by Dani Kollin
As Justin saw the congressman from Eris out the door, he allowed himself a moment to decompress. He knew that a crisis just as bad as this one was probably just another day away. This one wasn’t quite as bad as what had occurred between a Sednian and a Jovian battle cruiser only three days earlier, but it ranked up there. One day at a time, he had to keep reminding himself. One day at a time. He would not fail his new country. He’d lead them to safety and a better future—no matter the price.
We will lose a long war, thought Justin to himself for the umpteenth time as he stared down at the planet below. Even on the flagship of the O.A. fleet Justin felt ill at ease. True, the ship and the fifteen others she rode with were a testament to the ingenuity of the techheads at the Gedretar shipyard in Ceres, particularly Kenji Isozaki, the chief engineer, who’d apparently pissed off the wrong executive at GCI and had, as punishment, been sent to Ceres. An unassuming man, Kenji had turned out to be a certifiable jury-rigging genius. He’d proposed an idea that was so simple Justin had accepted it on the spot: Don’t build a fleet; improvise one. And that’s exactly what the O.A. had done. What Justin found himself flying in couldn’t really be called a ship, more like a large mine hauler retrofitted with added living quarters, fusion generators, and, according to Kenji, some “big-ass” rail guns. The guns, Kenji had explained, had originally been slated for use in a Jovian mining operation. That they were now being pointed toward the inner core rather than the outer planets was of no consequence to the intrepid engineer. He’d been given a task and over the course of a year went about completing it. Accordingly, the enemy had a fleet as well. A lot more formidable, Kenji had explained, but by no means invincible. Justin’s spies in the corporate core had confirmed Kenji’s suppositions and had informed the President that the corporate core had at least twenty true warships in ser vice, with more on the way.
And that was why Justin had decided to attack.
Though it was still referred to as the Red Planet, little of the iron oxide that had caused the planet to rust and, ergo, appear red remained. Instead, what Justin looked down upon was a planet that in many respects resembled Earth, Mars’s far bluer cousin orbiting roughly fifty million miles away. Earth was bluer by virtue of having more water, but Mars was greener. Much greener.
The Mars Justin remembered from his first life had not only appeared bright red in the night sky but, according to the data at the time, had also had an average surface temperature of minus 81 degrees Fahrenheit, with extremes that ranged from a balmy 75 to minus 100. But this new Mars had no such extremes. One could walk freely, albeit a little more lightly, on the planet’s surface by virtue of its 0.38 Earth gravity. The planet’s day was twenty-four hours, thirty-seven minutes; its axial tilt allowed it to enjoy seasons; and the amount of sunlight that reached Mars, less than half that of Earth, was sufficient for photo-synthesis.
Mission one had been to make the thin Martian atmosphere more robust. To do that the early colonists had to first rebuild the atmosphere and then heat it. Here nanotechnology came to the fore. Trillions of microscopic machines swarmed the planet, freed up the permafrost layer, liberated the oxygen molecules from the rocks and dirt, prepared the soil for biologicals and plant life, and released CFCs into the atmosphere, creating a green house effect. The plants then did their duty by releasing copious amounts of oxygen into the emerging atmosphere until a more Earth-like equilibrium had been reached—all within seventy-five years.
Though everyone in the O.A. preferred to dig in rather than build out, Justin, like his Terran cousins he was now coming to attack, still harbored dreams of creating other Earth-like planets somewhere out in the belt. It was impractical to be sure. The vibrant, productive, and fast-growing belt community had proved the folly of waiting for terraformation. Why wait seventy-five years for a verdant planet when a reasonable alternative could be created in ten? Sure, there’d be no sky to look up to and centrifugal gravity to deal with, but those were small considerations when the possibility of exploiting and enriching oneself from the innards of an asteroid came into play.
Surprise had been easy to achieve. It helped that the asteroid belt essentially began at the orbit of Mars. The original plan offered up by his naval command had been to simply circle the planet a few times, show the O.A. flag, and leave. But Justin wanted a greater triumph. He was going to capture a borough, or something suitably large, and then hold it for as long as possible. Shortly thereafter he would stage the greatest rescue in the history of the human race.
“Sir,” said a bright young ensign, “the landing party has reported. All resistance on the northern plateau has ended.” Justin turned around and realized that the information had not been directed at him but rather to the new acting Admiral of the O.A. fleet. Admiral Sinclair turned to Justin. “Mr. President, if you still insist on going down to the surface, now is as good a time as any. However, I must once again caution you against it.”
A half smile parted Justin’s lips. “Admiral, we’ve been through this. I thank you for your concern. But revolutions get led from the front. Let the politicians and corporate executives stay on Earth and send others to do their dirty work. In the Outer Alliance everyone fights, everyone takes risks. Especially your President.”
“But sir,” said the young ensign standing next to Sinclair, “if we lose you we may very well lose this war.”
Justin looked around and saw that the comment had elicited a fair amount of agreement.
“But not going will guarantee our failure.” Justin then turned to Admiral Sinclair.
“Do you have children, Admiral?”
