Jackson, sitting alone in his office, full of grief, in the preliminary stages of trying to plan a state funeral for the fallen governor, went into a near-murderous rage when he heard Strough's words broadcast over MarsGroup. Of all the sleazy, slimy, self-interested things Strough had pulled in the past, this was undoubtedly the sleaziest, the slimiest, the most horribly self-interested. He was actually trying to pervert Laura's dying words — that profound and heartfelt declaration — and make it seem she meant the exact opposite of what anyone with common sense would know she really meant.
Would the working class Martians believe Strough? Probably not, at least not in their hearts. But would they pretend to believe him? Would a sizable portion perhaps convince themselves in their own minds, out of a subconscious self-interest of their own, that Strough was right? Jackson thought that just might be the case. He needed to counter Strough in some way, to let the population know, in no uncertain terms, that Laura Whiting had died in stern, immovable disapproval of Strough's reconciliation goals. He needed to give a speech. He had only two days before her funeral but he needed to come up with something moving, something inspirational, something that would keep public opinion and the upcoming vote clearly on the side of righteousness. He needed to convince the Martians that Laura Whiting wanted them, needed them to be free and that to do anything less would stain her memory and lay waste to all she had accomplished for the planet.
He spent more than two hours trying to compose such a speech. He kept starting and then ultimately rejecting his efforts. He was either coming across too strong or too weak, either overstating his case or understating it. He could not seem to find the proper middle ground to occupy.
"Damn," he said, as hour number three rolled around. This was frustrating. He was a decent enough speechwriter — he generally wrote all of his own speeches — but for something of this magnitude, when the course of an entire people lay in the balance, he needed someone a little better at carving with words. He needed someone like... well... someone like Laura Whiting. Unfortunately, Laura really had no equal.
He computer terminal suddenly chimed, indicating an email had just arrived. As a public figure and the commanding general of an entire planet's armed forces, Jackson received hundreds, sometimes thousands of emails every day. He had two staff members who did little else besides sorting through this influx. Very few people, however, had his private email address, the one that delivered directly to his computer terminal in his office or to his PC. He called up the email program, mostly to give his mind something else to think about for a few minutes. He figured the email was probably from Zoloft or one of his other generals inquiring about the funeral plans he was supposed to be working on.
He looked down at the name on the sender line and his breath caught in his throat. A chill ran down his spine.
The email, sent just seconds ago, had come from Laura Whiting.
Jackson licked his lips a few times and tried to think of an explanation for this. His confusion was quite valid. Unlike in the twenty-first century, when email first became a primary method of communication, it was almost impossible in the twenty-second century for a person to use another person's email account to send a message. Every outgoing email required a voiceprint and a fingerprint verification from the sender in whose name it was being sent. Virtually the only way he could have an email from Laura Whiting was if Laura Whiting had sent it. But Laura Whiting was dead. She had been positively identified by the Eden office of the coroner using DNA matching. An autopsy had been performed on her. Currently her body was in the baggage section of a MarsTrans train somewhere between Eden and New Pittsburgh. Jackson knew that because he had made the return arrangements himself.
With a finger that trembled slightly he reached forward and touched the email icon on the screen, opening it. It was a text file with a video file attached to it. He looked at the date and saw the message had been composed on September 3, 2146, exactly three months ago. His eyes dropped to the text itself.
Dearest Kevin,
If you are reading this message then I am dead, undoubtedly taken down by an assassin's bullet. I'm writing this note now, as WestHem marines are planning to make another landing and with the ultimate outcome of the coming battle still in question, at least among most of our people, including those of you in the MPG. I, however, know that we will be ultimately victorious in this struggle. I know we will prevail on the battlefield. I am as certain about this as I am that the sun will come up in the morning, as I am that there will be dust storms in the winter. We will beat the WestHem marines without losing any of our cities and we will send them back to Earth in humiliated defeat.
I also know that a new struggle will begin after the marines are defeated, probably within days. There will be those who will attempt to destroy the unity of our planet for their own means. What is worse is that there will be a segment of our own people — weary of war and shortages — who will be willing to listen to these people. This cannot be allowed to follow its natural course. We must keep Mars free and committed to the ideals that launched this revolution in the first place.
Sadly, and with fear, I foresee my own death as well. I will not live to see the fruits of my labors. This too is as inevitable as those yearly dust storms I mentioned. I refuse to spend my life hiding behind a dense layer of MPG security forces who follow me to every errand I run, who plan out my every move in advance. I refuse this security for my own freedom even though I am a woman who has made many enemies on a planet where nearly every man, woman, and child owns a handgun. My death is coming and I accept this.
Attached to this email is a video file I made just an hour ago. It contains my final words to the Planet Mars and I want you to play it at my funeral, to let me have one last say before I'm committed to the ashes of the crematorium. I will program the computer to scan MarsGroup news files on a continuing basis. When it begins to detect news stories announcing my death then, and only then, will this email be sent to you.
Goodbye, my friend and don't grieve for me too long. I can guarantee you I died happy if I died on a free Mars.
Jackson had tears in his eyes as he read and then re-read the email. Of all the things Laura had done in the past to amaze him, this was perhaps the most amazing. She had spoken to him from beyond death. And now she wanted to speak to the planet from there as well.
He brought his finger down and touched the video file icon. The video player program automatically opened it up and began to play it. Jackson watched it all the way through, his mouth hanging open most of the time.
"My God," he whispered and then broke into a grin. "Laura... you're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
He quickly saved the email and then the video file. He made several copies of the video and distributed them to different portions of the Internet where he could easily retrieve them. He then told his computer to contact Diane Nguyen, CEO of MarsGroup.
Diane appeared on the screen almost immediately. "Hi, Kevin," she said, her own eyes a little swollen and reddened. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm doing better all of a sudden," he said. "I just got an email from Laura."