by Gary Lovisi
What were these Marsmen up to?
Arabella Rashid was the Supreme Director of the Department of Control, and she saw things getting out of control now. Not yet. But soon. Somehow. Some way. She could almost smell it coming. Was it just paranoia? Or was it the same intelligence and insight that had enabled her to rise so high to become Supreme Director in the first place? And remain in control for over twenty years. She wasn’t sure. Not yet.
Arabella Rashid sat down to read a bit, then put the paperback down and thought about what she had just read. She’d never really read anything—fiction, that is—like this stuff before. Certainly none of that really old stuff from LastCen. It was all forbidden. Most of these books had been collected and burned by the firemen. The ones she had here were so old. So time worn. And yet, there was something special about them. Something that grabbed her. Down deep. It wasn’t really the crime story or even the private eye investigators—that last was a silly outmoded concept. She wondered if Earth and Old America had actually had PI’s once. What bothered her was something else. Something deeper. It was about truth. The books spoke something real to her. It was life and love and blood and sweat and people stepped on all over but then getting right back up again, and again, to fight back. And sometimes they even won! As the Director of The DOC she could relate to that. After all, she’d been one of the ones doing most of the stepping-on for too many years.
Except, today the people on Earth didn’t fight back like the people in these old paperbacks did. The people on Earth didn’t even know the difference anymore between freedom and sheepdom. They didn’t know what was real, what was fake, what they thought, or what they were told to think. They had no concept of what they should fight for, or against. Or why? It was pathetic. A world of sheep. They had become all useless dependents and eventually only...parasites.
The people of Earth were just what they had been created to become. She hated them all. For none of them knew what they had lost, too few had even a vague feeling of comprehension about their world. Some felt they were missing something, but most were not capable of understanding what it was or how to make things better. Decades of senseless vids, brain links and plug-in implants had turned off and ruined the thinking capabilities of the masses. Citizens were confused, totally brain-locked, they weren’t capable of doing much more than what their masters told them to do. The professional classes, the so-called “intellectuals,” were worse. College professors and “great thinkers” who were merely overly-educated politically-indoctrinated morons. They had made of themselves perfect slaves. Slaves who loved their slavery. And cowardly sheep. Sheep who reveled in their sheepdom.
Why, most citizens these days were just plain useless. No one worked. Few were even able to hold a job, or had any desire to work. They weren’t even good slaves, not even worthy sheep. No good to themselves, or anyone else. Useless. They had become a drain on everything and everyone. They created, built, contributed—nothing.
The DOC had done its work too well.
It had controlled all the life and passion and individualism out of everyone.
Arabella had seen it all her life, but now it was getting worse on Earth, Simon’s society was crumbling, dying. That was good, but what would take its place? The human mind was starving to death on garbage.
On Mars it might be different, or at least, something was different. And these old paperbacks? Research had told her the stuff had been called ‘mystery and hard-boiled crime fiction’ in the old days of LastCen.
The paperbacks were definitely a part of it. Whatever it was.
James Ryan was another part of it. Memories of him flooded back to her now. She saw his image in her mind from the old days long ago and wondered about him. Where was he now? What was he doing on Mars? She remembered she’d sent him there twenty years ago. Implanted, programmed, like all the others, and paperbacks had been a part of it. But it seems to have all gone out of control somehow. And Arabella Rashid was after all, the Director of worldwide systems control. Control should never go...out of control!
* * * *
The President William Jefferson Clinton landed at Marsport and Arabella Rashid debarked, towing a brace of luggage. Inside she had a sealed box filled with old paperbacks. Her baggage rode a small dolly through the carry-off ramp, then to the main gate.
At the gate there was a backlog. Of course. The women were being checked, and then placed in a holding area. Everywhere were men, gawking like they’d never seen a real, live woman before. In fact, some of them never had. Most of these men hadn’t seen a real flesh-and-blood woman for over twenty years.
