The fall (#013)
Forty-nine years before the attack.
It had all fallen apart. When William Cross tried to piece together the chain of events that led to this outcome, he could see the obvious links: the accident that had killed Joseph Stieglitz; the idiocy of Reg Harris; the confession of Kenneth Childers. And, from there, the contagion that had spread to most of the colony.
But the truth was that the rot had set in long before then. A hundred moments of weakness, like termites in the foundations of a building, chewing and chewing until the collapse.
He knocked on Mainbocher’s door and opened it when she shouted for him to enter.
She’d never looked so old. Not yet fifty, she looked like she was seventy.
‘Sit down, William,’ she instructed.
He took the seat opposite her. ‘Are they shutting us down?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘The Administration has examined your report and concluded that it would be too expensive to initiate a complete handover of the colony. There’s also a perception that those implicated should continue their work here as punishment.’
Cross nodded. She’d hear no argument from him on that point.
‘Construction on the refinery will continue,’ she continued, ‘but investment is being slowed.’
‘How is that going to help?’ asked Cross.
Mainbocher sighed. ‘It’s not about us. Funds are being diverted to the Daedalus project.’
Cross nodded again. ‘Annoying, but no one on the senior staff will be surprised.’
‘The senior staff,’ said Mainbocher, and she looked like she wanted to spit on the floor. ‘That’s where there will be some changes.’
Cross felt his heart rate quicken. Was he being sent home?
‘An example needs to be made,’ said Mainbocher, standing up. She walked round her desk and sat on the edge of it.
‘Me?’ asked Cross.
‘Me,’ said Mainbocher. ‘I’ll be flying back to Earth on the next transport. You,’ she paused, then began again. ‘You will be taking over as Colony Administrator.’
He stared at her, at a loss for what to say. ‘I’m twenty-four years old.’
‘You’re one of only nine people in the colony who didn’t fail the drug test. Of those, you’re the most senior.’
‘They all hate me,’ said Cross, pointing at the report on Mainbocher’s desk, the report he had written following the colony-wide testing that he had initiated.
‘That’s why the Administration wants you in charge.’ She grimaced then, her eyes no longer on his. ‘A “firmer hand”, they said.’
‘It’s not your fault, Margaret,’ said Cross.
She smirked. ‘When you’re in charge, Cross, everything is your fault.’ She stood up and walked back round to the other side of the desk. ‘Do your five, William,’ she said. ‘Five years, and you’ll leave Mars by the time you’re thirty.’
He looked out her window at the dead world beyond. The world he had dreamed of transforming. He would never see green on this planet. Not in his lifetime.
‘The Administration also recognises that it has neglected to provide sufficient “entertainment” for the colonists. They’re sending a procurement officer, Bridgette something-or-other, to manage and distribute supplies, including a small quantity of alcohol.’
‘Bridgette,’ Cross repeated, still at a loss for what to say.
‘Hopefully it’ll help,’ said Mainbocher. ‘Hopefully it’ll help you get this mess back under control.’
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