There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 4

Some goods simply couldn't be distributed evenly. Things like liquor, certain electronics, vehicles, and luxury foodstuffs. There simply weren't enough of these things for everyone to get one, so they had to be distributed based on need and desire—based on who could afford them. Every now and again, there was a special order by some rich fucker for some art piece or expensive bit of mahogany furniture. It was Horton Chisolm's duty to make sure it got to the right people. Every now and again, however, something came through that shouldn't have, at least by the letter of the law. Some things were contraband, like liquor. These had to be distributed properly and through the right channels. When it came to things like this, portions of contraband orders were skimmed off the top. Sort of a tax, so that Chisolm and his boys would be more inclined to look the other way. Most of it was harmless. Most of it.

A lot of these products came through with no definite addressee. These were usually contraband, and could be sold on the little black market that Chisolm and his friends had set up. People like Alistair Voronoi and Bikram would find people willing to pay for it, and they made a healthy profit, so that they could keep their own share of those luxury goods that came through. It was a nice deal for people like Chisolm, and he really hated to see it change. There were very few firearms on Mars. Chisolm kept one small snub-nosed revolver in his desk, and the municipal police department kept a small arsenal of riot gear locked up but as a rule didn't carry personal sidearms.

The fact that a shipment of high-powered railguns had come through his airlock in his loading dock in his city was unsettling. It spoke of change.

If that was how it was going to be, Chisolm would eat his own intestines before he let himself be hoodwinked. The other half of that arsenal was staying in his possession until such time as the rest of them could be located and destroyed. And should they prove impossible to destroy, Chisolm was going to make sure he came out on top of any sort of new Martian order.

The eight crates of rifles that they'd confiscated would be kept safe. Only Bikram and Chisolm would know where they were stashed. And only two other people thus far knew they existed. As far as the original buyer was concerned, they had disappeared. Hopefully, this would expose the rat-gut tosspots. Only time would tell.

These thoughts and more tumbled around in Chisolm's brain as he made his way through the streets of Eden. The city was impressive, enveloped, as it was, by the eye-bending expanse of dome, with its soccer-ball patterned frame. Very little that wasn't strictly utilitarian was visible. Most buildings were low, round, and unadorned. The downtown district, in the center of the dome was dominated by the taller structures, including a single skyscraper that housed the council chambers, the university campus, a couple of the bigger corporate offices, and the internet and cellular tower. During the lunch hour, the streets were clogged with bicycles and the odd electric car as Chisolm made his way downtown.

His cellphone went off and he answered, “Bikram? What have you got for me?”

Bikram's voice said, “Well, we looked at the manifest and scanned through the security footage. We found the truck that the other nine crates were loaded into.”

“And?”

“The truck belongs to Spee-D Delivery. So we're going to have to go through them to find out who they were delivered to.”

Chisolm sighed, said, “Okay, did they ask about the missing eight crates?”

“Yeah, but Jessie doesn't think the driver knew what was in them. She says he just asked about the others and Jessie said they didn't have them, so he took off. Didn't make a stink or anything. Sounds to me like they're really trying to keep this thing under wraps.”

“Yeah...say listen, I want you to take a look through the manifests of the last few weeks and see if you can find anything that might have contained ammunition for these things. It wouldn't look like firearm ammunition. These things don't use powder, so it'll either be balls or bullets with no cartridges. Possibly made of tungsten or some other heavy metal.”

“Sure thing, boss.” There was a pause, and then, “You don't think they might be manufacturing ammuntion planetside, do you?”

“The thought occurred to me. Call me when you find anything.”

“I'm on it,” said Bikram.

Hanging up, Chisolm found himself in front of a small Chinese restaurant and stepped inside. He ordered some dumplings and noodles, got his order number, and sat down to surf the newsgroups on his PDA. The thing no one counts on is a well-informed and well-meaning media, but Mars had some of the most earnest reporters in the solar system.

Three things happened all at once. His number was called by the asian woman behind the counter. His cellphone started to ring, the ID showing Alistair Voronoi, and he chanced upon a newsfeed that was streaming footage that would have floored Chisolm had he not already been sitting.

He answered his phone, said, “Voronoi, are you watching the news?”

“I was calling to see if you were.”

“Holy Jesus in a cancer ward.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself.”

The asian woman called his number again.

Chisolm said, “Can I call you back in five minutes?”

“Certainly,” he said.

Chisolm approached the counter and said in Chinese, “Could you please turn on that TV?”

“What?”

“Just turn on the fucking TV!” he shouted in English. The crowded lunch hour patrons all turned to look. The confused woman picked up the remote from the counter and a cheap soap opera came on the screen.

“You like this crap?” asked the woman.

“No...change the channel. To...uh...” he checked his PDA, “Two, six, five, oh.”
Gaining her composure and with a 'this better be good' expression, the woman obeyed his request.

Chisolm grabbed his food and returned to his table without turning his attention away from the screen.

The image was of a large landing craft—rare in an age of space elevators—that was literally vomiting a line of red-uniformed soldiers and military armor. An entire brigade from the looks of it. Maybe five thousand men. From the insignia on the landing craft, it was a joint force from the United States and China. Earthlings getting in our shit, thought Chisolm. Suddenly, two hundred and seventy railguns seemed a paltry thing.

His cellphone went off as he shoveled a dumpling into his mouth. He pushed a button, and said around the mouthfull of food, “Voronoi?”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don't know. Where are they? I can't tell from this feed, and nobody's said anything.”

“Twenty or so clicks east of here. Near a smelting plant. One of ours.”

“What do they want?”

“Don't know.”

“Well, guess, goddammit! What do I pay you for?”

“Look, Chisolm,” said Voronoi, completely calm, “this is outside of my realm of expertise. Large scale military operations don't happen every day.”

“Mars is a free state. They have no right to invade like this. It's an act of war!”

“I know that and you know that, but Mars is also a disarmed populace, as you've worked so hard to maintain.”

Slumping back into his seat, Chisolm shoveled a wad of noodles into his fat mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he said, “Maybe someone heard about this before this whole thing went off. Voronoi, time is of the essence. Find out just what puss-filled gym sock that shipment was supposed to go to. I want someone in front of me or an address before the hour is out. I'm forwarding the tracking number from the shipment, it was picked up by Spee-D. I'll be at my office.”

He gathered the rest of his lunch up and hurled his bulky frame out of the restaurant, leaving a stunned and terrified crowd of diners behind.