic look-alike. On non-sexual matters, they had their fights and disagreements, some of them quite vicious, as they tried to settle in together and make something of a home. They managed to resolve the bigger issues, or at least come to an amicable cease-fire on them, but left many minor issues still pending when it was time for them to go back to their respective MPG assignments. They, like every other MPG member, then forgot about their domestic squabbles as they undertook the task of collecting their dead from the battlefield.

This collection of those Martians who had fallen in battle was given the highest priority by General Jackson. He allowed no other task to be started until every last MPG member who had fallen was recovered or at least identified. This took the better part of two weeks in which soldiers dug through concrete rubble, pried open destroyed tanks and APCs, and scoured through wreckage of fallen Mosquitoes. Jeff himself asked for and received permission to help excavate a certain trench on the Blue Line of Eden. He found his friend Hicks there, still lying where he'd gone down, his body perfectly preserved in his shredded biosuit. Later, on a day off near the end of October, he paid a visit to Covington Heights, the ghetto adjoining Helvetia Heights. There he met with Hicks' parents and paid his respects. He spent more than two hours there with them, telling of Hicks' exploits in battle, of their adventures in training, of the way he had fallen. All three of them cried and when he left, the elder Hicks' both thanked him profusely, hugging him as he departed.

Following the recovery of the dead was a seven-day period in which many funerals were held throughout Eden and New Pittsburgh. General Jackson saw to it that each memorial service featured a dignified and moving ceremony and a twenty-one-gun salute by an MPG honor guard.

"There will be a memorial for those who gave their lives for our freedom," Jackson said in a speech one night during the midst of this. "I swear this before all that I believe in, it will stand in Capital Park in New Pittsburgh and the name of every man and woman who fell will be carved in it."

After the recovery and cremation of the dead came the even more daunting, though less emotional, task of collecting and trying to identify the WestHem dead. This was a job that seemed overwhelming at first since there were so many of them. There was a path of smashed armor, fallen aircraft, and exploded men that stretched from the site of the landing zones all the way to the main lines of defense. Still, they did it, trudging through the wastelands in biosuits, picking up corpses of their enemy and putting them in trucks or patiently pulling DNA samples from exploded armor. The bodies still intact were transported to agricultural freezers and stored until such time that the conflict was officially over.

During this time period Zen Valentine was released from the hospital with one less kidney than he'd come in with. He was offered a medical discharge for his injury but he refused it, going right back into the ACR as a tank commander. He was promoted to lieutenant and put in charge of a tank platoon. Once the body recovery period came to an end he would begin training his new platoon in offensive operations instead of just defensive. He continued to live with his grandmother in a middle-class apartment.

Matt Mendez was also released but was not returned to flight status due to the dialysis shunt in his subclavian artery and vein. Two brand new kidneys, cloned from his own DNA, were being grown for him but they would not be ready for another eight weeks. Matt did not let this discourage him. He applied for flight training and was accepted with the stipulation that he would not be able to participate until he was fully healed up and his new kidneys operational. In the meantime, he would draw three hundred and twenty credits per month in temporary disability payments.

Brian Haggerty was asked to be an instructor for one of the new flight schools that was being formed in Libby. The anticipation, according to General Jackson, was that ninety-five more Mosquitoes would roll off the assembly lines before the earliest expected return of the WestHems (assuming, of course, that Jack Strough did not get a general labor strike going as he was starting to threaten) and they needed combat experienced pilots to teach them. Haggerty refused the promotion and resigned his commission with the MPG. He had had enough of war. He went back to his position with the Eden Police Department, intending to enjoy the reforms that Laura Whiting was promising for the criminal justice system.

Lisa Wong, on the other hand, resigned her position with the Eden Police Department and signed on for full-time active duty with the MPG. General Jackson was planning to vastly increase the amount of special forces troops for the next deployment and it was strongly suggested that most who had seen action in the first phase of the conflict would be promoted. She wanted her own squad and it seemed well within her reach to get it.

Lon Fargo, recognized as an especially astute special forces member, was offered a position in training new inductees to the force. He accepted the position on the condition that he would stay in Eden. His condition was granted and he was sent immediately to an intense, six-week program in New Pittsburgh to be taught how to be an effective instructor.

And then there was Belinda Creek, the ex-wife of Jeff Creek. While her former husband was enjoying his new life and newfound respect, she sat alone in the apartment they'd once shared most of the time. She had long since run out of money. Some of it had been blown by buying bogus alcohol and coffee shipments, most had been stolen by her former partner in her lucrative black market venture. She had also run out of alcohol and there was no way for her to get any more. Over a period of a week or so, just after the cease-fire was announced, while the rest of the planet was celebrating victory, she had stayed in her bed, suffering through a vicious case of alcohol withdrawal that had nearly killed her. She had had no less than twelve grand mal seizures in a six-hour period at the worst point. She had urinated and defecated upon herself and gone without food for almost six days. Slowly she had recovered and managed to get some nourishment from the welfare mart but she was blackly depressed all the time now.

Her husband was gone and with him, her hope of getting pregnant and obtaining that larger apartment. Divorce bureaucracy moved quickly on Mars and hers was final before the WestHems even left orbit. Most of her former friends had gone. They had taken jobs in the agriculture fields, in the factories, in the MPG. She had no desire to follow in their footsteps. She had been raised like her parents, believing that life owed her a handout and that the overriding concern was to avoid employment of any kind.

On October 25 she found herself sitting on her bed with a pistol in her hand. It was the tiny 3mm pistol that Jeff used to carry in his gang days, before Laura Whiting had filled his head with visions of independence and grandeur. She caressed it, touching it's cheap plastic handle, fingering the magazine protruding from the bottom.

She was very stoned. Marijuana was the one intoxicant that was still readily available on Mars since it was actually produced there and she had smoked nearly two grams of it on this evening. Instead of cheering her, however, it only made her more depressed. She hated weed, hated the way it made her feel. She wanted to be drunk, to experience the blissful nothingness of a three-day binge of Fruity.

She put the pistol against her head, her finger caressing the trigger. She did not quite have the nerve to pull it just yet but she was working that way.

The computer screen was on, showing a MarsGroup soap opera that she used to like but had lost interest in as of late. The show ended while she was contemplating suicide and a brief top-of-the-hour news report came on.

"This is Jenna Cocksman reporting on the latest news of Mars," the middle-aged news anchor said. "In New Pittsburgh today, union leader Jack Strough blasted Laura Whiting again on what he called her 'unrealistic dreams' for the future of our planet. Strough, the leader of a growing number of citizens who advocate conditional reconciliation with WestHem, was particularly contemptuous over Whiting's vague plans for resuming trade if and when an armistice is ever signed."

"What exactly are we going to trade for?" Strough's image asked in a reasonable manner. "Whiting is proposing that we remain completely separate from the WestHem economic system, that we do not accept their money nor give them these so-called credits that she has come up with. So what are they going to pay us in? How are we going to compensate the workers who pick all the food and produce all of the profits? She has no answers for that. While I respect her for the stand she's forced us to make for independence the simple fact of the matter is that we need WestHem in order to survive as an economy. They are the market we sell our goods to."

"Whiting had little to say about Strough's statement," Cocksman continued. "The only effort she made to defend her proposed policies was to state that Strough and the growing number of those who follow him, 'just don't get what the revolution was supposed to be about'."

"I got what it's about," Belinda said contemptuously, grabbing her crotch a few times. "I got it right fuckin' here."

"In other news," Cocksman went on, "the delegation of diplomats from EastHem are now less than a week out and the prospect of increasing trade with them is looking more and more hopeful."

"Fuckin' EastHem," Belinda spat, putting the gun back to her head. "Who gives a fucking shit?"

