Mendoza knew all this. He said, “Actually, it’s still possible to rig elections. We have a parliament in the Philippines—it doesn’t have much power, but it exists. And when election time rolls around, you’re doing pretty badly for yourself if you can’t collect at least a new TV, or a share in a car, in exchange for your vote. In other words, the candidates buy voters, who then cast their votes legitimately.”
“Shocking.”
“It’s illegal, of course.”
“In the UN, that would be a felony. Why are we even talking about this?”
“Exactly,” Mendoza nodded. “So we’re back to polling. That’s the only way to influence …”
Lorna cut him off. “No. No, Mendoza, it isn’t. As it happens, Dr Hasselblatter’s greatest weakness is that he’s using a creative consultancy based here on Luna.”
“Oh, yeah, that was one of the things I noted for you.”
“And I may, or may not, have a friend who works there.”
Mendoza put down his fork. The rich tiramisu suddenly sickened him.
“So here’s what I’m thinking. Hasselblatter has no idea how to run an election campaign. It’s not as if he’s ever had to do this before. So he’ll do whatever his pricey consultants tell him. And they … will do what we tell them.”
Mendoza toyed with his dessert fork. “You mean you want to sabotage his campaign?”
“We.” The flinty look was back in Lorna’s eyes. He obviously knew exactly what he was saying. “We are going to sabotage his campaign.”
Mendoza nodded jerkily. Everything he’d done for Lorna so far was legal. This …
Would be a crime.
I’ll be a criminal. I’ll be in Lorna’s power forever. It did not occur to Mendoza that Lorna would also be in his power. The difference in status between them was too great.
“I’m not sure,” he started.
But Lorna suddenly grinned and waved his hands. “You could have fun with this. You’re good with graphics. So let your imagination run wild! Give me ideas, images, talking points, animations, that’ll be exactly what the voters don’t want. Keep it within the bounds of plausibility, but the wackier, the better.”
Mendoza shook his head. He pushed back his chair. “No. Sorry, sir, I’m out of here.” He added, gesturing at the remains of their meal, “How much do I owe you for this?”
“Sit down, Mendoza.”
“I can’t …”
Lorna stood up. “OK. OK, fine. Let’s take a walk.”
★
The largest open space in Wellsland was Heinlein Park. At this hour of the evening, the park teemed with dog-walkers, teenagers on spring-loaded stilts, and tourists anticipating the rise of the fake Earth in the fake sky. Lorna steered Mendoza into the botanical garden, a jungle of ferns, eucalyptus, and ancient cycads. The first bench they came to already had a couple on it. So did the second. They meandered on. A rat darted across the path.
“Holy crap, did you see that?” Lorna said. “I’m going to report it right now.”
“There are rats where I live, in Nightingale Village,” Mendoza said. He did not mention that some people nuked and ate them. It made a change from nutriblocks.
“That sucks. We don’t want them in Wellsland. You know, people import them as pets. A couple escape, and you’re screwed. That’s what happened to Wrightstuff, Inc.” Lorna slanted a searching glance at Mendoza.
“Isn’t that the company that owns most of Mercury?”
“Not ‘most’ of it. Some of the best bits at the north and south poles. And their claim is legally dubious. But yeah. They have hundreds of thousands of colonists in those polar craters.”
“Hundreds of thousands!”
“I know, right? You never hear about that. They’re crammed in, and they have a rat problem, as I said, which is actually the least of their problems. It’s a marginal existence. But Doug Wright—the guy that runs the company, fifth-generation CEO—he’d like to claim the whole planet. He wants nothing more than to declare Mercury independent, and raise the Stars and Stripes again.”
“The Stars and Stripes … that rings a bell.”
“It should. It was the flag of the United States of America, which once colonized your country. That’s where Wrightstuff, Inc. came from. They fled to Mercury when the USA fell apart.”
“Huh.” Mendoza was thinking, God, I hope Elfrida doesn’t get mixed up with these people.
“So, Doug Wright wants to reboot the USA. That’s just crazy stuff. But regardless of his neo-nationalist aspirations, he’s a good guy.” Lorna paused. “A good friend.”