Sinclair was taken aback. “Seven, sir.”
“Have they joined the fleet?”
“Five have,” answered the admiral. “My youngest, Adrianne, is only eight, and my wife is pregnant.”
“Is my life more important then theirs?” asked Justin.
“Sir, that’s not the point.”
“Admiral, that’s the only point. For too long value was placed on life by how many shares you owned or had owned by others; no more.” Justin paused for a moment. “By the way, Admiral, what percentage of yourself do you own?”
“Now? One hundred percent.”
Justin turned around the command room as he asked the other officers assembled, “And you?” He was greeted with a chorus of, “Hundred,” and, “All.”
Justin nodded approvingly. “Your children are the most important thing in your life and,” he said, turning back to Sinclair, “I may have to order your children into a situation that will get them permanently killed. It’s the worst part of this job and I can’t shirk it. But at least they’ll know … you’ll know, and everyone in the Outer Alliance will and must know, that I accept those same risks or I cannot give or expect anyone to follow any orders. So yes, I’m going down to the surface, and that, Admiral,” Justin said with a sly grin, “is an order.”
“Mr. President,” Sinclair answered, shaking his head, “you have an annoying habit of getting your way.”
Justin laughed. “You should talk to my wife. She’s proof positive that I don’t.”
“She’ll be fine, sir,” replied the admiral, knowing full well that Neela was on the surface of the planet at that very moment. She’d gone down as a combat medic with a group of ground assault miners. Justin had initially tried to bar her, but she’d used the same arguments on him in private that he’d just used on the crew.
Justin smiled awkwardly and left the command room for a t.o.p. to the surface of Mars and his prize.
2 Corporate Core
One year earlier
New York, Earth
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Hektor Sambianco was nervous. No, he thought to himself, … anxious. He was standing on a hover disk thirty feet above ground level in Colonization Park in the middle of New York City. The disk was encircled by a clear rail and afforded the new Chairman a 360-degree panorama of the bustling crowd gathering below. Just beneath him was a thick globular mist that covered a soon-to-be-revealed statue. The air was clear and cool. Hektor was wearing a moderately expensive seven-piece suit, a tri-tie, and leather cowboy boots that he’d personally shined to a gleam. This was to be his first public event since becoming the Chairman of GCI, and he knew just how important it was. His anxiety had nothing to do with stage fright, a fear he’d overcome long ago in his steady march up the corporate ladder. Nor did it have to do with the fear of acceptance. The crowd knew Hektor from his media-saturated days as Director of Special Operations and over the course of many ups and downs had grown to love and accept their stalwart leader. But it was different now. Now he was the Chairman and the incorporated world was curious to see if he’d become The Chairman. And the crowd was vast. As big, if not bigger, noted Hektor as he meticulously rehearsed his opening lines in his head, than the one Justin Cord addressed not that long ago.
The event itself was trivial—the simple unveiling of a statue and the renaming of a park. Under normal circumstances Hektor’s presence, even as Chairman, should have drawn a crowd in the tens of thousands and certainly not in the numbers now stretching as far as the eye could see. But Hektor knew that neither his ascendance, the statue, nor the park’s renaming was the real reason for the swelling multitudes. The real reason could be found in the crowd’s baser instincts. They were scared. And Hektor was going to use that.
A large light, covering the entire underbelly of his hover disk, flashed a series of bright colors and then slowly pulsed down through a series of solid colors until it came to a stop at a luminous green. The audience was brought to silence through a series of hushes that flitted through the surrounding area like a soft wind through leaves.
Hektor looked out at the mass while firmly grabbing the top of the rail. He then leaned slightly forward, made sure to look around once more, and began what he felt was to be the most important speech of his career.
“My predecessor …,” he bellowed, more for effect than need, “was a great man. The Chairman, and that is how …” Hektor feigned choking back his emotion. “… and that is how I will always think of him, was the finest example of the incorporated system.”
The crowd broke out in applause. Hektor waited for it to subside before continuing.
“His rise from the penny stocks to the pinnacle of respect and power is … without precedent. So it is altogether fitting that we dedicate this statue to him. And it is also just that this park be renamed for him. Because he was The Chairman the park will henceforth be named Chairman Park.”
There was another series of polite applause. This, the current Chairman knew, was not what they’d come to hear. Still the conventions must be observed.
“The sculptor asked me how The Chairman should be posed. Being a true artist, he of course listened carefully to what I had to say, asked many questions, and then … did what he wanted.”
Hektor waited for the smattering of laughter to die down.
“I’d wanted him putting away his spacer uniform and picking up his executive case, symbolizing his decision to leave the world of space in order to enter the world of business. But the artist chose better, I think.”
Hektor pressed a button on a small console and the opaque bubble surrounding the statue slowly began to fade. When the field reached total visibility there was applause, proper and formal, and some whistles and shouts of approval. The statue showed The Chairman leaning over a rail, staring intently in much the same way as he’d stood in the Beanstalk overlooking his vast dominion. In truth, the pose was exactly what Hektor had asked for, but he felt there was no harm in letting the world believe he was more flexible than not.
