As they went about the task of removing the cover so they could access the main fan bearings, which needed to be replaced, Brent softened his tone a little. 'So what do you think the chances are of scoring full-time with the MPG?' he asked. 'You're in the special forces division. That's who they always hire from.'
Lon gave a shrug. 'The only real full-time positions are in training or VIP security,' he said. 'I haven't been in special forces long enough to apply for training. Jackson is real stringent about that. A minimum of six years is required before you're eligible for a teaching position.'
'That's screwed up,' Brent declared righteously.
Lon shook his head. 'I don't think so,' he told him. 'The MPG ain't like other places. You have to know what you're doing before they let you teach. I haven't learned everything there is to learn about all the stuff we do. How am I supposed to teach someone else how to do it?'
'I still think it's screwed up,' Brent insisted. 'What about VIP security though? Think they'll let you guard Whiting or the Lieutenant Governor or some of those other rich-prick politicians? Maybe they'll let you guard Jackson himself.'
'I've applied for it,' he answered, his voice far from hopeful. 'But they're a pretty exclusive clique. Jackson handpicks them himself you know. Only one out of every two hundred applicants gets picked for testing. And only one out of every ten that pass the test gets picked.'
'Well, it's a shot anyway, ain't it?'
'A little shot,' Lon replied, dropping the bolt he had just removed into the pocket of his biosuit. 'But, truth be known, they tend to take the older guys for the security detail, the ones that have been around. I've only been in the MPG for five years, and in the special forces for two years. I'm only a squad leader for god's sake.'
'It's a better chance then I got,' Brent told him. 'At least you got a hope of something to fall back on. If Agricorp lays me off I got nothing. I'll never see a payday again.'
'Well,' he told her, 'if they lay me off, I have to resign from the MPG, remember? You have to have a job in order to serve.'
Brent shook his head angrily. 'Ain't that just some shit?' he asked. 'Agricorp comes in and buys up our company and boom, our whole fuckin' lives are destroyed. They take away our job, which makes us have to leave our apartments — I been livin' in that apartment since I was eighteen fuckin' years old! We'll have to move into Helvitia or some other vermin shithole where we'll have our food given to us and we'll probably end up getting killed by one of those fuckin' street gangs. And you,' he pointed over at Lon, 'you'll have to leave the MPG. You worked for years to get into special forces and they'll make you leave just because Agricorp bought us out. And why does shit like this happen? For money! Because Agricorp wants to make more profit to send to those fucking rich pricks on Earth!'
'It's the way of the solar system, Brent,' Lon told him, trying to maintain his composure. 'It's the way of the fucking solar system. Now let's get this bearing fixed before 4:30 so we don't have to come out here again tomorrow.'
'Right,' Brent said, watching the gauge on his air supply display carefully. Getting excited certainly had not helped it any. 'Let's get it done. And then let's get our asses out of here so we can go to the bar.'
'Sounds like a plan.'
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Laura Whiting was dressed in a smart blue business dress, complete with the obligatory tie and dark nylons. It was a style of dress that was obsolete and shunned in all but political circles on Mars. Not even the most conservative of business people, not even lawyers or insurance agents wore such things anymore. Laura understood why such clothing had gone out of favor. It was horribly uncomfortable, particularly in the warm environment of a Martian city. The nylons itched her legs and the tie threatened to strangle her. The dress, though not uncomfortable in and of itself, she considered to be demeaning to all of the female gender. Dresses implied servility to men, a concept which still, even after all these years of socialization, pervaded even the highest aspects of WestHem society. Laura was grateful that no matter what else happened tonight, this most important night, this dreadfully nerve-wracking night, she would never have to wear a dress or nylons again. From this night forward she would be seen in nothing but shorts and a plain blouse.
She was in the so-called green room of the legislative chambers in the planetary capital building. It was a comfortable, friendly room full of plush furniture. Red carpet, the color of the Martian soil, covered the floor. An Internet terminal, which was wired into a service dispenser that could, for a small fee, provide fruit juices, soda, or water, sat upon an imitation wood table. The Internet terminal was blank, having been shut off some time before. The beverage dispenser was unused. She ignored the couches and chairs as well, choosing instead to pace back and forth and round and round. Her nerves were quite on edge. In a few minutes she would leave this room and walk into the chambers where, at long last, she would be sworn in as the governor of Mars.
The election had been three months before, her first attempt at high office, and she had won in a landslide. The race between herself and Governor Jacobs, the incumbent, had generated the highest voter turnout in the history of Mars, with a staggering 84 percent of the eligible populace casting ballots. This number meant that at least ten percent of the votes in this election had been cast by the welfare class, those perpetually unemployed and hopeless Martians that lived in the public housing complexes and made up more than a quarter of the population. These ghetto inhabitants, who typically paid no attention to politics and who were typically very fatalistic, had actually helped elect her. Though voting was not a difficult task to undertake in modern society — all one had to do was access any Internet terminal and Internet terminals were in every apartment and in every public building — the welfare class rarely bothered voicing their opinions when it came to planetary or federal elections. But this time a significant number of them
Now, on the night that this mandate was to take effect, the legislative chambers was packed far beyond its rated capacity. Peering out through a gap in the metal partition Laura could see her former colleagues in the legislature all in their assigned seats, all dressed in clothing similar to hers. One representative for each district of a million people. Representatives of both sexes, of all racial backgrounds, of varying ages, with only one thing in common: corporate sponsorship. All had allegedly been elected by the people but only with the say-so of the powers-that-be. The people were just the mechanism that was used to put the corporate favorite in office. All had to vote the way their sponsors wished them to vote if they wanted to continue to be elected and to collect their campaign contributions. Though the people of Mars had elected them, they did not represent them in anything more than symbolic manner. Laura planned to begin the process of changing that tonight. Would she be successful? She did not know, could not predict. But she was going to try.
Behind the suited legislature members were the public seats that were usually, when the body was in session, either completely empty or occupied by nothing more than grade-school children and their teachers. Tonight they were filled with a collection of corporate lobbyists and wealthy corporate managers; the people who had propelled her to this place, to this moment, with their support and with their money. Laura had made promises to those people, had helped pass laws for them; laws that took the money out of the hands of the common Martians and gave it over to them. Laura had been so skillful at this that most of the common Martians did not even realize they had been robbed. She was not proud of her association with such people, with such a system, but it had been necessary in order to get her where she was. It was this group that was going to receive the shock of their lives in just a few minutes now. Soon the Chief Justice of the Martian Supreme Court would swear her in. She would take her oath of office and then she would officially be the governor of the planet. She would then give her inauguration speech. It was a speech she had written long ago, shortly after the Jupiter War when this crazy scheme had evolved from a vague idea into a concrete plan of action. The speech had been modified here and there in a few places, mostly to update historical references or events, but it had survived the years mostly intact. Tonight it would be heard at last, for better or for worse.
She smiled nervously, going over the words in her mind for perhaps the hundred thousandth time. She did not want so much as a syllable to be mispronounced or stuttered.
'Are you feeling okay, Governor?' asked Lieutenant Warren of the Martian Planetary Guard. Warren was in charge of the security force that protected her. He was in his thirties and had once been a sergeant in the WestHem army. He had seen combat in Cuba and Argentina before being discharged and sent back to Mars where his extensive training had entitled him to a job as a security guard in one of the agricultural fields. His status as an employed person had allowed him to join the MPG (only those with private income were allowed to join the