“OK …”
Lorna stopped on the path. It was full dark now, and the tree ferns blocked out the lights from the buildings around the park. Mendoza took a step back, instinctively wary.
“What’s your take on the PLAN?” Lorna said.
Mendoza thought: What Fragger1 said. But spouting that kind of macho rant in public could get you locked up, not to mention that it would have sounded stupid coming from him.
Anyway, the truth was simpler. “I had a sister. The PLAN whacked her on her first voyage to the Belt. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Collateral damage. So yeah, I feel kind of strongly … I don’t like the PLAN at all.”
Lorna nodded. “I’m sorry about your sister. I wasn’t going to bring it up. But thank you for telling me.”
“Most people don’t even think about the PLAN,” Mendoza said. “There’s nothing they can do about it, so they block it out.”
“Tell me about it! But when you’ve been personally touched by evil, you can’t ignore it anymore, right?”
“No. And then there was 4 Vesta.”
“Yeah. I’m involved with the Dasein Institute—that’s the team of scientists studying the Heidegger program—and I can personally testify that the PLAN is the worst threat humanity has ever faced. It is actively trying to destroy us. And what are we doing about it? Not counting—actually, counting Star Force patrols? Fuck-all.”
Mendoza licked his lips. He found himself in the unfamiliar position of agreeing 100% with Derek Lorna.
“This can’t go on,” Lorna said. “Or rather, it can go on, until it stops. That’s the worst case scenario. The plain truth is that we need to take action against the PLAN, and I mean military action, now.”
They walked on along the bumpy path, fronds brushing their knees. Mendoza understood now why Lorna had chosen this route. This wasn’t the kind of conversation you could have in a trattoria. Weirdly, it felt more dangerous than talking about ways to illegally influence elections.
“Does this tie in with what we were talking about earlier?” he said.
“It sure does. I didn’t mention it before, but now I feel like I can trust you.”
No, Mendoza thought, you feel like you have to tell me the truth or I’ll walk away. But he was willing to listen, and he inclined his head affirmatively.
“My friend Doug Wright feels the same way we do. And he’s willing to contribute the resources of Mercury to fight the PLAN. If we win the election.”
“Wait, what about the Phase 5 ramp?” Mendoza said. “The resources of Mercury are earmarked for that.”
Lorna shook his head. “I know you’re an UNVRP guy. But what’s more important: maybe successfully terraforming Venus, many years from now … or fighting the PLAN, today?”
“Well, when you put it like that …”
“Right? So, now do you understand why I asked you to help out with the election? Angie’s our girl. She has to win. And that means Dr. Hasselblatter has to lose.”
“I understand,” Mendoza said, and fell silent.
“Are you worrying about your girlfriend?”
Mendoza nodded.
“I won’t lie to you. After Angie wins, and Doug raises the flag, there might be some posturing to and fro. Star Force has a garrison in orbit around Mercury, and who knows, they might even see fit to lob a missile or two. I’m convinced the UN will let Mercury go w
ithout a real fight. They won’t have any choice … but it might be a wee bit hairy for a while.”
That sounded worse than hairy. Mendoza had to find some way to get in touch with Elfrida and beg her to leave Mercury right now.
“But there’s this,” Lorna said. “The sooner Dr. Hasselblatter drops out of the race, the sooner he’ll leave Mercury. And I guess he’ll take your girlfriend with him.”
“Not her,” Mendoza said. “If there’s trouble, she’ll be like a moth to the flame. She’s the kind of person who helps people.”
“So, we need to make sure there isn’t any trouble.”
Still Mendoza hesitated. Lorna was asking him to betray UNVRP. He’d be helping Lorna and his friends to take UNVRP over from the inside, and deliver Mercury to the wingnuts at Wrightstuff, Inc. He’d be wrecking his own career.
But.
Was his career really so all-fired important?
Lorna had answered the question of what was missing from his life.
Revenge.
“Can I think about it?” he said.