Arabella Rashid knew what was next, the swearing-in ceremony to the Earther government. To the Authority. The loyalty oath. Digitally recorded, of course.
She did not speak to anyone as she moved forward. Neither did anyone speak to her. It was almost an Earth custom, never to speak to another human being. It was all so tense. You could feel the fear because the eyes of the watchers were always watching.
One woman, a girl really, smiled at her. She was going to speak, but Arabella looked away, her DOC training interfering with her human compassion. It was the basic reaction, and it irritated her. She felt so constrained. Constrained by her own self.
It was not Mars. It was she that was the problem.
There were dozens of young women now coming forward, the first load of new wives for the men of Mars. She wondered how many of the women were spies from Earth, maybe even from her own DOC? Maybe they were even here spying on her? She smiled. It was a strange world, Earth or Mars, and stranger things could happen.
The swear-in ceremony had all five dozen young women lined up—like for a firing squad, she thought with a grim smile. They were going to be recorded as they stood to repeat the words some old Marsport bureaucrat was told to say to them, by some other Earther bureaucrat.
The guy who was going to administer the oath was a real relic too. He stood up tall and straight, thick white mustachios waxed and pointed upwards, old eyes glittering with appreciation and some amount of lust at the evident charms of all these young women standing so boldly before him. He smiled at the women, obviously mentally cataloging each of their assets or charms, and said, “Ladies, ladies, young ladies, a very heartfelt welcome to you all to Mars. It is truly wonderful to have you all here as our guests. Each one of you are a joy to behold. Well now, on to business, on to the swear-in ceremony. As required by Earther law. Then we’ll process you and take you to your new quarters.”
There was a quiet murmur of approval and some excitement as the women looked around at the new environment. The low buildings under the domes, the blood-red sky and rust-red mountains far in the distance.
The old man began, “Please repeat after me: ‘I hereby swear allegiance and total obedience and subservience to my home world of Earth and the government for which it stands. Forever. Amen.’”
Everyone said the words. Loudly. It was all being recorded, Arabella knew. Then it would be transmitted back to Earth. Studied. She’d managed to hide her face from view, even though she knew the work she’d had done to her face before she’d left Earth should render her unrecognizable. Nevertheless, you had to play along with the swear-in whether you believed it or not.
Especially, if you did not!
The next step was something that totally surprised her. The procedure she’d seen in records sent to her from Mars had shown that at this point in processing new émigrés were dismissed. Then allowed to go through the gate where they had their papers stamped, meet their Watchers, and then were escorted to their new quarters. All under very strict security. Instead, the old man said with serious formality, “Now, will you all please stand for the World Anthem of Mars.”
Arabella tried to hide her utter astonishment.
Mars did not have any World Anthem!
Arabella Rashid and the other young women stood and looked at the old man. He slipped a disk in a wall slot. A song suddenly began playing over the speakers. Loud
. It had a good melody, a hard-driving pop-rock tune, one of the old classics from LastCen.
Arabella didn’t know it. It wasn’t popular today. Even among the oldies. She was sure that it was not on any of the approved lists.
She realized that it had to be an underground recording! And it was being played here now, and out in the open! That was amazing arrogance. And so dangerous.
It was a good song though. Arabella liked the melody and the voices harmonized well together. It was a powerful, inspiring tune. However, some of the words, the ones she could make out, sounded very individualistic, even subversive. They were so very incorrect. Yet, these same words touched her heart, her mind. They made her upset. They made her think and yearn.
Yearning was allowed, but thinking was always dangerous.
On the way out of the gate she asked the old man, “That anthem you played? What was the name of it?”
The officer eyed her approvingly. He knew she liked it. So did he.
Arabella Rashid smiled back. Working her charms on the old fellow.
He said, “Missy, that’s an old, old song, a real dandy ain’t it? It was originally written by a real-music band way back in 1977, something called Fleetwood Mac. Strange name, eh? Don’t know what it meant. Anyway, the song is called, ‘Go Your Own Way’.”
