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GreeniesChapter 27D free porn video
MarsTrans Intercity Passenger Terminal
January 3, 2147
1123 hours
"Look at all these fucking people," said Lisa Wong as she stared at the crowd that had gathered to see Laura Whiting off. "This is a goddamn security nightmare."
"I can't believe she actually announced on MarsGroup what time she was leaving," said Horishito, who was standing next to her, posing as her husband on this particular assignment.
Both of them were wearing frumpy civilian clothes — Lisa a pair of loose fitting blue shorts that hung nearly to mid-thigh and a looser-fitting tan shirt that covered her stomach and did little to display her respectable physique. Hoary was wearing similar clothing. The effect was to make them look like God-freaks — those ultra-religious Martians who still subscribed to the ancient Earth myths. This was just the cover they were looking for on this assignment. God-freaks were a small minority in the Martian population but could be seen through all walks of life. They were hardly noticed by the live-and-let-live Martian majority, usually uncommented on if they were noticed. The frumpy clothing of their disguises served two purposes. One, it hid the bulging muscles, ultra-flat stomachs, and toned thighs that marked them as special forces members. Two, it hid the communications gear and the 3mm pistols that were strapped to their waists.
They had been pulled out of their training regiments in order to act as a secret service of sorts for Governor Whiting, who was apparently in the habit of walking around in public without her own security detail. Governor Whiting did not know they were here. She did not know the other twelve special forces members — commanded by newly promoted Lieutenant Lon Fargo — were here, some disguised as other God-freaks, some disguised as terminal janitorial staff. The numbers had seemed adequate when they'd come out, this despite the fact that Whiting, in an interview on MarsGroup after her meeting with the agricultural workers, had actually announced she would be taking the 1150 train to Proctor, staying overnight there, and then meeting with the Proctor agricultural workers as they went on shift the next day. Fargo had figured that a crowd would show up to see the Governor in person but he had not figured on the more than five thousand that had actually arrived. After all, it was a workday and most Martians these days were employed, weren't they?
"This is insane," Lisa said, trying to squirm her way forward through the crowd toward the departure platform, Hoary hanging onto her left hand. They were still over thirty meters from where Whiting now was, and aside from Lon himself, who was disguised as a MarsTrans customer service technician and had worked his way to within actual sight of her, the closest of the operatives. "None of these people have been screened for weapons, not even superficially. They just walked right in. Any one of them could be carrying anything on them."
"It's like Governor Whiting has a fuckin' death wish or something," Horishito agreed. "Is Eden PD still on their way to augment us?"
"Lon said they have some of their own undercover officers already here," Lisa said. "They've got more on the way. They at least have some experience with this sort of thing since they protect the mayor."
"They need to find some way for us to coordinate with them and let us know where their officers are and visa versa. We might end up shooting at each other if we spot weapons."
"Shit," said Lisa. "I didn't even think of that. Why don't you call Lon about that while I keep pushing us through the crowd?"
"Right," Horishito said. "I'm on the motherfucker. Maybe we can all get on the same channel."
Lisa pushed forward, using her strength to squirm between groups of Martians, to twist in and out, to propel herself toward the loading platform where Laura Whiting was being mobbed. Horishito, holding onto her hand and speaking circumspectly on his radio, followed close behind, slipping into the gaps she created. The Martians gave way reluctantly, many of them saying things like, "go read your bible, freak!" or "we don't need to be saved, Laura's already saved us". Lisa uttered a few Jesus loves you's in order to maintain their cover and kept on pushing on.
Meanwhile, less than twenty meters away, another person was pushing forward as well, just as intent — if not more — to position herself close to Laura Whiting. That person was Belinda Creek and she had watched the news broadcast of Whiting meeting with the agricultural workers earlier this morning because it had pre-empted her soap operas. She had seethed with hatred as she'd gazed upon the face of the person she blamed for all of her recent woes. Laura Whiting had started this so-called revolution, putting an end to the lifestyle she'd grown up with. Laura Whiting had seduced her husband into military service to support her revolution, changing him from the man who would give her a child and a larger apartment to a man who had divorced her, who had turned her in to the police for profiteering, who had contemptuously thrown her away like a piece of garbage. And then the booze and the cigarettes — Belinda's main focus in life — had dried up because of Laura Whiting's revolution, leaving her twisting and seizing on her bed, sending her through the hell of withdrawal, nearly killing her. And now Laura Whiting had done the most hated thing of all. She had secured a fresh booze supply for Mars, had secured high-grade tobacco, but she was denying it to Belinda just because she didn't want to get a job! That was the cruelest, most vicious thing she'd ever imagined. Belinda couldn't even get marijuana anymore, all because of that cursed welfare reform law Laura Whiting had come up with.
She pushed forward, not gaining ground as quickly as Lisa and Horishito but moving relentlessly closer all the same. Finally she got to within ten meters, was able to see that hated face in person for the first time. Her resolve solidified as the fury surged through her. Until this moment she had not really been sure she was going to carry through with her plans. Now she was sure. Laura Whiting had to die. She had to die for everything she'd done to Belinda's ordered and structured life.
She felt the cheap pistol that was in her pocket, reassuring herself it was still there. She checked to make sure the safety was off. She then pulled her hand out of her pocket so she would not arouse suspicions. She pushed on again. A line of people had formed before Whiting, their purpose to shake her hand and say a few words to her. Belinda pushed herself into the line and began to move with it. She was thirty people back, moving forward at an average of one person every fifteen seconds.