"As we've been reporting over the past two weeks," Cocksman said, "the EastHems are requesting luxury agricultural items such as prime meat cuts, prime vegetables, and marijuana. In return they are offering to trade Indonesian coffee, Turkish cigarettes, and, perhaps most welcome to a whole lot of thirsty Martians, beer, wine, and other spirits from throughout their empire. Now interestingly enough both Laura Whiting and Jack Strough agree that this is a lucrative and..."

Belinda stared at the screen, not hearing anything after "beer, wine, and other spirits". Booze! her mind yelled at her happily. They're talking about bringing booze here!

The report ended a few moments later and the next soap opera — Return of the Dark — started. Belinda ignored it, her mind still locked onto those magical words: beer, wine, and other spirits. She put the gun down on the bed and walked over to the computer terminal.

"Computer," she said, "display all MarsGroup print stories regarding beer, wine, and other spirits being brought to Mars that were generated over the past two weeks."

"Displaying," the computer said. "There are one hundred and twelve such articles, sorted by date and relevance."

The soap opera went away and newsprint appeared in its place. Belinda had rarely read news stories throughout her life and was, in fact, barely literate at a functional level. But she read them now. And all said the same thing. The Martian government was preparing to negotiate for the shipment of booze to Mars in return for agricultural products. Booze!

"How long?" she wondered, trying to delve deeper into the articles. It took her a few minutes but eventually she found that negotiations would commence as soon as the EastHem diplomats arrived in one week. Once an agreement was reached, it would be maybe six weeks before the hooch started flowing once again.

Seven weeks! I could be back to normal again in seven weeks!

It was a long time to wait, of course, but she thought she could stick it out. She smiled for the first time in two weeks. She got up and picked up the gun, putting it back in the bedside drawer.

Suddenly she had something to live for again.



The negotiations on the EastHem trade agreement actually took the better part of five weeks to hammer out. The sticking point was the matter of compensation for the goods. EastHem wanted Mars to convert to their system of currency — the EastHem pound. They wanted to pay Mars for the agricultural products they purchased in pounds and then have Mars pay them in pounds for the alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee. Laura Whiting absolutely refused to budge on this manner.

"This will be a strict exchange of commodities for commodities," she said time and time again. "We give you a certain amount of agricultural goods and you give us a certain amount of addictive drugs. We will not convert to your currency or allow you to accept ours. That is non-negotiable."

EastHem listened to her but didn't want to believe her. They tried as hard as they could. They offered ridiculously low prices on their end and offered ridiculously high prices on the Martian end just to get Laura Whiting and her legislature to agree to convert to pounds. The Martians refused. They threatened to withhold fuel shipments if an agreement could not be reached.

"Then we would be forced to end all agricultural shipments to EastHem," Whiting calmly countered. "We would eject all of you from our planet and we would be easy fodder when the WestHems returned. You would never again enjoy the boost to your economy that we are responsible for."

Eventually, the diplomats agreed to Laura Whiting's condition. They had been ordered to push as hard as they could for conversion to pounds but not to go under if the greenies were insistent. The next phase of the negotiations concerned the amounts of each commodity. Again the EastHems started off with patently ridiculous demands. They were suggesting the equivalent of two hundred kilos of marijuana for each pack of cigarettes, six hundred kilos of beef for each kilo of coffee, one hundred kilos of vegetables for each liter of alcohol. The weeks ground on and eventually the two sides were able to meet in the middle and put their signatures to a formal trade treaty.

On December 8, 2146, Laura Whiting called a press conference in order to announce the terms of the new agreement. There was something else she intended to announce as well, something that she had discussed with the planetary legislature and even with Jack Strough. All had given their agreement to the plan, although Strough had his own reasons for doing so. It was something that would be a considerable shock to a mostly silent minority of people on the planet.

"We have hammered out a trade agreement with EastHem," she happily announced that night at 1800 hours, New Pittsburgh time. "All cargo will be transported in their ships, loaded and unloaded at Triad by Martian dockworkers. The actual amounts of the agreement will be posted on the MarsGroup text sites but we have gotten all we've asked for and more. Within eight weeks our planet will once again be able to enjoy fine coffee, alcoholic beverages, various tobacco products, and... for the first time in our history (except for those corporate WestHems who had it specially imported), seafood consisting of crabs, lobsters, shrimp, oysters, clams, and various types of ocean and freshwater fish. This last was an added inducement suggested by EastHem as a measure of good faith and accepted by the negotiation team. So have faith, Martians, soon most of you will be swimming in intoxicants, tobacco, and coffee once again and you'll be able to sample seafood."

She could not hear it but she had a feeling a cheer was going up around the planet. She smiled in silence for a few moments, waiting for it to die down.

"Now the distribution of these trade goods is something that myself and my advisors have thought long and hard on. They will be sold at a fixed price in the various retail establishments and bars until such time that we hammer out a new constitution and a new economic system. (Jack Strough frowned mightily from his seat in the audience at this point — he and his cohorts were planning on going back to the old constitution with a few modifications). There will be no need for profiteering or hoarding of these supplies. In the amounts we've negotiated there will be enough for everyone. So have faith, Martians, your vices will be arriving soon."

She paused again, allowing what she assumed was another planetwide cheer to die down. She then turned her face serious.

"This brings us to a subject that seems unrelated but that really is not. It is the subject of welfare reform. For dozens of generations we have had a system in place in which the needy, the jobless, the infirm among us have been supported by the government so that they may continue to be housed and fed. This is a system that many of you who fought in the revolution, who toiled in the factories to supply the revolution, lived under when WestHem rule was in place. It is a system in which the government paid you a certain amount of money each month for expenses. It was a system that was necessary when we had better than twenty-five percent unemployment on this planet. But it is a system that was and is rife for abuse by many of those who partake in it. It is time for that system to change and it is with the influx of these luxury items that we must act to avoid further abuses. It is time for what our ancestors used to call 'tough love'."

"We have reached a point now in Martian history where there are many more jobs available than there are workers to fill them. Our war efforts have opened up positions in every conceivable field. We need police officers, dip-hoes, factory workers, agricultural workers, janitors, soldiers, miners. We need people to work in order to make this new reality we are forging continue on. In short, there is no reason why everyone who is capable of working should not be working. 'I can't get a job' was a very legitimate excuse under WestHem. It is not a legitimate excuse today. What I'm about to suggest may sound harsh to those accustomed to the WestHem way of doing things, but it is a necessity for our new system. From this point on if you do not work, you will not get any money."

From all over the planet people gasped as they heard this. Some in surprise, many in approval, some, like Belinda Creek, in surprised shock.

"Now I'm not talking about cutting everyone off from government assistance," Whiting continued. "I wouldn't dream of such a thing. It is my belief that just by virtue of being born you are entitled to certain basic needs of life. If you are capable of working but choose not to, that is your right as a citizen of Mars. The government will continue to provide you with basic food items, with basic shelter in public housing buildings, with basic clothing, with an education in public schools, with basic Internet access and a personal computer. But that is all we will provide you with and from here on out these things will be provided for you by vouchers. Those on public assistance will no longer receive any money of any kind from the government of Mars.

"Now as to how that relates to these luxuries we have just negotiated for our planet, you will have to have money in order to obtain them from a store. There will be no vouchers for cigarettes, for coffee, for alcohol, or for marijuana. If you want some of those things, or if you want premium cuts of beef, or if you want food from a restaurant, you will have to have money — namely credits, which I've named in that they represent a credit you have received for some sort of contribution to society. Those who contribute will be given credits. Those who do not will be fed, housed, and clothed in basic format and will have no credits for luxuries.

"For those of you sitting in your homes accustomed to receiving your monthly marijuana and alcohol vouchers and your one hundred credits of spending money, those days are at an end as of now. We're not doing this because we hate you. We're doing it to encourage you to get up and make something of yourselves.

"That is all I have to say. Good night. Let's keep Mars free."

