Greenies

college. Even so, their quarters had more than a thousand square meters of living space available to them: an unthinkable amount on a planet where construction costs were five times that on Earth. Their entire bottom floor consisted of nothing but an entertainment room where politicians and lobbyists and other corporate heads could gather for black-tie parties. A state of the art sound and video system, complete with the latest holographic theater set-up, and a full service wet bar larger than those found at O'Riley's and made of genuine polished oak imported from Earth were the features of this floor. There was also a huge picture window that looked out on the edge of the city, giving an impressive view of the contrast between the barren wastelands of the surface and the modern steel and glass building of the inhabited area. On the second floor of the suite were the servant's quarters, kitchen area and secondary bedrooms, areas where Smith and his family rarely, if ever, ventured. On the top floor, which was also the top floor of the building itself, were two master bedroom suites complete with private baths and sunken Jacuzzi tubs and two complete office suites, one for Smith to work in and one for his wife to organize her charity events and plan her parties in. Smith's office was naturally the larger of the two. It featured a picture window that looked out on the financial district of Eden and it's many towering high-rises — including the Agricorp building itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Connecting,' the computer told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The computer had been programmed not to reply to commands such as that, just to do it. The screen flicked