In the dim light, Lorna looked frustrated. “Fine, fine, but think fast.”
★
PINOY56: Hey, I just wondered if you have a minute.
Mendoza was accessing All-We-Know-About-Mars/secret.cloud from his BCI while he rode the Victoria Line. A big no-no. But he couldn’t wait until he got home. He had to know if he could trust Derek Lorna or not.
FRAGGER1: Sure, what’s up? BTW that was some great survey data you posted a while back. Any more where that came from?
PINOY56: No, sorry. I just wanted to ask
FRAGGER1: From the Hope Center for Nanobiotics, right?
Crap. How had Fragger1 figured that out? Mendoza realized all over again what a risk he’d taken, posting that stuff. And how right Father Lynch had been to tell him to quit these forums. Something else to feel guilty about. As he typed, another chat bubble from Fragger1 popped up.
FRAGGER1: Maybe they aren’t doing any more surveys.
PINOY56: Yeah, but Mars is moving into opposition to Earth, so you’d think that now is the best time. But maybe they had budget issues.
FRAGGER1: HAH! It’s the HOPE Center for Nanobiotics. They’re the second-richest family on Luna. They don’t have BUDGET ISSUES.
PINOY56: OK, that actually ties into
FRAGGER1: Technical issues, maybe.
PINOY56: what I wanted to ask you. You know your manifesto about taking the fight to the enemy?
FRAGGER1: YEEEEAAHH! Frag em!
PINOY56: Guess that’s why your handle is Fragger. But let’s get technical for a minute. If you were going to implement your dream campaign, what would you need?
FRAGGER1: A lot of money.
PINOY56: Obviously, but what about resources? You talked about a new-tech fleet of fighter-bombers. Could you build that with just the resources we have here on Luna?
FRAGGER1: Oh, you’re on Luna, too? Nice to meet you.
PINOY56: Dude, you already knew that from the latency. He never could tell about Fragger1: was the poster a smart guy playing dumb, or a dumb guy who occasionally said smart things?
Fragger1’s next bubble tilted Mendoza’s opinion towards smarter-than-he-wants-us-to-think.
FRAGGER1: About the resources, the answer is no. First off you need steel. Lots of high-quality steel. We don’t have that here, and we couldn’t procure it without raising red flags. Remember this all has to happen under the radar, because our DEAR LEADERS in the UN get panicky at the thought of people taking their survival into their own hands instead of relying on Star FARCE. So even if you had all the necessary resources, you couldn’t manufacture the ships on Luna. I’m not even sure it would be possible, regardless. We don’t have the heavy industrial capacity anymore. It’s all gone out to the Belt and Midway, where you can legally automate instead of having to hire expensive spaceborn labor.
PINOY56: What about Hope Space Industries?
FRAGGER1: Dude, that’s a design house. They outsource all their manufacturing to their partners on Mercury.
PINOY56: Mercury?
FRAGGER1: Sure. There’s a reason they call Mercury the factory of the solar system. Actually, if you wanted to build my fleet, that would be the place to do it. They’ve got the shipyards, the supply chain, everything.
PINOY56: That’s really interesting. Thanks, Fragger1.
FRAGGER1: No problem … Hey. Looks like you just logged out.
Mendoza had left the forum. He had found out what he needed to know. The plan Lorna had sketched out was not only feasible, it was obvious to anyone who had thought deeply about the issues involved. He emailed Lorna, as the funicular climbed the dark side of Malapert Mountain: ~I’ll do it. Will start tonight.
★
Back in All-We-Know-About-Mars/secret.cloud—a barebones sim hosted on a private server in Luna orbit, where anonymous avatars stood around a bulletin board collaged with newspaper clippings—a new chat bubble appeared over the head of Fragger1, visible to no one, any longer, except himself.
FRAGGER1: It’s uncool to leave without saying goodbye, Pinoy56 … a.k.a. John Mendoza.
★
Once he started, Mendoza got sucked into the new project. He decided to create a full-blown sim that Dr. Hasselblatter could use as a campaign freebie. He worked through the night, went to the office, and kept working, fueled by coffee and trail mix.