Belinda Creek was shocked beyond belief. She had watched the Whiting bitch's speech with initial glee as she talked about all the wonderful and cheap booze that would soon be pouring in from EastHem. True there had been no mention of Fruity — her favorite — but surely the EastHems had some sort of similar concoction for their own vermin. Her elation had turned to horror, however, as Whiting had explained the welfare reform. No money of any kind? Vouchers for food, housing, and clothing? What kind of shit was that? That wasn't fair! There was no way the people of Mars would stand for that, was there?

She went to bed that night convinced that the press would crucify Whiting the next morning, that popular outrage would quickly overturn this fascist edict. In this she was partially right. There were many questions about her unexpected welfare reform law the next morning, most having to do with what those who were unable to work because of disability would do. As the days went on and Whiting explained that her reform only applied to those who were able to work but chose not to, much of the questions faded away. In fact, it was determined that the majority of the planet, including those who had grown up as vermin but were now working, approved of Whiting's reform. Some of them were even of the opinion that she was being too generous.

Jack Strough and his growing number of followers were one such group. Strough was all in favor of denying credits or dollars or pounds (whatever they ultimately ended up going with) to those on welfare but he was opposed to the idea of giving them even basic vouchers.

"Why should we house them if they refuse to work?" Strough asked a group of reporters interviewing him on the subject. "Why should our hardworking field hands have to feed them if they refuse to work? Why should we give them free clothing and free education if they refuse to work? Working is what keeps the economy rolling. Everyone capable of it should contribute to the cause. If you choose not to, I say you can go naked and homeless and starve in the street."

After a week of excited talk about the welfare reform rules it was apparent to Belinda and everyone like her that public opinion was not in their favor. If anything they stood to lose the meager handouts Whiting was offering them.

"This is a bunch of fuckin' bullshit," Belinda told the computer screen one night after smoking the last of her marijuana supply. She had just received the first of her monthly vouchers via email and, as promised, there was no credits or dollars listed in them.

She longed for the way things used to be, when the booze was free, the asshole that lived with her was fucking her on a regular basis, and no one expected her to go out and find a fucking job.

The fervor over the welfare reform act died down quickly the last week of December when the subject of "the vote" was raised for the first time. It was Jack Strough who raised it and once it was brought to the public's attention it would only be called "the vote" when discussed.

"It's obvious that myself and Governor Whiting have very differing views on the direction this planet should take in the post-revolutionary phase," Strough announced at a press conference. "I represent an organization that a good portion of our blue collar workers now belong to — the Martian Federation of Labor — and I speak to you now as their voice. We have achieved what Ms. Whiting set out to do. We have beaten the WestHem marines and chased them from our planet. Now it is time for us to reconcile with them in the interest of all Martians.

"Governor Whiting's idealistic plans of an isolated planet, independent from the economies of EastHem and WestHem sound good after smoking a few bowls and bullshitting with your buddies over artichokes and cheesecake, but they hardly hold water in the real world. We cannot exist without WestHem. They are our mother country and they are the ones who must purchase the majority of what we produce here. We must establish diplomacy with them, negotiate a permanent armistice, exchange our prisoners, and, most of all, trade with them in the great tradition of democratic capitalism. It is a nice pipe dream that we can be fully independent but it can't happen in real life. It simply can't!

"If we do not negotiate now, from a position of strength, WestHem is going to send more troops here and forcibly take Mars back from those who fought so hard to keep it. They are going to take over the labor rolls again and cut everything to the bare minimum, bringing us back to the unemployment levels we had before. They are going to sever the ties we recently established with EastHem and force us back into the monopoly of buying only their coffee, only their alcohol, only their tobacco. Did we sacrifice so much these past months just to have it all taken away from us? Just to subject ourselves to occupation by the very WestHem marines we just ejected from this place?

"I say that is not an acceptable answer. We are in the position of strength now and it is time to start negotiating an acceptable peace with WestHem. We can give them back their corporate holdings but regulate how they are allowed to run them on Mars. We can keep our government intact and insure that the majority of this planet's wealth stays here. This is the only answer, people. Becoming a communistic, isolated planet that does not accept WestHem money for the goods we provide is Governor Whiting's way. Being realistic in our goals and ambitions is my way. Now I want to know what you, the Martian people, think about all of this.

"We must pick one path or the other and we must do it soon. For this reason I am challenging Governor Whiting to put our respective ideologies to a vote. I suggest we schedule it for the second Tuesday in January. The question will be a simple one. Do we remain committed to complete independence — which would entail fighting for this planet's freedom again and again until the WestHems either give up or defeat us — or do we open negotiations for the peaceful reconciliation of our two planets in such a way that guarantees us de facto independence?

"I'm awaiting Governor Whiting's reply."

He ended the press conference a moment later, not staying to answer questions.

Laura Whiting's reply was an angry one.

"Did we not already vote on this?" she asked the public the next day. "In the very beginning, after the MPG secured this planet from WestHem, we voted on this issue. I don't think the wording of that particular ballet was ambiguous in any way. It read: Will the Planet of Mars declare independence from the Federal Alliance of the Western Hemisphere and enforce this declaration by any means available? Yes or no. The vote was overwhelmingly 'yes'. We did not vote for 'de facto independence'. Our soldiers did not fight and die for 'de facto independence'. Jack Strough is trying to divide this planet at a time when we most need to be unified."

But Jack Strough remained persistent in his insistence on a new vote. The other labor union heads in his federation — of all whom had long been on record as opposing Martian independence — added their voices to his. They bombarded their members with emails, speeches, and video files, stating their position over and over. Eventually much of the blue-collar work force began to respond to their words, began to believe that maybe Jack Strough's way really was the better way. These workers began to send emails to Laura Whiting and the legislature demanding that the vote take place "in the interests of all Martians".

"Things have changed," was the most common quote in these emails — a quote supplied to them by Strough and the other labor heads. "We have achieved the respect we were looking for and can regulate our own destiny now. There is no more need for bloody battles out in the wastelands to keep corporate influence minimized. Now is the time for good old-fashioned diplomacy and negotiation to have its turn."

Interestingly enough, the MPG soldiers who had actually fought the WestHems were almost unanimously opposed to the vote or to settling for anything other than complete autonomy from WestHem.

"Those fuckin' factory workers, agricultural workers, miners, and dock workers are trying to throw away everything we just fought for," Jeff Creek complained to Belinda and Xenia one night. "And they're doing it in our name! They want to throw everything away so that we in the MPG don't have to fight the WestHems anymore? Bring those fuckin' marines on, I say! Bring 'em the fuck on!"

But the MPG, as popular as it was among the Martian populace, was outnumbered by the blue-collar workers by more than fifty to one. Their voice was not powerful enough to be heard, their vote unimportant to people such as Jack Strough. Eventually, Laura Whiting was forced to call another special election, scheduled — as requested by Strough — for the second Tuesday in January. The wording of the ballet was simple and straightforward. The voter was asked to make one of two choices.

The first read: I wish for Mars to remain an autonomous and independent planet, free of all WestHem influence and control, and that we will use any means at our disposal, including the use of our armed forces, to keep this planet out of WestHem hands.

The second read: I wish for Mars to be reconciled with WestHem on Martian terms and authorize immediate negotiation by a committee of government representatives and organized labor representatives with WestHem authorities to bring about such a reconciliation.

Golden Tower Housing Complex, New Pittsburgh

January 3, 2147

0255 hours.

The buzzing of his Internet terminal awoke General Jackson from the fitful sleep he'd been engaged in. He pulled himself out of bed, grumbling under his breath, and walked naked to the terminal, seeing that the call was from Captain Warren, the head of Laura Whiting's security detail (which had been reduced to little more than a surveillance detail since the governor refused to have anyone guard her anymore).

