"It's the way of the solar system, Brent," Lon told him, trying to maintain his composure. "It's the way of the fucking solar system. Now let's get this bearing fixed before 4:30 so we don't have to come out here again tomorrow."
"Right," Brent said, watching the gauge on his air supply display carefully. Getting excited certainly had not helped it any. "Let's get it done. And then let's get our asses out of here so we can go to the bar."
"Sounds like a plan."
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Laura Whiting was dressed in a smart blue business dress, complete with the obligatory tie and dark nylons. It was a style of dress that was obsolete and shunned in all but political circles on Mars. Not even the most conservative of business people, not even lawyers or insurance agents wore such things anymore. Laura understood why such clothing had gone out of favor. It was horribly uncomfortable, particularly in the warm environment of a Martian city. The nylons itched her legs and the tie threatened to strangle her. The dress, though not uncomfortable in and of itself, she considered to be demeaning to all of the female gender. Dresses implied servility to men, a concept which still, even after all these years of socialization, pervaded even the highest aspects of WestHem society. Laura was grateful that no matter what else happened tonight, this most important night, this dreadfully nerve-wracking night, she would never have to wear a dress or nylons again. From this night forward she would be seen in nothing but shorts and a plain blouse.
She was in the so-called green room of the legislative chambers in the planetary capital building. It was a comfortable, friendly room full of plush furniture. Red carpet, the color of the Martian soil, covered the floor. An Internet terminal, which was wired into a service dispenser that could, for a small fee, provide fruit juices, soda, or water, sat upon an imitation wood table. The Internet terminal was blank, having been shut off some time before. The beverage dispenser was unused. She ignored the couches and chairs as well, choosing instead to pace back and forth and round and round. Her nerves were quite on edge. In a few minutes she would leave this room and walk into the chambers where, at long last, she would be sworn in as the governor of Mars.
The election had been three months before, her first attempt at high office, and she had won in a landslide. The race between herself and Governor Jacobs, the incumbent, had generated the highest voter turnout in the history of Mars, with a staggering 84 percent of the eligible populace casting ballots. This number meant that at least ten percent of the votes in this election had been cast by the welfare class, those perpetually unemployed and hopeless Martians that lived in the public housing complexes and made up more than a quarter of the population. These ghetto inhabitants, who typically paid no attention to politics and who were typically very fatalistic, had actually helped elect her. Though voting was not a difficult task to undertake in modern society — all one had to do was access any Internet terminal and Internet terminals were in every apartment and in every public building — the welfare class rarely bothered voicing their opinions when it came to planetary or federal elections. But this time a significant number of them had. They had turned on their terminals, accessed the voting software, identified themselves with a fingerprint and a voice analysis, and cast their vote for governor. That was an encouraging sign for what was to follow. A very encouraging sign.
Now, on the night that this mandate was to take effect, the legislative chambers was packed far beyond its rated capacity. Peering out through a gap in the metal partition Laura could see her former colleagues in the legislature all in their assigned seats, all dressed in clothing similar to hers. One representative for each district of a million people. Representatives of both sexes, of all racial backgrounds, of varying ages, with only one thing in common: corporate sponsorship. All had allegedly been elected by the people but only with the say-so of the powers-that-be. The people were just the mechanism that was used to put the corporate favorite in office. All had to vote the way their sponsors wished them to vote if they wanted to continue to be elected and to collect their campaign contributions. Though the people of Mars had elected them, they did not represent them in anything more than symbolic manner. Laura planned to begin the process of changing that tonight. Would she be successful? She did not know, could not predict. But she was going to try.
Behind the suited legislature members were the public seats that were usually, when the body was in session, either completely empty or occupied by nothing more than grade-school children and their teachers. Tonight they were filled with a collection of corporate lobbyists and wealthy corporate managers; the people who had propelled her to this place, to this moment, with their support and with their money. Laura had made promises to those people, had helped pass laws for them; laws that took the money out of the hands of the common Martians and gave it over to them. Laura had been so skillful at this that most of the common Martians did not even realize they had been robbed. She was not proud of her association with such people, with such a system, but it had been necessary in order to get her where she was. It was this group that was going to receive the shock of their lives in just a few minutes now. Soon the Chief Justice of the Martian Supreme Court would swear her in. She would take her oath of office and then she would officially be the governor of the planet. She would then give her inauguration speech. It was a speech she had written long ago, shortly after the Jupiter War when this crazy scheme had evolved from a vague idea into a concrete plan of action. The speech had been modified here and there in a few places, mostly to update historical references or events, but it had survived the years mostly intact. Tonight it would be heard at last, for better or for worse.
She smiled nervously, going over the words in her mind for perhaps the hundred thousandth time. She did not want so much as a syllable to be mispronounced or stuttered.
"Are you feeling okay, Governor?" asked Lieutenant Warren of the Martian Planetary Guard. Warren was in charge of the security force that protected her. He was in his thirties and had once been a sergeant in the WestHem army. He had seen combat in Cuba and Argentina before being discharged and sent back to Mars where his extensive training had entitled him to a job as a security guard in one of the agricultural fields. His status as an employed person had allowed him to join the MPG (only those with private income were allowed to join the planetary guard — the WestHem congress and executive council had stubbornly insisted upon this as a condition of inception). His previous experience had allowed him to be assigned to the special forces division where he had gradually worked his way up to the security detail and one of the coveted full-time, paid positions in the guard. Like all of the security force that watched over high officials, General Jackson had handpicked him personally for the detail and he had been subjected to intense training. He was a very loyal, very competent leader with a knack for his job. He was also one of the few people besides General Jackson himself and a few close, sympathetic friends that knew what was about to happen.
"I'm fine, Mike," said Laura, who insisted on calling those close to her by their first names. "I'm just fine. Thank you for asking."
Warren nodded, looking a little nervous himself. He was dressed in the standard indoor MPG uniform of red shorts and a white T-shirt with the Martian flag on the breast. Over the T-shirt was a Kevlar armor vest that was capable of stopping handgun fire. He had a 4mm sidearm strapped to his belt and an M-24 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. A helmet with a headset sat atop his head and a pair of combat goggles, which were linked to the combat computer/ tactical radio system, were covering his eyes. In the goggles he would be able to see status reports of his troops, maps of the location they were in, and other pieces of vital information superimposed over the display. The goggles gave him an almost insectile appearance but Laura had long since gotten used to that. "Don't you worry about a thing, Governor," he told her. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."