Greenies

ranting speeches to their respective representatives in the legislature, most slurring their words quite badly, a few forgetting what they were talking about and having to revise, but everyone gleefully having their say. Major Chin himself, who had neglected to send an email of his own because of fears of repercussion from his employer (not an unreasonable fear, he was about as high on the corporate ladder at Alexander Industries as a person of Martian birth could climb), took one last pipe hit and then stood up on the table to compose his message. This started a trend among the other members and soon every table had someone standing on it and reciting a rambling, often obscene message to their local politician.

All of this revelry soon attracted attention from the other side of the establishment, where the WestHem regular marines were drinking and smoking. In WestHem culture the Marine Corps were considered an elite group of fighting men, the most respected and revered in the armed services profession. In a society with nearly thirty percent unemployment it was deemed a great honor to be allowed to join the marines and usually such appointments were given to those with family connections or those who scored extremely high on the ASVAB testing and the physical agility exam — a test that was grueling indeed. Though the majority of the marines in the bar were either enlisted rank or NCOs, they were all well built specimens of masculinity and all had been trained in various techniques of hand-to-hand combat. They also tended to be arrogant, almost bullying types that had little respect or regard for their Martian counterparts.

A particularly large squad sergeant was the first to foment the confrontation between the two groups. He had been stationed on Mars, which he considered a shithole, for nearly two years now and he hated everything and everyone that had been born on the miserable rock that they called a planet. And now, just as the football game piped to the bar's Internet screen was starting to really take shape, the ranting and yells coming from the tables on the other side of the room was drowning out all of the sound. He stood up and said a few words to the group of sergeants and corporals around him. They stood up and walked with him to the nearest table where a young MPG private of the armored cav — a man who had been 'killed' early in the day when his APC had been blasted by a Mosquito — was just finishing up his email to his representative. Without saying a word the marine sergeant walked up to the table and kicked it over, sending the young private crashing to the ground and causing his PC to smash to pieces.

'What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?' demanded a drunken MPG lieutenant who had been sitting at the table. He stood and stepped up to the hulking marine where the top of his head came to approximately shoulder level.

'I'm quieting you fucking greenies down,' said the sergeant. 'You're getting on my goddamn nerves.'

'You don't like it?' the MPG lieutenant told him. 'Go drink somewhere else then.'

The marine sergeant's eyes burned into him. 'Why don't you and the rest of these little pretend soldiers go somewhere else,' he countered. 'This is a bar for real fighting men, not a bunch of greenie want-to-be boy scouts whose mommies let them out once a week to jerk off on their tanks.'

This junior high school level insult had little effect on the Martians in the room. They were used to such comments from the Earthlings that lived on their planet. It did seem to cause quite a bit of hilarity among the marines however. They laughed as if this was the wittiest thing they had ever heard.

'Look,' said the MPG lieutenant, 'why don't you just stay over on your half of the bar and we'll stay on ours. We don't bitch at you when you start cheering and throwing shit at the terminals because of some sports game, so why should you...'

The marine sergeant put his hand on his chest and pushed him backwards, sending him crashing into the young private who had been picking up the pieces of his shattered computer. The marines behind and around all broke up into another round of derisive laughter at this spectacle. Immediately the men that served in the insulted lieutenant's platoon jumped to their feet, their hands balled into fists, ready to do battle. They moved in on their targets. The moment the other marines saw this, they began to move in as well. Though the numbers were pretty much even on each side, the marines were much bigger than the MPG members. There was little doubt what the outcome of a battle would be.

'Stand down!' a Martian accented voice shouted from behind the MPG members. It was voice with unmistakable command in it. It belonged to Major Chin. The MPG members, hearing it, all stopped in their tracks, whether they were members of Chin's chain of command or not.

'What's a matter with the little pussy greenies?' asked the marine sergeant in a baby voice as he saw them halt. 'Don't wanna fight the real men? Afraid you might hurt your little hands?'

'Remember our prime directive, people,' Chin said. 'It applies here as much as it does on the battlefield.'

It was exactly the right thing to say. The prime directive of the MPG, penned by General Jackson himself, was: Pick your fights carefully, try not to get hurt, and never fight face to face if you could avoid it. The MPG were sneaking, sniping cowards and proud of it. The MPG members all turned their cheeks and walked back to their seats. The lieutenant and the private picked themselves off the floor and dusted themselves off. They swallowed their pride and began righting their table. Though the marines tried to get another rise out of their quarry, they found themselves ignored. Soon they went back to the bar and started watching the game again, confident that they had bested their enemy.

Vic Cargill had been elected as the representative of district 38 for the past three terms. Though he was responsible for a district of one million Martian citizens, just like every other representative, he had the dubious honor of having the lowest voter participation on the planet three terms running. This was because the vast majority of his district encompassed the huge Helvetia Heights section of Eden, a horrid, squalid ghetto that he had never actually set foot in. Had his district encompassed only Helvetia Heights it was entirely possible that he, or anyone else for the matter, would not have received even a single vote to put him into office. The ghetto inhabitants simply did not vote. But the people that had drawn the district boundaries had been smart enough to extend district 38 just a little bit into the adjoining downtown neighborhood, allowing it to include several upper-end and lower-upper-end housing complexes. It was in these complexes that Cargill himself lived and it was from these complexes that all of his votes came — less than a thousand of them in the last election.

Cargill was basically a minor league player in the great political game that was Martian politics. He was a second generation Martian and a first generation politician, encouraged to go into the business by his father, who was an upper management partner in a semi-prestigious law firm. Vic's main sponsor in his political career was Equatorial Real Estate Holdings, a multi-billion dollar corporation that had made its fortune by developing, purchasing, and constructing housing units in the Eden and Libby areas. In Eden ERE boasted a 22 percent share of the upper and middle income housing market and a whopping 45 percent share of the government compensated housing market (in other words: the welfare apartments). Vic's job, as one of their mules, was to push through and vote on laws that helped increase the amount that the Martian government would pay to house 'disadvantaged' people in ERE apartments. It was a job that he had done fairly well since his first term. He and the other politicians owned by ERE had already managed to increase government rent responsibilities by two percent in the last session alone. This success had led to increased campaign contributions and increased 'gifts' from his grateful sponsor.

Cargill had naturally been as shocked and horrified as any other politician when he had heard Laura Whiting's speech the night before. This had not been because he liked or respected Whiting. On the contrary, Whiting was in the opposing political party and she was also sponsored by Agricorp, a corporation whose interests were in opposition to ERE's. After all, if the government paid more money for welfare housing for the vermin, that meant there was less money available for the vermin to spend on Agricorp products. Whiting and her other Agricorp sponsored chums had killed several of his bills in committee in the past, actions that always angered the ERE lobbyists that controlled his life. No, the reason Cargill had been so horrified at the events of the previous night had not been personal, they had been professional. The thought that any politician would get up before a live audience and tell them what the political game was really like, the fact that she would denounce all politicians as corrupt and living only for their sponsors, that was what was offensive. The public simply could not be told things like that. True, most Martians knew these things anyway, but she had legitimized these thoughts, had confirmed them. Even if ERE lobbyists from all levels on the ladder had not been emailing and conferencing him non-stop since the speech had ended, he still would have been a prime mover to get that bitch out of office.

He was in his own office now; a small rented space on the 182^nd floor of a low-rent downtown office building. He had a window, something that only about a third of the offices in this building featured, but he