Jackson sighed and told the computer to answer. Warren's worried face appeared. "Sorry to wake you, General," he said.

"That's okay," Jackson said. "Where is she now?"

"She's on a train to Eden," Warren said. "She boarded the red-eye less than an hour ago. One of the men I have following her managed to make it on board with her. He reports she's talking to the passengers that are awake, telling them why they should vote for continued independence."

"Eden?" he said, looking up at the ceiling. "What in the hell is she doing now?"

"We looked through the planner on her computer," Warren said. "Apparently she's going to meet personally with members of the Agricultural Workers union as they go on shift in the morning. She's alerted MarsGroup so they can have a crew down at the deployment docks for the morning shift."

"Damn that woman," he said. "She's going to give me a fucking ulcer yet. Is it public knowledge what she's doing?"

"Not as far as I can tell," Warren said. "It sounds just like the same deal as with the miners and the manufacturing union members she met with here in NP."

He nodded. "Very well," he said. "See if you can scare up a few special forces members from Eden to go in plain clothes and keep an eye on things. That's about all we can do."

"Right, General," Warren promised. "I'll get right on it."

Warren signed off and Jackson, knowing that further sleep would be impossible, got up and walked to his pantry. He opened it and removed a small box full of Agricorp Greenbud. He walked to one of the kitchen cabinets and removed an electric bong. He filled it with fresh water, cut a slice of lemon and dropped it into the water, and then carried it to the seat by his window, which looked out over two other housing buildings. He took a few hits and tried to relax, his mind spinning with worry over several different things.

The vote was only a week away. It was anyone's call how it would turn out. Jack Strough, in the tradition of WestHem special interests dating back to the late twentieth century, had used a large portion of his organization's available funding (which came from the dues paid by the workers) to produce slickly done commercials touting his side of the ballet issue and then buying up hundreds of hours on every MarsGroup Internet channel to air these commercials. Jackson had seen many of these productions personally. One could hardly turn on any show on MarsGroup without seeing one at every break.

Strough's commercials were very reasonably worded. He took care to never insult Laura Whiting in any way, knowing how the populace revered her. Instead, he chose to combine graphic war images and cold WestHem military figures with the implied threat that worse would follow if Mars did not vote to come to terms and take advantage of the position of strength it now held.

The commercial that had been playing over the past two days was a perfect example of this. It opened with images of wounded men and women — all Martians — being brought in from the field and treated by medics. It showed shots of the dead lined up in neat rows. Jack Strough's voice would then begin speak.

"The battle we just fought for this planet was an honorable one, a just one, but a bloody one, costing us over three thousand Martian lives and wounding more than six thousand. We have achieved our goal of freeing ourselves from the tyranny of WestHem domination and influence. We have sent a very powerful message to the corporations of our mother planet.

"But the time for the sword is at an end. It is now the time for healing, for reconciliation. We stand in a position of strength right now but that will change if we do not take steps to come to terms with our former masters. They have a population of more than five billion. They have more than thirty million men under arms. They have vowed this planet will never achieve autonomy from them.

"These images you see are from a conflict in which they vastly underestimated us, in which they failed to send enough men to complete their mission. And even so, we barely scraped through without losing Eden to them. If they have to come back, they will send many more men, many more machines, they will cause many more deaths, and they will take that position of strength we now enjoy away from us.

"Governor Whiting is a great person. She will go down in history as the woman who freed our people. But if we continue on the course she suggests, we will not remain free. We cannot stand up to the face of WestHem military might indefinitely. Let's stop the killing before it can begin again. Vote for reconciliation with WestHem. We will deal with these corporations under our own terms and we will enjoy peace with honor.

"I'm Jack Strough and I represent the Martian Federation of Labor. Vote for reconciliation. Vote for peace."

Jackson had asked Laura if they could make their own commercials. He volunteered to appear in them himself, to explain to the populace that the MPG was going through a massive increase in forces, that tanks were now rolling off the assembly lines, that he had plans for even more formidable defensive positions outside of every Martian city. Laura refused.

"We will not sink down to that level," she said. "In the first place, the legality of using Martian credits issued by the government to purchase Internet advertising time is questionable at best. In the second place we would be seen as spewing propaganda to counter propaganda. That is not what a common sense government should do."

She was right, of course, but that only served to frustrate him more. He couldn't help but think that they were losing the support they'd enjoyed for so long. The working Martians were turning against them, grasping at the straw of peace that Jack Strough and his cohorts were waving before them. They were becoming convinced that Mars really couldn't exist without WestHem and that reconciliation on Martian terms really was the best solution.

"We'll lose everything eventually if they vote this in," Jackson had told Laura the day before. "It might take awhile, but as sure as I'm standing here, we'll be right back where we were a year ago at some point."

"You are more correct than you know," Laura replied.

"Then what are we going to do about it?" he'd pleaded. "Your speeches are good, Laura. The people still love you, but they're listening too much to that asshole Strough. They're letting themselves be seduced by him."

"I know," she said. "I'm very worried about that. I knew something like this would happen, of course — there is always someone trying to take advantage of new circumstances — but I was hoping that by now..." She'd trailed off, sighing again.

"By now what?"

"Never mind," she'd said. "It's in the hands of the Martian people now. I'm hoping for some divine intervention."

"Divine intervention?" he asked. As far as he knew Laura was an agnostic at best.

"Hopefully you'll find out soon," she said. "Time is running out on us."

Laura Whiting met with hundreds of agricultural workers at the Eden AgriCorp deployment center. They were thrilled to be in her presence and they swarmed around her, posing for pictures with her, shaking her hand, hugging her, and listening to what she had to say. All were members of Jack Strough's Martian Federation of Labor — the very people Strough was trying to get to carry the vote for him. Most expressed a seemingly sincere worry about being invaded again, about losing what they'd already fought for.

"All these people here," said one of the crew leaders, "are going out to help harvest and care for the vegetables and the marijuana that we're trading with EastHem. We've been going full-blast for the past three weeks to get that order up to Triad and onto those ships when they arrive. Most of us were unemployed before the revolution and had been for generations. We're all working and making good money now and we're worried that it will come to an end if we don't negotiate peace with WestHem."

"Don't you understand what you're doing?" Laura responded to him. "You're glad for the revolution because it gave you a job and allowed you to make money. In the same breath, however, you're telling me that we shouldn't fight anymore to keep what we fought for."

"Not if we can negotiate a suitable settlement with WestHem," he replied.

"If we let WestHem back in here, if we allow them any sort of control over our industries or our agriculture, we will go right back to where we were within a generation no matter how favorable the terms they've offered us are. They will be using their wealth to bribe our politicians again, corrupting our government, passing laws that will slowly, one by one, take away everything that we could hope to gain by negotiating with them. Use your common sense, Dawg. You have to know that what I'm saying is true. Deep down inside you have to know that."

The crew leader did know that what she said was true. He just didn't want to face it. He had been given a comfortable existence right here and right now and his self-interest would not allow him to think about might happen in the future.

"What about your children?" Laura asked him.

"Children?" he chuckled. "You mean child, right? And what about him?"

"No, I mean children," she said. "The legislature is right now working on a document that will officially repeal the birthing restrictions on Mars. Starting as early as next week, any woman can have as many children as she wishes. We're going to bring back brothers and sisters to the planet. We're going to bring back aunts and uncles. So what are your children going to have to endure if you piss away our revolution because you're afraid of losing your union scale wages? Do you want them to have no hope of college education? No hope of having a job when they grow up? Do you want them to be called vermin like the employed class used to call you?"

