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 182nd 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 may as well not have. All it looked out upon was the office building across the street and the ones on either side. Only by standing directly against the window and looking directly upward could he see the red Martian sky. Only by looking directly down could he see the street level. His office was a place that he had rarely been in on a weekend before but the current crisis had forced him, as well as most of the other representatives, in on their traditional day of rest.
At the moment he was sitting behind his desk, staring at his Internet terminal, kissing the ass of yet another high-level ERE lobbyist, most of whom had also been called in on days off. "I understand," he was telling the suited image before him. "Believe me, I don't think any of the reps, no matter what party they're in, no matter what corporation funded their campaign, will have any problem voting for an investigation into Whiting. She's crossed way over the line. She's no longer one of us."
"That's what we thought as well," the lobbyist told him testily. "But we've already received some disturbing rebuffs from the other reps we do business with. Two of them are starting to hint that public pressure may force them to reconsider their previous stance."
"Public pressure?" Cargill scoffed, feeling nothing but contempt. "What the hell does that mean? There ain't no such thing, especially not in my district, where nine out of ten of the vermin have never earned a dollar in their lives. I'd be surprised if those ignorant animals are smart enough to turn on their Internet terminals, let alone use them to vote with. Hell, I would venture to say that most of them don't even know who Laura Whiting is or what she did last night."
"Those are our feelings as well," the lobbyist said, his Earthling accent thick and crisp. "But we just wanted to make sure that everyone that we've... helped over the years does the right thing when the time comes."
"Oh you can bet your ass that I'll do the right thing," Cargill said. "Whiting is as good as gone."
"We're glad to hear you say that," he said with a smile.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries with each other and then signed off. Once the terminal was blank Cargill sighed and opened his desk drawer, taking out a bottle of Vodka. He poured himself a healthy shot and put it in his stomach. He then lit up a cigarette and took a long, satisfying puff.
His terminal flared to life again a moment later, his secretary's face staring out if it. "Sir," she said to him, "do you have a minute?"
"Why?" he asked wearily. "Is another one of those damn lobbyists calling? How many more goddamned times do I have to reassure them?"
"It's not a lobbyist," she told him. "It's Linda. She'd like to have a word with you."
Linda Clark was his chief of staff. She was also his mistress of more than six years. "Send her in," he said, smiling at the thought of a little sexual tryst in his office.
But Linda was not interested in sexual activity at the moment. Her young, pretty face was all business as she came in through the sliding door. "Vic," she told him, "we have a problem."
"Who the hell doesn't have a problem today?" he asked rhetorically.
"It's about your constituents," she said, sitting in the chair before the desk without waiting for an invitation.
He rolled his eyes upward. "You mean the vermin? What possible problem could there be with them? As long as their Internet programs run and their intoxicant credits keep rolling, they stay in their little shithole apartments."
"They've been sending emails to you," she told him. "A lot of emails. All of them threatening recall proceedings if you vote to open an investigation into Whiting."
He was having trouble believing her. "A lot of emails from the vermin? Impossible. How many are we talking about? A few hundred? That can't possibly..."
"Try two hundred and ninety-six thousand," she interrupted. "And that's as of the last five minutes or so. They're still pouring in at a rate of more than a three hundred per minute."
"Two hundred and ninety six thousand?" he asked incredulously, sure that he had heard her wrong.
He hadn't. "That's correct," she assured him. "One hundred and sixty-three thousand came in last night, within the two hour time period following Whiting's speech. Now it seems that a second wave of them is underway. The numbers started to pick up about 10:30 and have been steadily climbing since. Of course we haven't been able to open them all — there's simply too many for that — but we've had the computer scan them all for basic content and every last one of them is a threat for recall if you vote for Whiting's investigation."