credits at a pre-determined rate. These credits are issued by the government and are used to buy food and housing and luxury items from the government. They represent nothing more than credit for a day's work. With these credits you can buy food supplies that are better than what is issued to those without jobs. You can pay for upgraded housing, vacation trips, luxury items. Everyone who has a job will be paid these credits and, unlike our current system, it will be a constitutional requirement that we, as a society, do everything that we can to make sure that everyone who wishes a job has one. No more layoffs because of mergers, no more elimination of positions just because the profit margin is slipping. We will put an end to profit margins with this system, an end to them for all time.'
O'Riley's Bar was a moderate sized chain that was owned by DrinkCo Beverages Corporation, which was in turn owned by Agricorp. O'Riley's specialized in alcohol and marijuana service and had more than sixty 'pubs' as they were known in company documents, throughout the city of Eden. Their target customers were the working class and in Eden they estimated that they had more than thirty percent of the 'away from home, modestly employed, intoxicant using market'. Their pubs all looked the same and all were located in strategically placed locations — on the bottom floors of commercial buildings near the industrial tram stations. Brent Shimasaki and Lon Fargo were sitting at the bar in O'Riley's pub number E-24, which was located in the basement of the Westcity shopping complex — a seventy story building six blocks from the Agricorp maintenance shed. It was a favorite watering and smoking hole for the former IFP employees who were now Agricorp employees. It was a place they had gathered in with increasing frequency over the last month since word of the impending 'reductions in force' had started to circulate.
Two bartenders were currently on duty along with two servers that carried drinks or bongs to the various tables. All of the employees wore the standard green uniform of O'Riley's, a get-up that would be recognized the solar system over — from Sau Paulo to San Francisco, from Eden to Standard City to Triad. The bar itself looked exactly the same as every other. It was a standard twenty-one meters long with barstools placed every meter. Constructed of molded plastic designed to look like oak, it was easily installed and easily cleaned with wet, disinfectant soaked cloths. When it reached the end of its useful service life (usually six years according to company statistics) it was easily removed and replaced by another. The carpet on the floor was also standard throughout the chain. It was a dark beige (designed to be pleasing to the eye but to avoid staining and grime, therefore extending its useful service life) patterned with small green four-leaf clovers. Above the bar were two large Internet screens, purchased via corporate contract from Laslow Electronics — an Earth based manufacturer whose large screen Internet receiver factory was located in New Pittsburgh, in the high latitude region of Mars. Laslow small screen multi-purpose terminals — which could be used (for a small fee) by bar patrons for communications — were located at each end of the bar.
This particular O'Riley's, like most of the other 2346 pubs throughout the solar system, was usually a very noisy place in the early evening hours. On this particular evening however, the large crowd was staring raptly at the Internet screens in disbelief as Laura Whiting gave her inaugural address to the planet. The only utterings from the blue-collar workers assembled to watch her were the occasional comments on the more outrageous of her statements.
'Paid in credits?' Brent said in disbelief. 'What kind of shit is this bitch spouting? What the hell does that mean?' He was currently on his second rum and coke and had just finished taking his third hit of the potent greenbud that O'Riley's was known for (it was grown in Agricorp greenhouses). As such he was flying quite high and complex ideas such as a society not based on greed and money were a little difficult for him to grasp.
'She's talking about pulling us free of the restraints put on the working class by capitalism,' said Lon, who had only smoked one hit and was still on his first drink. 'It's brilliant, if it can be made to work.'
'It's communism,' said Tina Yamamoto, an apple juicer repair tech and a former lover of Lon's. 'When the state owns everything and pays the workers out of its own coffers, it's called communism. The Russians, the Chinese, and the Cubans all tried it back on earth. It doesn't work. The system leaves too much open for abuse of power.'
'Oh? Like we don't have that here?' Lon shot back. 'Besides, it's not necessarily communism she's talking about here. It could be just a form of socialism. And that did work in several countries before World War III.'
'Yes, but...' Tina started.
'If you two would shut the fuck up,' interrupted Stacy Salinas, another juicer tech, 'we'd be able to hear just what she
They shut up and watched, growing more fascinated as Whiting continued.
'The how's and why's of getting this system up and operating,' she told her audience, 'is really not the important thing right now however. I have some loose plans drawn up on paper that I have worked on over the years and I will present some of these ideas to you in the coming weeks during regular addresses to the planet. After independence is achieved, we will appoint scholars and others to form a constitutional committee to pound out the specific details of the plan. What
'You got that shit right,' Brent snorted, signaling the bartender for another bonghit.
'But what those corporations and their puppets in the WestHem government need to understand is that there is no reason for us Martians not to be independent. No reason except for their wishes and their greed and their profit margin. We are self-sufficient people and we deserve to be independent of their rule. If all Martians stick together and work for this goal together, one way or another, we will be independent within a year. I guarantee it and WestHem is simply going to have to accept it. It is my suggestion and my hope that the WestHem authorities appoint a committee for immediate negotiations on just how our goal can be peacefully brought about. I think that our goals and their sacred profit margins can be mutually exclusive. You see, Mars already produces the majority of the food supply for WestHem and the Jupiter colony. We would be honor bound to continue to produce that amount and ship it to them if they negotiate our independence in good faith. The labor needed to produce this food will be paid to Martian workers in Martian credits by the new Martian government. The food itself will be given to WestHem in straight exchange for the one commodity that we do not produce here: fuel. No money will be exchanged in this deal, making Martian credits useless to WestHem and WestHem dollars useless to Mars. But production will go on as always and Agricorp and the other corporations that currently own everything on Mars will still be able to sell this food to the WestHem people at normal prices.'
'Would that work?' asked Jeff Creek of his friend, Matt Mendez. Both of the former gang members and current members of the hopelessly unemployed, were staring at Matt's PC intently, having gotten much more than they'd bargained for by watching the inaugural address. Despite his former apathy and doomsaying, Jeff found himself intrigued by what this politician was spouting. True it was probably nothing but a mental breakdown in progress, but it sure sounded good while it was occurring.
'If it's done right,' Matt replied, his mind trying to find holes in the theory and failing, 'it would work just fine. The Martians buy goods and services from Mars using Martian money, which they are paid by the Martian government for working. Since Mars owns everything and isn't trying to make a profit, prices can be fixed since supply and demand does not depend on outside sources. Even though most of the food production that occurs is to export to Earth or Jupiter, there is no drain on the Martian economy because they are not on the same system of currency as we are. We produce food for them and exchange it for fuel. What they do with the food is their business. What we do with the fuel is our business. As long as we don't depend on them for anything else, it'll work!'
'Static,' Jeff said, shaking his head in admiration. He started loading up another load of the garbage grass from his bag. 'Its too bad WestHem will never let it happen. They'll send the fuckin marines here before they sign Agricorp and those other corps over to us.'
Matt nodded sadly. 'I believe you've got a point there,' he said. 'But it's a nice concept anyway, ain't it?'
They went back to watching.
William Smith, at the age of fifty-six, was hands down the richest man on the planet Mars. The CEO of Agricorp's Martian operations, he lived in opulent splendor in a penthouse suite that took up the 217th, 218th, and 219th floors of the most exclusive housing building in the city. He and his wife and three servants were the only one's currently living there since their two children (exceptions to the one child per female ratio were available to the very wealthy) were back on Earth attending