The crew leader was shocked by her words, as was everyone in earshot. Laura did have a way of putting things into perspective. She knew that most of these people that she talked to would be voting against reconciliation. She knew that her trips were doing a lot to change the minds of the workforce. But it could hardly be enough. There were millions of workers on the planet and there was no way she could talk to them all. She could make speeches on MarsGroup every few days — and she was doing that — but her words were not carrying the same power in the mass media format as they once had, in part because of the equally powerful words of Jack Strough. He was promising a quick end to the conflict, an easy out. The fact that his words were misleading, possibly even an out and out lie, just wasn't getting through. The people were enjoying the taste of their new life, of their new freedom, and they were desperate to preserve it: so desperate that they didn't want to continue gambling for fear of losing it — although by listening to Strough, that was exactly what they were doing.

She knew what needed to be done in order for the people to listen to her again, to pay attention to her words, to feel them with their hearts and souls. She knew, she was willing to accept the consequences of it, but it was something she could not put into motion herself. She would have to wait for salvation from without. She had thought it would have come by now but it hadn't. If it didn't come before the vote, it might be too late.



MarsTrans Intercity Passenger Terminal

January 3, 2147

1123 hours

"Look at all these fucking people," said Lisa Wong as she stared at the crowd that had gathered to see Laura Whiting off. "This is a goddamn security nightmare."

"I can't believe she actually announced on MarsGroup what time she was leaving," said Horishito, who was standing next to her, posing as her husband on this particular assignment.

Both of them were wearing frumpy civilian clothes — Lisa a pair of loose fitting blue shorts that hung nearly to mid-thigh and a looser-fitting tan shirt that covered her stomach and did little to display her respectable physique. Hoary was wearing similar clothing. The effect was to make them look like God-freaks — those ultra-religious Martians who still subscribed to the ancient Earth myths. This was just the cover they were looking for on this assignment. God-freaks were a small minority in the Martian population but could be seen through all walks of life. They were hardly noticed by the live-and-let-live Martian majority, usually uncommented on if they were noticed. The frumpy clothing of their disguises served two purposes. One, it hid the bulging muscles, ultra-flat stomachs, and toned thighs that marked them as special forces members. Two, it hid the communications gear and the 3mm pistols that were strapped to their waists.

They had been pulled out of their training regiments in order to act as a secret service of sorts for Governor Whiting, who was apparently in the habit of walking around in public without her own security detail. Governor Whiting did not know they were here. She did not know the other twelve special forces members — commanded by newly promoted Lieutenant Lon Fargo — were here, some disguised as other God-freaks, some disguised as terminal janitorial staff. The numbers had seemed adequate when they'd come out, this despite the fact that Whiting, in an interview on MarsGroup after her meeting with the agricultural workers, had actually announced she would be taking the 1150 train to Proctor, staying overnight there, and then meeting with the Proctor agricultural workers as they went on shift the next day. Fargo had figured that a crowd would show up to see the Governor in person but he had not figured on the more than five thousand that had actually arrived. After all, it was a workday and most Martians these days were employed, weren't they?

"This is insane," Lisa said, trying to squirm her way forward through the crowd toward the departure platform, Hoary hanging onto her left hand. They were still over thirty meters from where Whiting now was, and aside from Lon himself, who was disguised as a MarsTrans customer service technician and had worked his way to within actual sight of her, the closest of the operatives. "None of these people have been screened for weapons, not even superficially. They just walked right in. Any one of them could be carrying anything on them."

"It's like Governor Whiting has a fuckin' death wish or something," Horishito agreed. "Is Eden PD still on their way to augment us?"

"Lon said they have some of their own undercover officers already here," Lisa said. "They've got more on the way. They at least have some experience with this sort of thing since they protect the mayor."

"They need to find some way for us to coordinate with them and let us know where their officers are and visa versa. We might end up shooting at each other if we spot weapons."

"Shit," said Lisa. "I didn't even think of that. Why don't you call Lon about that while I keep pushing us through the crowd?"

"Right," Horishito said. "I'm on the motherfucker. Maybe we can all get on the same channel."

Lisa pushed forward, using her strength to squirm between groups of Martians, to twist in and out, to propel herself toward the loading platform where Laura Whiting was being mobbed. Horishito, holding onto her hand and speaking circumspectly on his radio, followed close behind, slipping into the gaps she created. The Martians gave way reluctantly, many of them saying things like, "go read your bible, freak!" or "we don't need to be saved, Laura's already saved us". Lisa uttered a few Jesus loves you's in order to maintain their cover and kept on pushing on.

Meanwhile, less than twenty meters away, another person was pushing forward as well, just as intent — if not more — to position herself close to Laura Whiting. That person was Belinda Creek and she had watched the news broadcast of Whiting meeting with the agricultural workers earlier this morning because it had pre-empted her soap operas. She had seethed with hatred as she'd gazed upon the face of the person she blamed for all of her recent woes. Laura Whiting had started this so-called revolution, putting an end to the lifestyle she'd grown up with. Laura Whiting had seduced her husband into military service to support her revolution, changing him from the man who would give her a child and a larger apartment to a man who had divorced her, who had turned her in to the police for profiteering, who had contemptuously thrown her away like a piece of garbage. And then the booze and the cigarettes — Belinda's main focus in life — had dried up because of Laura Whiting's revolution, leaving her twisting and seizing on her bed, sending her through the hell of withdrawal, nearly killing her. And now Laura Whiting had done the most hated thing of all. She had secured a fresh booze supply for Mars, had secured high-grade tobacco, but she was denying it to Belinda just because she didn't want to get a job! That was the cruelest, most vicious thing she'd ever imagined. Belinda couldn't even get marijuana anymore, all because of that cursed welfare reform law Laura Whiting had come up with.

She pushed forward, not gaining ground as quickly as Lisa and Horishito but moving relentlessly closer all the same. Finally she got to within ten meters, was able to see that hated face in person for the first time. Her resolve solidified as the fury surged through her. Until this moment she had not really been sure she was going to carry through with her plans. Now she was sure. Laura Whiting had to die. She had to die for everything she'd done to Belinda's ordered and structured life.

She felt the cheap pistol that was in her pocket, reassuring herself it was still there. She checked to make sure the safety was off. She then pulled her hand out of her pocket so she would not arouse suspicions. She pushed on again. A line of people had formed before Whiting, their purpose to shake her hand and say a few words to her. Belinda pushed herself into the line and began to move with it. She was thirty people back, moving forward at an average of one person every fifteen seconds.

Lisa and Horishito had managed to work themselves to within sight of Laura by this point. They stood hand in hand on the forward edge of the surging crowd, their eyes tracking over everyone within ten meters of the Governor. There were just too many people for them to give any one person more than a cursory examination. Both of them looked at Belinda Creek, but neither lingered on her for more than a second. Neither had time to notice the way her eyes were flitting back and forth, the way her teeth were chewing nervously on her lower lip, the way she was wringing her hands over and over, trying to keep them from reaching into her pocket prematurely.

"This is a fuckin' joke," Horishito said. "There are too many people here. How in the hell are we supposed to do anything? What are we even looking for?"

"Her luck has held this long," Lisa said. "Hopefully it'll hold through today as well."

"Fuckin' aye," Horishito said, looking at his PC to get the time. It was 1130. "Boarding for the train has already started. She'll probably wrap this shit up in another minute or two."

Laura Whiting was, in fact, planning to wrap this shit up even as they spoke. She had shaken hundreds of hands, talked to hundreds of people, been hugged and mobbed and even kissed a few times. She was weary and knew it was time to get on the train and hopefully catch an hour or so of sleep on the trip to Proctor. She had actually opened her mouth to tell the crowd that she was sorry for not talking to all of them but she had to go. And then she spotted the woman in the handshake line. She was a dirty blonde, her hair unwashed, her eyes bloodshot, her nose with the scattering of burst capillaries that denoted a chronic alcoholic. Laura did notice the flitting of the eyes, the wringing of the hands, the nervous, determined look on her face. She also noticed the slight bulge in the woman's right pocket — a bulge that could have been a make-up case or a PC or a marijuana case. Laura suspected, however, that it was neither of these things. She suspected it was a gun. She decided to stay a bit longer, smiling at the next person in line, receiving his thanks and his gratitude graciously, just as she'd received everyone else's.