He had found his original inspiration in the works of an early futurist, Kim Stanley Robinson, but his own creativity swiftly took over.
In the future—Mendoza proposed—a city would run on rails around the equator of Mercury, staying just ahead of the lethal sunrise. The city would boast a rollercoaster, a quidditch arena, a public swimming pool, and several parks. He added scenery along the route, in the form of landscape art and opportunities for corporate sponsorship (“Your Logo Here”). He extrapolated the outlines of a future Mercurian economy based on tourism. He added a sheen of sociological proof using statistical modelling. You could explore the whole thing in 3D. It was mapped to the actual geology of Mercury.
He also added a few easter eggs. It was a risk, but Elfrida was on his mind, and he wanted to give her a little wink. So he created some jizo statues, like the ones at temples in old Japan. Elfrida was half-Japanese; maybe she’d be interested enough to take a closer look. And if she did, she’d see his name carved on the bases of the statues, very small.
His signature would also serve as a back-door into the sim, if he needed to make any tweaks in future.
Finally, he faked up some authentic-looking datasets to give the impression that all this was based on voter feedback. The people of Mercury want MOAR ART. The whole thing was superficially plausible, and sublimely ridiculous.
It took him forty-eight hours, including two all-nighters. Cross-eyed with exhaustion, he sent it to Lorna on Saturday morning, and went to sleep.
★
A ping from Lorna woke him an hour later.
“You, my friend, are a genius. I freaking love it.”
The relief was shaming. “Hope Dr. Hasselblatter loves it, too,” Mendoza mumbled.
“Oh, he will, if his consultants tell him to. Now we just sit back and wait for the solar system to bust a gut laughing.” Lorna sounded gleeful at the prospect. “Abdullah-dallah won’t win the UNVRP directorship, but he’ll be in the running for Faceplant of the Year. These pols!”
Mendoza stifled a yawn.
“There are just a couple more things I need you to do. Those voter feedback datasets? The consultants say those are great. A really convincing touch. So if you could send over the polls they’re based on …”
“There aren’t any polls. I—I faked them.”
Lorna let out a bark of laughter. “Naughty, naughty! But don’t sweat it. Just fake the polls, too.”
Mendoza recalled a UN statute he had recently looked up—the one that forbade ‘interference with the process of a poll, survey, census, or election, or fraudulent m
isrepresentation of the results of the same’—and the penalty for violating it: a minimum sentence of five years. He rolled on his back and stared at the stiffened fabric of the ceiling. Usually when he was home, he had his iEars on. Now he could hear his neighbors arguing. It was like living in a cardboard box.
“Is there a problem?” Lorna said. “You don’t have to do the polls, of course. Just describe your random sampling method and put together some graphs of the results.”
“OK.”
“When you’re done with that, come out to my place. You’re off today, right?”
“Right.”
“Then come for dinner. Bring the polls in physical format. In fact, we’d probably better not use use email from now on.”
So even Lorna thought it wise to take precautions at this point. Mendoza could guess why he’d mentioned email specifically. Voice calls, like meatspace conversations, could only be captured by the local surveillance systems. Email, on the other hand, might get routed through servers off Luna, which meant it could be read by anyone, such as the UN’s widely-feared Information Security Agency (ISA).
Mendoza stretched out his legs. His toes touched the far wall of his apartment. He pushed, testing the give of the fabric, feeling trapped.
v.
“Look at that!” Lorna exclaimed, pointing up at the sky.
Mendoza’s sleep-deprived reactions were slow. He saw nothing except the black lunar night.
“An intercept! That was absolutely an intercept.” Lorna blasted to his personal feed, which Mendoza had running in his HUD: “The Precision Orbital Risk Management System network just saved us from another meteorite.” He added to Mendoza, “It only takes one strike, you know. If the impactor was big enough, it would be like dropping a nuke on one of these domes. You wouldn’t even survive long enough to die of anoxia.”
The Sol System Renegades Quadrilogy: Books 1-4 of the Space Opera Thriller Series Page 98
