Geoff Pepple sat in a comfortable chair.

He enjoyed comfortable chairs to standing or running, staying busy. He’d done enough running, enough standing, enough hard labor to fill a thousand lifetimes. He’d been a politician, one of the first on Mars. He’d been an author, someone who’d made an honest living writing about the life before the giant domes. He’d worn many other hats, too. The one that’d made him money, much to his dismay, was operating a large-scale black market outfit in Valles Marineris. 

The black-market operation had dropped in his lap. He’d never thought of breaking the law, but times were tough. Economic downturn hit most of the Martian Sphere, and people like him were resorting to all sorts of occupations they’d never considered before. The IMDC was promising good times were around the corner. He had three children to feed, so the IMDC’s promises were empty, and they didn’t fill empty tummies either. 

Geoff’d built special relationships with people all over the Gutter. He’d worked different jobs to gain those relationships, but when he turned to the black market, especially during trying times, people were friendlier. They knew he could be the answer to their salvation. They knew he could also spell their doom, if they decided to go with others. 

Geoff never killed anyone. He didn’t believe in making business that messy. Instead, he believed in a softer approach: Communities thrived on reputation. Mars was no exception. He would use the power of the community against those who decided to take their business elsewhere. When the community where a particular business operated started going hungry, the whispers would start. They’d know, before long, that so-and-so hadn’t been friendly enough to work with Geoff Pepple. It seemed childish, but it prevented bloodshed, at least it kept Geoff from having a hand in the bloodshed. He’d never publicly condone violence by those communities who suffered from such actions. No, he’d denounce it, even to the press. However, Geoff, in secret, knew violence was part of the game. Some people got hurt. It was simply how things operated on Mars, especially a desperate Mars. 

Geoff could tell Mars was getting desperate again. He could tell that because he had his finger on the pulse of the city he’d called home for the last two centuries and change. His parents didn’t understand how he could do such things: Being a common smuggler, a black-market aficionado, etc. They were salt of the Earth types. They believed in law and order. They believed in the system, even though they’d been failed by the system. Geoff’s parents migrated from Nigeria, a country with a richer and deeper history than anything Geoff had seen on Mars. They would always tell stories of the blue sky, the rich soils, and the history. He loved those stories. They gave him a pain that he couldn’t understand for much of his life. 

As an older man, a retired man, he found that these pains were creature comforts. They reminded him of where he came from. He handed this pain onto his own children, so they would remember where they, too, came from. But Geoff had a heart for Mars, something few Martians seemed to have these days. Mars was his, more than any country on Earth, the old planet that kept creeping up in memory and history, reminding everyone in the Verse of the debts they all owed it. Geoff despised Earth for the debts it tossed on those who were trying to break free of its gravity well. 

Geoff, unlike his parents, knew Mars, and he knew that one day, just one day soon, Mars would be independent of Earth. It may take a thousand generations, he thought to himself, but it would happen. 

The current crisis, as Geoff witnessed on his mediascreens, on his old-style newspapers, and on his feeds, was beginning to show signs that Martians weren’t content with the way things were headed. The IMDC wasn’t the only game in town with grand visions, and the possibilities of revolution made Geoff hard. He’d always dreamed of revolution, and Geoff knew he had the skillset and the assets to help foster a real revolution. 

He’d called up his old lieutenants. He called up his suppliers. He called up those he’d worked within the prefectures. His familiar, Shadow, began overseeing shipments, cataloging inventory in hidden warehouses and storage units across Valles Marineris. Geoff saw the power in logistics. He saw the power in being able to feed a city hungry for revolution. Weapons would be needed, and plenty of them. The city would also need medical supplies, supplemental nutrition, and it would also need the literature, the media, the consumable culture of revolution. 

Geoff saw the revolution as an opportunity to make his children and grandchildren’s future a sure thing, even though they never asked about where the money came from. They never cared for him either, despite the love he’d shown them. 

Even Geoff’s ex-wife didn’t understand why he’d resorted to the black market for a living. She’d claimed he was nothing more than a common criminal. Geoff, on the other hand, saw himself more than a criminal. He was a man the system had failed. He was a man who’d done everything right, and the system still punished him. He wanted more, but he wasn’t to take more than his lot deserved. Geoff wasn’t happy, he wasn’t content, with the way things were. 

Geoff looked at his slate and then back to the readouts on his comfortable condominium’s wall. He’d show her, he’d show all of them, that he was just a man making an honest living, in a world filled with feral humans. He looked to the data and then to his incoming messages. A new message nagged at him. It was a potential client. Some revolutionaries calling themselves “Concerned Citizenry.” It was written by the organization’s apparent leader, who didn’t give any personal details, which was to be expected. 

Geoff opened the message:

Message: We, the Concerned Citizenry, seek support in our efforts to overturn MAP-1 and restore political and economic freedom to the Martian Sphere. I have sent this message because you’ve made yourself a friend of revolution in the past. We hope that continues. We have funding, and we are not seeking a handout, as that isn’t the Martian way. 

Signed, 

Defiance

Leader of Concerned CItizenry

Geoff reread the message, analyzed it for potential issues, and then forwarded it to his familiar, Shadow. 

[What do you wish me to do, Geoff?] Shadow asked through Geoff’s neural implants. 

[Set up a meeting. I’m intrigued.]

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