The woman moved closer, person-by-person, her eyes locked looking everywhere but at Laura's face, her posture becoming more and more tense. Finally she was the next in line. Laura talked to the person in front of her, accepted a kiss on the cheek, and then wished him a good day. She told him to vote for independence. He promised her that he would. The man stepped to the side, allowing the woman to step forward. Her eyes were now locked onto Laura's face, a mask of hatred plainly showing now. Her hand dropped into her right pocket.

Laura smiled at her. "You're doing your planet a great service," she said. "And you don't even realize it."

The woman actually paused, confusion furrowing her brow as she tried to digest these words. Laura actually feared for a second that she wasn't going to go through with it. But then the hatred came back. The woman opened her mouth. "I got your fuckin' revolution right here, you cunt!" she yelled. The hand came out of her pocket. There was a gun in it.

The gunshots were shockingly loud on the crowded platform. Belinda had time to fire three times before the shocked bystanders surrounding her tackled her to the ground and stomped on her wrist, forcing the gun from her hand. All three of the hyper-velocity, hollow-point bullets struck Laura Whiting in her unprotected torso. They tore through her flesh, one ripping a hole in her ascending aorta, one destroying her left lung, the last exploding her liver and her hepatic artery. She staggered two steps backward and collapsed, the smile still on her face.

"Motherfucker!" Lisa Wong screamed, her own gun instantly in her hand. She rushed forward, pushing members of the crowd aside until she was kneeling next to the fallen governor.

Laura Whiting's eyes were still open. She was still aware. She looked at those around her and then, loudly and plainly, she said: "Keep Mars free, people. Keep Mars free."

She took a few more ragged breaths and then she faded. By the time the first dip-hoes got there four minutes later, she was dead.

No less than a dozen people heard her final words. Every one of these people reported these words to the MarsGroup reporters who wanted to know every last detail from every last witness. These words were broadcast across the shocked and mourning planet in every possible medium. They appeared on MarsGroup news sites, were told by weeping anchors during news shows, were repeated person to person.

"'Keep Mars free, people, '" General Jackson quoted as he cried for his friend during a press conference just twelve hours after her death. "'Keep Mars free.' With her very last breath in this life, she spoke those words plainly and for all to hear. That was her dying wish, her dying decree to the people of this planet. I don't think I have to tell anyone what she meant by that."

But Jack Strough thought that he needed to tell everyone what she meant. "It seems obvious to me," he opined — with a straight face no less — "that our revered governor, a woman we all respected deeply and loved passionately, in her dying moment, realized that a negotiated peace is the only way we can truly keep Mars free. That is the only explanation for why she uttered those dying words. One seriously doubts that a woman dying of multiple internal hemorrhages would have wasted the last of her energy telling us to 'Free Mars, people... ' if it did not indicate a sudden and perhaps divinely inspired reversal of her previously stated position on the matter — a position that she was, in fact, out campaigning for at the time of her death."

Jackson, sitting alone in his office, full of grief, in the preliminary stages of trying to plan a state funeral for the fallen governor, went into a near-murderous rage when he heard Strough's words broadcast over MarsGroup. Of all the sleazy, slimy, self-interested things Strough had pulled in the past, this was undoubtedly the sleaziest, the slimiest, the most horribly self-interested. He was actually trying to pervert Laura's dying words — that profound and heartfelt declaration — and make it seem she meant the exact opposite of what anyone with common sense would know she really meant.

Would the working class Martians believe Strough? Probably not, at least not in their hearts. But would they pretend to believe him? Would a sizable portion perhaps convince themselves in their own minds, out of a subconscious self-interest of their own, that Strough was right? Jackson thought that just might be the case. He needed to counter Strough in some way, to let the population know, in no uncertain terms, that Laura Whiting had died in stern, immovable disapproval of Strough's reconciliation goals. He needed to give a speech. He had only two days before her funeral but he needed to come up with something moving, something inspirational, something that would keep public opinion and the upcoming vote clearly on the side of righteousness. He needed to convince the Martians that Laura Whiting wanted them, needed them to be free and that to do anything less would stain her memory and lay waste to all she had accomplished for the planet.

He spent more than two hours trying to compose such a speech. He kept starting and then ultimately rejecting his efforts. He was either coming across too strong or too weak, either overstating his case or understating it. He could not seem to find the proper middle ground to occupy.

"Damn," he said, as hour number three rolled around. This was frustrating. He was a decent enough speechwriter — he generally wrote all of his own speeches — but for something of this magnitude, when the course of an entire people lay in the balance, he needed someone a little better at carving with words. He needed someone like... well... someone like Laura Whiting. Unfortunately, Laura really had no equal.

He computer terminal suddenly chimed, indicating an email had just arrived. As a public figure and the commanding general of an entire planet's armed forces, Jackson received hundreds, sometimes thousands of emails every day. He had two staff members who did little else besides sorting through this influx. Very few people, however, had his private email address, the one that delivered directly to his computer terminal in his office or to his PC. He called up the email program, mostly to give his mind something else to think about for a few minutes. He figured the email was probably from Zoloft or one of his other generals inquiring about the funeral plans he was supposed to be working on.

He looked down at the name on the sender line and his breath caught in his throat. A chill ran down his spine.

The email, sent just seconds ago, had come from Laura Whiting.

Jackson licked his lips a few times and tried to think of an explanation for this. His confusion was quite valid. Unlike in the twenty-first century, when email first became a primary method of communication, it was almost impossible in the twenty-second century for a person to use another person's email account to send a message. Every outgoing email required a voiceprint and a fingerprint verification from the sender in whose name it was being sent. Virtually the only way he could have an email from Laura Whiting was if Laura Whiting had sent it. But Laura Whiting was dead. She had been positively identified by the Eden office of the coroner using DNA matching. An autopsy had been performed on her. Currently her body was in the baggage section of a MarsTrans train somewhere between Eden and New Pittsburgh. Jackson knew that because he had made the return arrangements himself.

With a finger that trembled slightly he reached forward and touched the email icon on the screen, opening it. It was a text file with a video file attached to it. He looked at the date and saw the message had been composed on September 3, 2146, exactly three months ago. His eyes dropped to the text itself.

Dearest Kevin,

If you are reading this message then I am dead, undoubtedly taken down by an assassin's bullet. I'm writing this note now, as WestHem marines are planning to make another landing and with the ultimate outcome of the coming battle still in question, at least among most of our people, including those of you in the MPG. I, however, know that we will be ultimately victorious in this struggle. I know we will prevail on the battlefield. I am as certain about this as I am that the sun will come up in the morning, as I am that there will be dust storms in the winter. We will beat the WestHem marines without losing any of our cities and we will send them back to Earth in humiliated defeat.

I also know that a new struggle will begin after the marines are defeated, probably within days. There will be those who will attempt to destroy the unity of our planet for their own means. What is worse is that there will be a segment of our own people — weary of war and shortages — who will be willing to listen to these people. This cannot be allowed to follow its natural course. We must keep Mars free and committed to the ideals that launched this revolution in the first place.

Sadly, and with fear, I foresee my own death as well. I will not live to see the fruits of my labors. This too is as inevitable as those yearly dust storms I mentioned. I refuse to spend my life hiding behind a dense layer of MPG security forces who follow me to every errand I run, who plan out my every move in advance. I refuse this security for my own freedom even though I am a woman who has made many enemies on a planet where nearly every man, woman, and child owns a handgun. My death is coming and I accept this.