“It’s a nice song,” Arabella said, absently thinking about the title. It was most definitely subversively totally individualistic.
The old man nodded, then said curiously, “And it ain’t just a song, it’s the World Anthem of Mars. That’s what it is. That’s enough for us.”
Arabella Rashid walked away. Strange old coot. Where did he get off acting like he was someone? Like he had some kind of mind and thoughts all his own? Like he was a person who mattered.
Then she checked herself—that was Simon talking.
Not her.
She hated his voice in her mind and would ignore it all she could.
It was all very confusing and even scary.
Then she noticed that the old man had a battered old paperback stuck in his back pocket. She was able to make out the title as he walked away from her. The title said quite plainly, Kiss Your Ass Good-Bye. She was astounded. When she caught up with him she could see that it had been written by someone named Charles Willeford. It had a nasty cover showing an angry and ugly face of a very dangerous-looking man. And that title! It was so mean-spirited! Actually in-your-face defiant and full of anger. Maybe even rage? She realized there was a lot going on out here on Mars. A lot that needed looking into, and she was just the person to do the looking.
Arabella Rashid couldn’t help thinking again about that song on the walk to her newly assigned quarters. “You Can Go Your Own Way?” No, not a question. It was a declarative sentence, a declaration. A declaration of, like, independence? You Can Go Your Own Way, it was proclaiming, bold, free, true. But not on Earth. No not there for shit-sure. And not here on Mars either. Not now, with Arabella Rashid and the Department of Control breathing down your grimy rebel necks.
* * * *
Alvy called the meeting to order. He saw Ryan in the front row, nodded, then said, “Three items of business, gentlemen. First off, a new group of paperbacks has arrived on planet in the latest supply ship from Earth. Ah, and how’s this for a good joke, the name of the ship is the President William Jefferson Clinton.”
There was a riot of laughter, and a lot of knowing nods from the wiser heads in the crowd. Someone in the assembly said, “It’s typical. They probably renamed the old President Richard M. Nixon!”
“Yeah, one con man to another!” someone added.
Alvy got back the attention of the crowd with a hard fist on the podium. Everyone shut up, all eyes shot to him up front, “Thanks, ah, gentlemen. That’s better. Anyway, Ryan here has the new paperbacks, and five new Price Guides full of bibliographic facts—and even better—many color photos of rare book covers. They are from the last year of issue in 2020. These will all go up on the auction block in thirty days. All proceeds to go to the Resistance. This package contains primo stuff gents, the hardest-ass stuff you’ll ever read anywhere, plus the five rare reference volumes. So bid high and bid often!”
There was general clapping, talk, deal-making. Alvy got their attention back after a few moments, said, “And now on to the other two items on this red-letter day on Mars.”
“Yeah, how about it!” a heckler demanded.
Alvy nodded, continued, “We have caused to be shipped out here, through certain channels which I shall not divulge, a certain Old Earth alcoholic beverage. It is called beer. Some of you may have heard of it? The Resistance has imported two hundred cases of this fine old beverage. Rumor has it the brew was liberated from the last underground survivalist bunker that had been sealed and froze shut solid since 2040. We also have numerous cases of a certain “Old Number 7” which is said to be a very excellent Tennessee sipping whiskey by the name of a Mr. Jack Daniels. These will be parceled out to our people deserving of such obvious honors and comforts and to others so as to obtain certain concessions from the Earther blockhead, bribe-taking, brain-washed, lackeys of the Authority. Who we all can’t stand and have no damn respect for.”
There was a rousing cheer. Alvy could be a rabble-rousing bastard when the mood was upon him. He toned it down however, when Ryan gave him a sharp look. So it was back to business now.
Alvy continued, “Of course, ah, we will be passing around a taste to everyone here. Just to wet your whistle, you understand. Your choice, gents, a long neck bottle of ice cold Bud, or a headbanging straight up shot glass of Jack Daniels Old Number 7. Either way, it will put most of you in the mood for more and grow hair where you don’t have any left. And it will get you ready for what is to come next.”