Lisa and Horishito had managed to work themselves to within sight of Laura by this point. They stood hand in hand on the forward edge of the surging crowd, their eyes tracking over everyone within ten meters of the Governor. There were just too many people for them to give any one person more than a cursory examination. Both of them looked at Belinda Creek, but neither lingered on her for more than a second. Neither had time to notice the way her eyes were flitting back and forth, the way her teeth were chewing nervously on her lower lip, the way she was wringing her hands over and over, trying to keep them from reaching into her pocket prematurely.
"This is a fuckin' joke," Horishito said. "There are too many people here. How in the hell are we supposed to do anything? What are we even looking for?"
"Her luck has held this long," Lisa said. "Hopefully it'll hold through today as well."
"Fuckin' aye," Horishito said, looking at his PC to get the time. It was 1130. "Boarding for the train has already started. She'll probably wrap this shit up in another minute or two."
Laura Whiting was, in fact, planning to wrap this shit up even as they spoke. She had shaken hundreds of hands, talked to hundreds of people, been hugged and mobbed and even kissed a few times. She was weary and knew it was time to get on the train and hopefully catch an hour or so of sleep on the trip to Proctor. She had actually opened her mouth to tell the crowd that she was sorry for not talking to all of them but she had to go. And then she spotted the woman in the handshake line. She was a dirty blonde, her hair unwashed, her eyes bloodshot, her nose with the scattering of burst capillaries that denoted a chronic alcoholic. Laura did notice the flitting of the eyes, the wringing of the hands, the nervous, determined look on her face. She also noticed the slight bulge in the woman's right pocket — a bulge that could have been a make-up case or a PC or a marijuana case. Laura suspected, however, that it was neither of these things. She suspected it was a gun. She decided to stay a bit longer, smiling at the next person in line, receiving his thanks and his gratitude graciously, just as she'd received everyone else's.
The woman moved closer, person-by-person, her eyes locked looking everywhere but at Laura's face, her posture becoming more and more tense. Finally she was the next in line. Laura talked to the person in front of her, accepted a kiss on the cheek, and then wished him a good day. She told him to vote for independence. He promised her that he would. The man stepped to the side, allowing the woman to step forward. Her eyes were now locked onto Laura's face, a mask of hatred plainly showing now. Her hand dropped into her right pocket.
Laura smiled at her. "You're doing your planet a great service," she said. "And you don't even realize it."
The woman actually paused, confusion furrowing her brow as she tried to digest these words. Laura actually feared for a second that she wasn't going to go through with it. But then the hatred came back. The woman opened her mouth. "I got your fuckin' revolution right here, you cunt!" she yelled. The hand came out of her pocket. There was a gun in it.
The gunshots were shockingly loud on the crowded platform. Belinda had time to fire three times before the shocked bystanders surrounding her tackled her to the ground and stomped on her wrist, forcing the gun from her hand. All three of the hyper-velocity, hollow-point bullets struck Laura Whiting in her unprotected torso. They tore through her flesh, one ripping a hole in her ascending aorta, one destroying her left lung, the last exploding her liver and her hepatic artery. She staggered two steps backward and collapsed, the smile still on her face.
"Motherfucker!" Lisa Wong screamed, her own gun instantly in her hand. She rushed forward, pushing members of the crowd aside until she was kneeling next to the fallen governor.
Laura Whiting's eyes were still open. She was still aware. She looked at those around her and then, loudly and plainly, she said: "Keep Mars free, people. Keep Mars free."
She took a few more ragged breaths and then she faded. By the time the first dip-hoes got there four minutes later, she was dead.
No less than a dozen people heard her final words. Every one of these people reported these words to the MarsGroup reporters who wanted to know every last detail from every last witness. These words were broadcast across the shocked and mourning planet in every possible medium. They appeared on MarsGroup news sites, were told by weeping anchors during news shows, were repeated person to person.
"'Keep Mars free, people, '" General Jackson quoted as he cried for his friend during a press conference just twelve hours after her death. "'Keep Mars free.' With her very last breath in this life, she spoke those words plainly and for all to hear. That was her dying wish, her dying decree to the people of this planet. I don't think I have to tell anyone what she meant by that."
But Jack Strough thought that he needed to tell everyone what she meant. "It seems obvious to me," he opined — with a straight face no less — "that our revered governor, a woman we all respected deeply and loved passionately, in her dying moment, realized that a negotiated peace is the only way we can truly keep Mars free. That is the only explanation for why she uttered those dying words. One seriously doubts that a woman dying of multiple internal hemorrhages would have wasted the last of her energy telling us to 'Free Mars, people... ' if it did not indicate a sudden and perhaps divinely inspired reversal of her previously stated position on the matter — a position that she was, in fact, out campaigning for at the time of her death."
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."
"Excuse me?" she said.
He explained it to her and even sent her a copy of the text portion. "You can print that up whenever you want. The video will remain in my possession until her funeral."
"Can you give me at least a summery of what's in it?" she asked hungrily, itching for more of the story.
"No," he said. "I won't breathe a word of it until her funeral. Then the whole fucking planet can watch it."
"Can I quote you on that?" she asked.
"Fuckin' aye," he told her.
Jack Strough did not know what was in the video Laura Whiting had made three months ago, the video that was to be played at her funeral, but he knew he didn't want anyone to see it. He tried to use his influence on the legislature members who were now in charge of the planet in Laura Whiting's absence. Well over half of them had been converted to his way of thinking about things (as he liked to term it). He asked them to declare the video an unfair influence on the upcoming election and to order it suppressed, hopefully forever but at least until after the special election.
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