Attached to this email is a video file I made just an hour ago. It contains my final words to the Planet Mars and I want you to play it at my funeral, to let me have one last say before I'm committed to the ashes of the crematorium. I will program the computer to scan MarsGroup news files on a continuing basis. When it begins to detect news stories announcing my death then, and only then, will this email be sent to you.

Goodbye, my friend and don't grieve for me too long. I can guarantee you I died happy if I died on a free Mars.

Jackson had tears in his eyes as he read and then re-read the email. Of all the things Laura had done in the past to amaze him, this was perhaps the most amazing. She had spoken to him from beyond death. And now she wanted to speak to the planet from there as well.

He brought his finger down and touched the video file icon. The video player program automatically opened it up and began to play it. Jackson watched it all the way through, his mouth hanging open most of the time.

"My God," he whispered and then broke into a grin. "Laura... you're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

He quickly saved the email and then the video file. He made several copies of the video and distributed them to different portions of the Internet where he could easily retrieve them. He then told his computer to contact Diane Nguyen, CEO of MarsGroup.

Diane appeared on the screen almost immediately. "Hi, Kevin," she said, her own eyes a little swollen and reddened. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing better all of a sudden," he said. "I just got an email from Laura."

"Excuse me?" she said.

He explained it to her and even sent her a copy of the text portion. "You can print that up whenever you want. The video will remain in my possession until her funeral."

"Can you give me at least a summery of what's in it?" she asked hungrily, itching for more of the story.

"No," he said. "I won't breathe a word of it until her funeral. Then the whole fucking planet can watch it."

"Can I quote you on that?" she asked.

"Fuckin' aye," he told her.

Jack Strough did not know what was in the video Laura Whiting had made three months ago, the video that was to be played at her funeral, but he knew he didn't want anyone to see it. He tried to use his influence on the legislature members who were now in charge of the planet in Laura Whiting's absence. Well over half of them had been converted to his way of thinking about things (as he liked to term it). He asked them to declare the video an unfair influence on the upcoming election and to order it suppressed, hopefully forever but at least until after the special election.

Though the legislature seemed to be seriously considering such a declaration Jackson was able to counter this thrust with a quite skillful parry of his own. He went on live MarsGroup the night before the funeral and made a short but effective speech.

"Jack Strough is trying to corrupt the legislature into suppressing the video of Laura Whiting," he said. "He is trying to keep you, the Martian people, from hearing her last words because they scare him. He's afraid that the speech she planned in the event of her death will make you change your mind, will make you lose faith in him.

"Don't let him get away with this. Laura Whiting wanted you to hear her words; she needed you to hear her words. I have seen this speech and it is moving and inspirational, a credit to the woman we all loved, that we all stood behind during our darkest hours. I implore you, start sending those emails to the legislature again. Let them know that they cannot silence Laura Whiting."

The emails poured in. Millions upon millions of them in the two hours following Jackson's speech. The legislature voted unanimously to not suppress the video. Jack Strough, knowing that further attempts to suppress her voice would be ineffective and counter-productive, kept silent on the matter and simply hoped that a three-month-old recording would not be relevant to the events going on today.

He was wrong.

Capital Park, New Pittsburgh

January 6, 2147

The funeral started at 0900 hours. Laura Whiting's body lay in a simple casket made of cellulose, closed, as was Martian custom. The casket lay atop a platform before the capital park rose garden just outside the entrance to the Capital Building itself. Thousands upon thousands of grieving Martians from all walks of life gathered in the park to witness the ceremony. News cameras from MarsGroup were set up everywhere and broadcast the entire thing live.

It was short and to the point, as was also the Martian custom. General Jackson, in traditional MPG shorts and T-shirt, hosted. He gave a short speech about Laura's life and about her dream of making the planet free one day. He did not push the issue in any way. He knew that Laura herself would do a much better job of that then he could.

"I promised you all that I would play the video she sent me at the service today," he announced. "It is now keyed up and ready. My PC is linked to the MarsGroup broadcast equipment and when I tell my computer to play it, it will be seen on all MarsGroup channels as well as the large video screen behind me. And so, with no further ado..." He pulled out his PC and spoke a few commands to it. The screen behind him flickered and came to life. At the same time every PC and every video terminal that was tuned to MarsGroup — ninety-nine point seven of them according to later statistics — lit up as well. Laura Whiting's face appeared, looking tired but elated. A hush fell over the crowd, over the planet, as she began to speak.

"My fellow Martians," she said. "I am making this video in my office on September 3, 2146, between phases one and two of the first invasion of the Martian Revolutionary War. You are watching this at some point in the future, probably not more than a few months at most. I am dead, felled by an assassin. I have foreseen my own death and I have foreseen what will happen in these next few months. I make this video so I may share with you my hopes, my dreams, for the future of our planet and of our species.

"We will win our battle with WestHem. I know this to be true. As you are watching this, we might already have achieved that victory. There is no precognition at work here. I am not a psychic, not a prophet. General Jackson is the best military mind alive today. In the annals of history he will someday be included with the likes of Sun Tzu, Rommel, Macarthur, Patton, Li Chang, and Jacob Hornsby. Those WestHem marine commanders operating under a corrupt and flawed system are no match for General Jackson and the Martian spirit he has fighting for him. Military victory will be ours. It is only common sense.

"There is one other thing I foresee and again there is no divine influence involved here, only my common sense and my own knowledge of human behavior. What I am about to describe is as true as our assured victory and may already be underway by the time you view this video. This is something that is just as lethal to Martian freedom as a military defeat, only more gradual, more insidious.

"This is what I know. There will be those who will attempt to take advantage of our newly won freedom for their own purposes. These people will be fellow Martians, not Earthlings from EastHem or WestHem. They will be men and women with legitimate claim to citizenship on this planet but they will be those upon whom Martian values were lost at some point. They will be people in positions of power of some sort, people who know how to speak to large groups, who know how to get others to do what they want them to do, to believe what they want them to believe. I could name names of such people if I wanted to — there are ten or twelve right off the top of my head I consider most likely to do what I'm about to describe — but that is not necessary for my purposes here today.

"What these people will attempt to do is form a society that benefits them and those like them to the detriment of everyone else. They will attempt to form this society out of the fear, chaos, and confusion that will follow the withdrawal of the marines from this planet. It may be one person who tries this or it may be several, acting either independently or in conjunction with each other but their ultimate goal will be to usurp power for themselves and deny it to where it should go: to everyone. They will use your fear of further war, your hopes of prosperity, and your needs to put a quiet and painless end to the conflict against you in order to achieve their goals.

"The most likely scenario I foresee is an attempt to prematurely negotiate a peace treaty with WestHem and to keep Mars tied to WestHem and EastHem economically."

There was a gasp from the crowd at Capitol Park, from most of the other inhabitants of the planet who were watching electronically. She was talking about Jack Strough! She was describing his actions months before he even began to take them!

"My greatest fear, fellow Martians, the thing that keeps me awake at night, that has put these bags you see beneath my eyes, is that you will start to listen to such a person, that you will be tempted to take what seems an easy way out of the scary, free-floating, adrift sensation you will all feel in the immediate post-revolutionary phase of our history. If you succumb to this fear, if you stray from the ideals that drove this revolution, if you allow this planet to remain tied to either WestHem or EastHem in any way other than a strict trade of goods for goods, you will eventually end up right back where we started — under corporate control, with your very lives ruled by their sacred profit margins. It may take a generation to return to this point, it may take two, but if you allow any group to take advantage of your freedom for their own means it will reinforce the negative human value of brutal self-interest and allow it to continue flourishing in human nature.

"People, this revolution was not simply about improving conditions on Mars, about getting more jobs out there, about increasing wages, or even about ending the disparity of our people. It is about freeing our people from the constraints of greed, corruption, and corporate servitude for all time! It is about coming up with a system of government, a culture, in which life is fair and just for everyone. It is about casting off the old system we've slaved under for so long and developing a new system, something unique that will ensure that fairness forever. We must develop a new way of living, adopt a new human nature, and set a course that our people can follow forever, not just for a generation or two. We must make life fair and equal and in order to do that we must disdain completely all aspects of the EastHem and WestHem system. We must remain completely independent!