“You’re damn right about that!” a guy named Too-Tall Tom shouted, rubbing his massive stomach in obvious anticipation. Homemade spirits on Mars were never as good as the quality Earth stuff. That’s one thing the Earthers hadn’t forgotten—how to make good strong booze with a mighty righteous kick to it.
“Okay, so have a drink on us, and quiet the hell down.”
Bottles were passed out. Shots were poured and glasses handed around the hall. Toasts rang out everywhere and on every subject. Finally the talk quieted down a bit and everyone’s attention was directed to the stage when Alvy came back up and began again.
Now it was time.
“And now we have our third and most important subject to discuss. I saved the best for last, gentlemen. I am proud to announce Mars now has—women! That’s correct. Women have come out to Mars!”
The silence was breathless. All was quiet. Utter stillness for a heartbeat. You could hear a pin drop. Some guys even froze before they upended their beers. Then suddenly there were wild shouts and cheers of joy. These soon became catcalls, and hoots, hollers, and all kinds of lusty words. Some words were savory, some not. Some were hot, some not. Some were horny, and some even hornier. They were men, after all. Men who were not ashamed to be men. And for the first time in their lives they were feeling like men.
Now Alvy really had a hard time quieting them down. Eventually, the volume of laughing and talking in the room receded to the point where he could be heard with the sound system cranked up to the max. “These women are the first batch of a stream of new settler wives. That’s good. We need women here!”
“No shit, Alvy!” Manny barked back. He’d just downed a shot of Daniels, with a Bud chaser.
“So let’s treat them good,” Alvy barked. “I got your promise on that, men? Respect them! They’re here for us! They’re on our side!”
The men quieted down. It was time to get serious—and these were nothing if not serious men.
“It’s going to be good, but we have to be careful. The Resistance has to be careful. Some of these women are certainly spies. Earth puts a few in every batch of new settlers. We know they do it with the men. What makes us think they wouldn’t do it with the women? But we’ll find t
he few bad apples, we always do. Then we’ll neutralize them. Make them harmless and ineffective. Except this time it’s different. There’s something else.”
Alvy looked serious now, even scared. That made everyone there get attentive real fast too.
There was quiet now. All eyes on Alvy.
Some men even put down their drinks.
Alvy said, “You all remember having been told about a woman named Arabella Rashid? She is the Director of the Department of Control. Well, our informants tell us she is hidden among the 60 new women who arrived here today.”
This was not good news.
This was terrible news!
There was a barely discernible gasp and frequent guttural mumbles among the crowd. You could feel their fear ooze out of every pore in their skin. They looked around the hall nervously as if expecting an attack any moment.
Alvy continued, “Of course, she is under assumed identity. One that cannot be broken or discovered. She can be any one of the sixty women who arrived today. The DOC is nothing if not thorough. Control is their main...I guess the only word for it is...obsession.”
“Yeah, that’s for shit-sure correct, Alvy!” a fellow known by all as the One-Eye Geek shouted back.
“Right, Geek. They’re bad, and we all hate them, but why are they here? And why her of all people?” Manny asked.
Alvy said, “We don’t know.”
Ryan stood up, “Gentlemen, the Resistance is under the gun now. Mars is under the gun. We know who some of the spies are in this shipment, and they’ll be taken care of. Isolated. Sent out to Little Siberia, on Olympus Mons. There no one will ever hear from them for a few years. Until they have an accident, or wise up.”
There were general nods of agreement. A few years out in Little Siberia could work wonders on even the most dedicated Earth agent or spy. By the time those women came back they’d be different, changed. If not, they’d go right back out to Olympus Mons for one more year of vacation in hell until they understood the point was to cooperate with what was going on here. It might be harsh but it had to be done to keep up security.
