manipulative and soulless as a corporate manager, but you're not. You have a conscience, Laura and its no surprise that yours is being dinged by what is going on here. But try to keep the big picture in mind. We're doing the right thing.'
She sighed, her eyes still watching the horrifying scenes from Triad on the monitor. The camera was showing a man of about eighty. He had two bullet holes in his forehead and a puddle of brains and blood beneath him. His eyes were wide open and staring, an expression of shock and horror forever frozen upon his face. 'I'm trying,' she said. 'It gets harder every day, but I'm trying.'
'MarsGroup will be calling soon, trying to get a statement from you,' he told her gently.
'I'll be ready,' she said.
'Good.' He gave her one more brief hug of comfort and then released her. 'Keep the faith, Laura,' he said. 'My contacts on Earth tell me that a grand jury is being assembled in Denver. They seem to think it may be for you.'
'How much longer will it take if it is?' she asked.
'A week or so to assemble and investigate the jury members,' he said. 'Another two weeks or so to present whatever evidence they whipped up. I'd say that within a month they'll come looking to take you out of here. Can you hold out that long?'
'I can hold out forever,' she said. 'The question is will the people hold out that long?'
Laura gave a scathing statement to the MarsGroup channels less than an hour later. She called for an immediate independent investigation into the events on Triad and the arrest and trial of the FLEB agents that had fired on the protestors. 'Those people are common murderers,' she said, her words being transmitted all over the planet. 'They fired without provocation on an unarmed, peaceful protest against their fascist tactics. They belong in prison for what they did and if there is any justice in this solar system — something that seems more and more doubtful every day — they will be put there.'
The big three media channels downplayed the incident as much as they could. Though they were competing corporations, all three reported the story virtually the same way. Their take on the matter was that a violent group of protestors attempted to free a band of hardened terrorists that were being extradited to Earth for trial. In the ensuing scuffle the 'besieged' FLEB agents were 'forced' to fire their weapons to protect themselves and prevent the escape of violent criminals. It was reported that 'a few' people were killed or injured in the fracas. No video clips or interviews were shown and the entire segment carried less than a thousand lines of text on the print sites, less than thirty seconds of coverage on the video sites.
That evening, at 6:00 PM New Pittsburgh time, Laura Whiting gave one of her speeches. The primary topic was the Second Martian Massacre (that phrase had already achieved proper noun status among the Martians) and what she felt the reaction to it should be.
'It's easy,' she told the Martian people, ninety-six percent of whom we're recorded as watching, 'to blame the FLEB and their agents for what has happened on this planet over the past few weeks. After all, it is they who we see snatching our people out of their homes at gunpoint. It is they who are seen marching them onto Triad Naval Base for extradition to Earth. It is they who are gunning us down like rabid dogs when we protest their actions. But try, fellow Martians, to remember that FLEB tactics and responses are only the enforcement arm of the opposition against us. Somebody is commanding the FLEB to act in the way that they are and I think we all know who those somebodies are. They are not the executive council back in Denver, although I'm sure that's where the official orders originated. No, these orders came from the corporate boardrooms back on Earth, by the very people who are threatened the most by our drive for independence and autonomy.
'We've been over this before in previous speeches that I have given. I have explained to you all how these corporations and their CEOs are really the ones who rule WestHem. They rule with their money and the absolute power of corruption that it wields. They are motivated by greed and self-interest and the quest for ever increasing power. Sure, the FLEB agents are cracking down on us and cracking down hard, but they are doing it on the indirect orders of Steve Carlson of Agricorp, Brent Holland of IPC computers, Roger Fairling of MarsTrans, and a hundred other CEOs — the men and women who control ninety-eight percent of WestHem's wealth. These people have blocked our attempts at negotiation for independence with the WestHem government and they remain our true enemy in this fight.'
She looked into the camera, her expression anger. 'I believe that it is time we stop throwing ourselves at the FLEB agents. That is doing nothing but getting people killed and wounded. I believe that we should attack the real enemy and attack them in a way that hurts them badly: their pocketbook. I'm asking all Martian citizens that work for an Earth based corporation to band together in a general strike starting next Monday, four days from now, and lasting until the following Friday. That means
'I know that I'm asking a lot of you, particularly those in the blue collar class. You will not be paid for the days that you miss and you will be risking your very jobs by taking this drastic action. However, if everyone sticks together, if everyone does what I ask, unity will provide the protection you need, just as it did for the legislature when they were pressured to impeach me. A general strike of this scale will hurt these corporate Earthlings very badly even if it were just one day. If it is carried out for an entire week, it will be devastating to their productivity and their profit margin. My staff reports that they will lose more than sixty billion dollars of raw profit from being shut down for a week. This, my fellow Martians, is a language that they will understand. I propose that you undertake this general strike for one five-day period and then, if these corporations do not allow negotiations for our independence to commence, that we extend it to a two week period, and then a three week period, as long as it takes before they agree to listen to our demands and bargain in good faith for our freedom. And believe me, they will be forced to listen to us. A halt of productivity is something that they will not be able to tolerate or absorb.
'Fellow Martians, let this be our most potent weapon against the greed that is ruling us. Undertake this general strike on Monday and deliver a staggering blow to the very heart of that which controls us. You have stood beside me before when the corporations tried to expel me from my position. I ask you now to take the unity that you showed then a step further. Pass the word to everyone. General strike against the corporations! General strike for freedom and self-destiny! Show those Earthlings what we are capable of! United we stand, fellow Martians! Remain united and we will not fall!'
Lieutenant Eric Callahan was a ten-year member of the WestHem Marine Corps. He was thirty-three years old and a native of Dallas in the Texas subsection of the state of North-Southern on the North American landmass. A dark-haired Caucasian of American descent, he was handsome and superbly fit in a physical sense. He commanded the 3rd platoon of the 2nd Battalion of the 314th armored cavalry regiment stationed in Salta, Argentina sector, a mountainous, hellish part of the Earth snugged right up against the towering peaks of the Andes.
Salta, a small city of only two million, was at the center of the thickest concentration of Argentine nationalists in the northern portion of the troubled province. In the mountains to the west of the city were thousands of pockets of poorly armed and trained rebels that were willing to die in their cause to usurp WestHem rule, which, since the end of World War III, they had never accepted as being legal. The mission of the marines from Foxx Barracks, just outside the city, was not keeping Salta itself secure and under control — that was the job of the army — but to patrol and keep secure the perimeter and the outskirts. Platoon strength units regularly forged into the high mountains to seek out the pockets of rebels and eliminate or capture them. It was this mission that Callahan and the forty men under his command were undertaking now as they marched up through the foothills to the higher peaks above.
It was mid-autumn in Earth's southern hemisphere and, as such, it was the beginning of the rainy season. A constant drizzle fell from the leaden sky above, the drops little more than a mist but steady enough and thick enough to require the camouflage rain gear. Callahan was marching near the center of the formation, his M-24 held at ready, his heavy combat boots squelching wetly through the mud and pine needles of the terrain. He, like all of the men, wore a Kevlar helmet upon his head and a pair of combat goggles upon his face. Thick Kevlar armor, heavier even than that which police officers wore, adorned his chest and upper abdomen. The armor was covered by web gear that contained a combat computer, several fragmentation grenades, and extra sixty round magazines for his rifle. He had no rank markings of any kind upon him and had instructed his men not to salute him or give any other indication that he was the man in charge lest the rebels single him out for a sniper's bullet. The targeting recticle of his combat goggles bobbed up and down with each step that he took, the range display changing