"I envision a Mars in which EastHem and WestHem money is useless to us and therefore has no value to corrupt our people or influence our economic system. Our mission on this planet is to grow and produce food for the people of Earth and we must continue to do that. We must not use our food as a weapon against them, must not withhold food from them unless — as is the case now — they make war upon us. This food must be given to both EastHem and WestHem in amounts dependent upon their population and their own food production capacities, not upon what they give us in return — at least not on the basic level. Luxury item trade can be arranged but it also must be strictly goods for goods. We will pay the workers who produce this food in Martian credits at pre-determined rates.

"Right now we rely upon EastHem for hydrogen fuel — a basic staple of society in this age. That must change as quickly as possible. Within five years we must build, operate, and protect our own fuel gathering operation in the Jupiter system, or, more feasibly, in the Saturn system. This will make us completely self-sufficient for all basic needs and will remove the influence that EastHem could potentially wield over our planet. Again, we will pay the construction workers, the engineers, the ship crews, and the people who staff such an operation in Martian credits issued by the Martian government.

"Once we are completely free of both EastHem and WestHem holds on our planet we are, at that point, completely free as a people. They will have nothing they can withhold from us and we would be able to carry on without them if need be. The most important thing, however — and I don't think I can stress this enough — is that we must never accept WestHem or EastHem money and we must never let them accept ours. In order for our new government to work, in order for it to remain free and committed to its values, we must remain completely separate economically.

"That is the most important part of my vision for Mars, the part in which there can be no compromise and, unfortunately, the part that those self-centered people I mentioned will want most desperately to change. If you refuse to allow them to change this, if you stand your ground and demand complete autonomy we can have, for the first time in human history, a government that truly is for the people, a world that truly is a paradise.

"Image a world in which education is the most important, most sacred thing. This is a world where schools can be built and staffed whenever and wherever they are needed, where institutes of higher learning are free and available to whoever meets the academic qualifications to attend them. Within a generation we will become the most educated people in history. Medical advances, physics advances, transportation advances, computer advances, agricultural advances would all leap forth since — as a free and autonomous people — our scientists and researchers would no longer be held back by corporate concerns or by profit margin concerns. These advances would be made in the name of humankind, not in the name of the dollar or the pound or even the credit.

"Imagine a world where everyone who wishes will have a job, will make a decent living, will be paid in a manner that reflects their skills and experience but in which no multi-millionaires, no billionaires can exist to corrupt the government with their donations and bribes.

"Imagine a world where the government representatives themselves are scrutinized for bribes, campaign contributions, or any other form of favoritism or influence peddling, where no one has the kind of money that would even make a bribery attempt worthwhile. Imagine government representatives that stay true to the ideals of public service because they are uncorrupted, because those who are prone to corruption would not seek out the job in the first place.

"Imagine a world where there are no more corporations, where we go back to the concept of the small business owner who runs his or her own shop, his or her own restaurant, his or her own intoxicant bar, his or her own pornography distribution service. This is where those paid in Martian credits will spend them, where they will buy the luxury items that working for a living entitles you to.

"Finally, imagine a world where you can have as many children as you wish, a world in which there are brothers and sisters again, in which children grow up knowing aunts and uncles and cousins — terms that have been obsolete since the beginning of the Cold War would be commonplace again. In that world your children would have the best education in history delivered to them even in the lowliest of the public schools and then they could go on — if they qualify academically — to a free advanced education up to and including a PhD at the finest colleges in history.

"This world I am describing is within your grasp, Martians. The hard part has already been done. You have freed yourselves from WestHem. Please, I beg of you with all that I am made of, don't take the easy road now. Don't let human nature and selfishness and an ingrained belief that life is not fair turn you from your path in history at this most critical juncture. You've made yourselves free, Martians. Follow through now and make that freedom matter. Make it last. Make it an example for all humankind to live by.

"I have some basic outlines for a common sense constitution that incorporates the ideas I have just mentioned and many more. I've been working on them for most of my life. They, like the message that contained this video, have been compiled into emails and injected into the Martian Internet with specific delivery directions and dates after my death. These emails will be sent to General Jackson, and three of my most trusted legislature members who stood behind me through thick and thin since the revolution. I trust these four people to present my ideas to you, the Martian people, in my name without distortion. They will begin appearing in inboxes very soon. Please, look them over, evaluate them, consider them, and, if they seem to hold water — and I sincerely believe they do — set up a constitutional committee of legal experts, business experts, economic experts, and just plain normal people. Get these people together so they can start working to polish these ideas and then implement them.

"Don't do this for me, Martians. I gave my life to this revolution, to the hope of creating a just and prosperous and, most of all, a fair society, but don't do it for me. Do it for yourselves. Do it for your children. And do it for all the children that will follow so that they may live and grow in an existence of fairness, where common sense rules.

"Keep Mars free, people. Keep Mars free."

The video ended, fading to a blank screen. The planet remained silent for the better part of five minutes. Finally, General Jackson stepped back to the microphone.

"I have nothing to add to that," he said. "I believe the Governor made her wishes quite clear. We will proceed with the funeral now."

They proceeded. Six pallbearers, including Generals Jackson and Zoloft, picked up her casket and began to carry it. They took it through the streets, a huge crowd surging around them, most of them crying, some uncontrollably. There was very little talking. They went six blocks from the capital until they came to a small industrial building that housed a Walker's Funeral Home and Crematorium. Like most pre-revolutionary businesses on Mars, Walker's had been owned by a corporation and was the largest funeral and cremation service in WestHem with more than twenty-eight percent market share of the "death benefit insured" business. Since the revolution, all of the Walker's had been taken over and run by the fledgling Martian government.

Laura Whiting's casket was carried inside and placed on a tastefully decorated conveyer belt that ran along one wall. Per instructions in her will no Martian flag was draped over it and only one MarsGroup cameraperson was allowed inside to record her final journey.

General Jackson stepped up to the casket and saluted it, tears running freely down his face. "I swear to you, Laura," he said, "that I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes. I swear to you."

He nodded toward the crematorium technician and a button was pushed. The conveyer belt began to move. The casket was pulled inside a slot in the wall, into the cremation chamber. The combustion chamber closed. Another button was pushed. A high intensity laser flooded the chamber, vaporizing the cellulose casket in an instant, leaving Laura Whiting's naked body exposed. She was burned to nothing but a small pile of ash in less than ten minutes. These ashes would be removed and placed in an urn. Per instructions by Laura herself in her will, the urn would be placed on display in the lobby of the Martian Capitol Building "for as long as Mars remains free".

Jack Strough tried his best. He was on MarsGroup within an hour of Laura's funeral, explaining to the populace that Whiting's ideas, while admirable, were simply not feasible in the real world. "There is a precedent for the sort of economic system she is suggesting," he said. "It's called communism and it has already been proven not to work."

He expanded upon this thought over the next twenty-four hours but not many people were listening to him anymore. Not the common Martians, not the former vermin, not the current vermin, and not the working class that he'd counted as his best allies just days before. MarsGroup computers were now recording less than five percent of prospective viewers whenever he came on. Diane Nguyen, responding to a virulent stream of angry emails, was even forced to stop airing his commercials. What did show record levels, on the other hand, were downloads of the Laura Whiting video file. An incredible forty-nine million of them were requested in the hours after the funeral. For the first time in more than sixty years the Martian Internet actually slowed to a crawl it was so clogged with downloads.

January 10^th arrived — the second Tuesday. Martian voter turnout was 98.7 percent. The measure for continued autonomy received 88.9 percent of the vote.

Mars would remain free.