Greenies

effects of the dopasynthamine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled at the cameras, a conspiratorial smile. 'I don't think I really have to tell you all where it goes,' she said. 'I'm sure you all know just as well as I do. We Martians are, as a culture, blessed with healthy common sense, with keen minds. We are, after all, the descendants of those who left poverty and despair on Earth, who gave up their home planet to come here and forge a new reality. The vast majority of that money, that 230 trillion credits, is sent back to Earth. Some of it is given to the WestHem government as taxes. Some of it goes into the pockets of WestHem executive council members and congressmen as political contributions. But most of it, perhaps sixty percent, goes to rich corporate stockholders; people who have never even been to Mars and consider our planet to be an unsavory though valuable possession. These are the people who are raping our planet, who are keeping us in poverty. These are the people who are the enemy of Mars. And these people are the ones that we need to be free of.'

She looked meaningfully into the camera now, a serious, sincere expression upon her face. 'You, the people of Mars, have elected me to a four year term as your governor. I have just taken an oath of office that makes that position official under our constitution. Now, as your duly elected and sworn representative, I will share with you what has been my goal the entire time, what has been my dream. It is my desire that — with your consent — we strive to make the Planet of Mars completely independent from the government of WestHem within the year.'

The booking area of the downtown police substation was its normal, chaotic self. Located just inside the back door of the facility, near a fenced in parking area for patrol carts, the intake waiting lounge (as it was called) contained more than two dozen teams of police officers from all over the district, all of whom had at least one and in some cases as many as three, prisoners with them. The prisoners waiting to be processed were sitting on a long plastic bench that ran the length of the far wall, their hands all cuffed to metal rings that were installed every meter. They were a motley collection of criminals, all very dangerous looking, most of them accused of fairly serious crimes since people generally were not arrested and hauled in for mere misdemeanors. The officers with them were gathered in the center of the room on plastic seats that had been put in for this purpose. Every ten minutes or so a haggard looking booking officer would emerge through the sliding door at the other end of the room and call out a prisoner's name. The officers guarding him would then release him from the bench and accompany him inside where