“This,” he continued, “is how The Chairman looked when viewing the Earth from the top of the Beanstalk. It was something he did often while running the affairs of GCI and the world beyond: gazing intently at the world he loved so dearly.”
Hektor smiled sadly and with a deep but not obvious breath began to impart what he’d really come to say and what the crowd had truly wanted to hear. “What world would he see if he could view it today? A world safe and content? No. A world where the fear of war and destruction was only a holovision nightmare out of the past, a thing argued about by historians in dusty halls? No. A world where humanity, all humanity, had been united and where no one looked at his neighbor in fear and distrust? Again, no. He would see no such world. He would see the world created by Justin Cord. A world of theft and fear and the permanent division of humanity into warring halves and thirds and quarters and more and more little fractions until just one of those little fractions could cause the deaths of countless humans. It is not surprising that Justin Cord would like this world; after all, it’s the one he came from. But it’s so very sad that this deluded and dangerous man could fool so very many others into following him along his doomed path. How is it that this one man can lead billions of our fellow compatriots into war and rebellion against their mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters? How,” he asked, once again looking around his podium at the riveted crowd, “did we end up here?”
Hektor paused to let his last question sink in. He saw that it had the desired effect. It was a question everyone had been trying to articulate in the weeks of rapid change. The year Justin had been awake had been the most frenzied any of them could remember. But the weeks since The Chairman had died had brought riots and destruction on Earth, what could only be characterized as a civil war on parts of Mars, and the outright rebellion of most of the colonies from the asteroid belt outward. From most reports it was obvious that all major points of civilization past the belt would become independent.
“I’d like to tell you that the worst is over,” continued Hektor. “I’d like to tell you that even with all the mess out in the belt and on Mars it’s not really our problem. I’d love to say that it’s going to be alright. At best the Belters are as optimistic as parents during a child’s first IPO.” This brought a smattering of laughter, as most could recall hearing about how someone’s child was going to be the greatest and they should “buy now” and then of course those parents saying the exact same thing when it was time for their child’s IPO.
“I would,” continued Hektor, “but I can’t. That would be lying and I won’t lie to you. The truth is … Justin Cord will not stop. He cannot stop until he’s destroyed the basis of our civilization and restored his own. He cannot stop until the human race is divided and at each other’s throats. He must destroy our soul. He must destroy incorporation.”
A chorus of protest lifted from the mass. Hektor waited and then nodded his head gravely. “But he must! He knows that an incorporated humanity is the best defense against hunger, strife, ignorance, and tyranny. If incorporation is allowed to exist anywhere, it will eventually triumph everywhere. Mark my words, people. He will come to Mars and he will come to Earth just like he went to the belt. And just like he did in the belt, he will destroy us.”
Hektor had to once again wait for the angry tirades and shouts to subside before continuing. “Oh, maybe not now. Now he’ll probably proclaim his wish for peace and trade, but it will only be to bide his time. It will only be to build up his strength and in a generation or two the rebels, the thieves, the pillagers of profit and property will be back to ensure that humanity stays locked in darkness and misery for centuries to come.” He
ktor could feel the anger building steadily in the crowd. He wanted it to build, needed it to.
He pointed to the statue. “This man knew what Justin Cord was. He knew what he represented. He was preparing to deal with the so-called Unincorporated Man and save us all the misery we’re currently experiencing. For his knowledge and his desire to save us he paid with his life. Is it any coincidence that on the very day he died Justin declared his revolution?” Hektor now heard cries for Justin’s head in various iterations, not all of them civil. So confident was the new Chairman of what his speech would elicit that he’d ignored the pleas of his assistants to have plants in the crowd. They were as angry and focused as Hektor wanted them to be and knew that the entire system was now also getting the message.
“Well,” continued the Chairman, “I promise you this. Justin Cord will fail.” The crowd cheered wildly. “I will not stop until the system of incorporation is once more the protective bond that unites the whole human race. It will not be easy and of our generation much will be asked, but for the sake of our children and our children’s children it’s a small price to pay.” Hektor felt stealing that line from Justin would be the perfect insult. “We must not fail. We will not fail.”
As Hektor lowered the hover disk the crowd surged forward shouting his name over and over until it became a deafening roar. The new Chairman made his exit from Chairman Park surrounded by securibots but with a wide enough cordon to manage a few clasps and hugs. As he piled into his personal flyer, protected from the prying eyes of the crowd and mediabots, a smile slowly revealed itself. It has begun.
Irma Sobbelgé waited in Hektor’s office; the Chairman’s office, she had to remind herself. It had been a week since the speech, as it was now being referred to, and only a few days since getting a call from one of his assistants asking if she’d take a meeting with, “the boss.” Shortly thereafter she found herself in his office. Irma realized, as she looked over and out the window from the top of the Beanstalk, that she’d unconsciously taken the same position as the recently unveiled statue in Chairman Park. It does make the world seem like your own private possession, she thought. She looked out toward space and wondered where Michael was. He’d also been invited to the meeting but would not be in attendance. She couldn’t help remembering why.
