Voice of the People

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The VTOL Guard transport filled Stan Martell with dread. This stub-winged stark killing machine had invaded his airport, his arcology—and at his request. War and ruin, desolation and destruction: the images had driven him, but they had been distant, abstract… until now.

There Siemens was, at the aircraft’s door. He shaded his eyes against the Sun’s glare, then strode down the steps with the arrogance of a conquistador claiming a new land.

How could the bastard look so young? Jet-black hair—what was left of Martell’s own had been gray for years, and his carefully trimmed beard was completely white.

“General Siemens, good to see you again.”

“It’s Rick, Stan. We’ve known each other long enough for that.” Siemens grasped his outstretched arm. “What the hell’s with this dipshit airport?”

Martell laughed. “Maybe you can do something about that if we get you elected senator. I thought you’d retired? The Guard still seems to look out after you.”

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