"That's where you're wrong," he replied firmly, with all the zeal that an eighteen year old could muster. "I will not have any kids while I live here, while I don't have a job. I won't bring a kid into this life."
Jeff started laughing, almost spilling his grass out of his pipe. "You kill me sometimes," he said. "Is that why you voted for that stupid bitch Whiting? You think she's gonna get you a job?"
"Probably not," Matthew admitted. "But she seems... oh... different than the rest of them somehow. She caught my attention. She says she'll help the welfare class out."
"Yeah, she's going to take the money away from Agricorp, who owns her, and give it to us. She's gonna get us jobs picking tomatoes out in the greenhouses. You don't really believe that crap, do you?"
"No," he admitted. "She's probably just smart enough to tell us what we want to hear so she can get votes out of us. After all, no one else has ever tried to tap the ghetto vote. But if she went to all the effort to touch bases with us, the least I can do is take the time to log on and vote for her. Hell, it only took me five minutes and it didn't cost me nothing. Why shouldn't I have done it? And maybe if more of us vermin did that, we'd have a little bit more of a voice."
"A voice?" Jeff chuckled, shaking his head once again. He handed over the pipe that he had just filled. "Here," he said. "Feed this to your voice."
Matthew took the pipe and applied a disposable lighter to it, taking a large hit. The knowledge that the intoxicants were being provided to him by the planetary government as a calming measure did not stop him from imbibing. What the hell else was there to do? As always the cheap grass, which was mostly stems and seeds, burned his throat and lungs. But if you smoked enough of it there was a pleasant buzzing effect, particularly on top of the effects of the Fruity.
Ten minutes later they were pleasantly intoxicated. The pipes and baggies of marijuana had been stowed in their pockets and the bottles of Fruity, now empty, had been tossed aside onto the grass. The two friends leaned back and watched a group of younger Capitalists a few tables over. They were squabbling over whether they should go down to the tram station and try to score some pussy or head down to the border area and try to clash with some members of the rival 63rd Street Thrusters. Matthew was of the opinion that their time would be better spent pursuing the first option — he was a firm believer in the philosophy of sex before violence — but he kept his feelings to himself.
"What you doing?" Jeff asked as he saw his friend remove his personal computer, or PC from his pocket. "Gonna check your stock reports?"
The PC was a small device that everyone over the age of ten or so — ghetto class or not — carried with them at all times. It was a wireless communicator and Internet access machine. It was used for all financial transactions and for identification purposes. Matthew unfolded his and turned it on. The screen lit up with the opening display. "I'm gonna watch the inauguration ceremonies," he answered. "See what kind of bullshit she promises us."
Jeff looked at him in for a moment, convinced that he was joking. Finally, reluctantly, he was forced to conclude that his friend was serious. "You're shittin' me," he said. "You're actually going to watch a politician get sworn in? You're going to watch that?"
Matthew shrugged, stubbornly refusing to be embarrassed. "Why not? What the hell else is there to watch? She'll be on every channel." He looked at his screen and spoke to it. "Computer, give me broadcast media mode," he said. "MarsGroup primary."
"Making connection," the pleasant, sexy voice that he had programmed the PC with replied. "Connection active. Enjoy your show."
"Thank you, baby," he told it, peering at the eighty-millimeter screen before him.
Jeff watched all this in wonder. Now he had seen about everything. His friend was truly ready for the nuthouse. He had not only voted for a politician but now he was watching her on Internet. Actually watching a political swearing-in. "Tell me the truth," he said. "You got the hots for this bitch, don't you? You wanna fuck Laura Whiting."
"Oh yeah," he answered sarcastically as the face of a MarsGroup reporter graced the display. In the background could be seen the podium where the ceremony would shortly take place. "I'm really into women that are the same age as my mom. They make me horny as hell."
"Whiting's never been married has she?" he asked next, looking over Matthew's shoulder at the screen in spite of himself. "You think she's a lesbo? I bet she munches the old carpet."
Matthew shrugged again. "So what if she does?" he asked. "The best thing could happen to us is to get some politician up there who hates men. After all, men are the ones who run all the corporations that fuck all of us over. Maybe she'll get rid of them and replace them all with ball-busting women."
"An all lesbo ruling class?" Jeff said, smiling as he imagined the possibilities of that. "Now that's something I'd vote for."
The stage was hot beneath the overhead spotlights as she stepped onto it in her high-heeled shoes, a serious expression upon her face. She shook hands with her future Lieutenant Governor, a shallow, career politician like herself who was owned by MarsTrans and Tagert Steel Refining. It was no secret among those on the inside that he and Laura were bitter enemies. Not only were their sponsors competing companies but they were not even in the same political party. Laura wondered what her second in command was going to think about what she was about to do. Undoubtedly he would attempt to take political advantage of it and force her from office. Would the drive to remove her gravitate around him? If MarsTrans and Tagert Steel had their way it would. But what would Agricorp do? Would they try to form a quick alliance with him? This seemed a likely possibility.
Outgoing Governor Ron Lee, who was enjoying his last five minutes of high office, shook her hand next. He greeted her warmly and introduced her to the audience, smiling graciously and congratulating her just as if he hadn't attacked her viciously on the Internet during his campaign, accusing her of everything from sexual perversion to money laundering for dust dealers. She accepted his congratulations without bitterness. Lee was no worse than anyone else in this business. He had just been doing what everyone else did to win. It was the system that encouraged such things, not Lee himself. What would he think about what was about to transpire? Had it ever occurred to him to use the office for the ends that she was about to, even fleetingly? Probably not.
The Chief Justice of the Martian Supreme Court delivered the oath of office to her. He was a wizened, gnarled old man of ninety-three that had been appointed to the court nearly thirty years before. Once the terror of those who dared challenge the rights and privileges of the agricultural corporations or their subsidiaries, he was now quite senile, his duties having long since been taken over by senior members of his legal staff. His role in the ceremonies was kept as brief as possible to avoid having anyone notice that their lead justice barely had the mental capacity to tie his own shoes. He had been grilled continuously with his lines and shot up with dopasynthamine, a powerful neurological drug that would give him momentary clarity for the broadcast.
"Repeat after me," he told her, his voice barely audible though, of course, it would be magnified by the directional microphones for the broadcast. "I, Laura Whiting..."
"I, Laura Whiting..." she said, holding her right hand up while her left rested upon her heart. She found herself looking a rivulet of drool running from His Honor's mouth and trying not to giggle at the ridiculousness of this production.