Man O' War

by William Shatner

  Staggering slightly under the weight of the horror coursing through his mind, Hawkes reached out and steadied himself against a pole. The ambassador was a student of history; he knew about slave societies, from early Mesopotamia to the Soviet Union, which had dissolved less than a century earlier. In a sudden, frightening moment of clarity he realized that the only reason Mars was continuing to function at all was because it was peopled with men and women who had known no other life.

  Their mothers and fathers came here to make a new life. They took on this hellish existence to give something better to their children.

  The ambassador shuddered, suddenly feeling a horrible cold growing within him. Starting to move again, he whispered, "They sold themselves into slavery so the next generation could be free. And this is all they got."

  "Excuse me?"

  The gardener had come up behind Hawkes without his having noticed. The ambassador turned to him, saying, "Nothing. Just talking to myself."

  "Hey, do what you want. I don't care what you were doin'. I just want to get through."

  Hawkes noted the three huge bags the man was dragging. Noting also that he could barely move them all, the ambassador offered, "Can I help you?"

  The gardener's eyes narrowed. "How much?"

  "Nothing. I came out for a walk . . . needed to stretch a little. You take two, give me one, and I'll help you." Hawkes stared into the gardener's overly suspicious eyes, and then added, "People do that where I come from." As the man continued to debate accepting, the ambassador offered, "You'll owe me a favor. You can decide how to repay it."

  Even with that, it took the man a few more seconds to make up his mind. Finally, however, he decided he could trust the ambassador with one of his bags of dead twigs and leaves.

  Probably figures I'm too old to get away from him if I decide to make a break for it, thought Hawkes grimly.

  As the pair moved down into the lower levels, the ambassador tried to engage the gardener in conversation. The farther they went, however, the less Hawkes felt like talking. Every level down seemed to grow grimmer. Each was older, less attractive. It was easily evident that the factory levels were not maintained nearly as well as the Above, a fact that saddened the ambassador to the point where he could not find it within himself to speak.

  Noticing the difference in Hawkes as they trudged down to Recycle, the official bottommost depth of the colony, the gardener stopped to dig out his work release. As he did so, he told the ambassador, "You ain't never skipped down this far—got it?"

  "Yes," admitted Hawkes, an overwhelming sadness choking his voice. "You've got that one."

  The gardener stood back for a moment while the door to Recycle scanned his release card. His hands on his hips, he said, "You ain't never even been in red clay before. You're greenside, ain't ya?" When the ambassador nodded, the gardener suddenly reached out his hand toward Hawkes. Gently patting the ambassador's shoulder with sad understanding, he told him simply, "It's okay."

  And then the man turned and grabbed up his three bags, dragging them in past the opening Recycle door. Hawkes caught a glimpse of its innards as the gardener entered: all tubes and steam and humming machinery. He had just started to turn away when the man stopped on the other side of the door. As it began its backward slide to lock again, the gardener freed one hand long enough to give the ambassador a short salute. Then, allowing the tiniest grin to cross his face, he said, "Hey, don't forget. I owe you one."

  The door clicked shut, and once again Hawkes was surrounded with nothing more than the silent door and the black tunnel walls leading away from it. The ambassador allowed himself a small shudder, surprised at how lonely the narrow cavern felt once he was alone. But then he was not alone for long.

  The man who had followed him from the Above was still behind him. He had thought to make his move in the garden, but Hawkes had started his conversation with the gardener, forcing him to wait.

  But, thought the silent figure, watching the ambassador from the shadows, there's no one around now.

  With practiced silence, he slid his knife free of its sheath and moved out into the light.

  18

  THE ASSASSIN BOLTED our OF THE SHADOWS IN A RUSH, moving in a quick, straight line for Hawkes's back. Closing in, he screamed in a maddened voice, "Die, Eart'hog, die!"

  The ambassador spun around, shocked at the sudden noise. Luckily instinct prevailed. Before he knew it, Hawkes had raised his arm just enough to lodge it under his attacker's, his wrist banging up against the descending knife arm. The two-sided blade stopped half an inch from Hawkes's head as the would-be assassin stumbled into him.

  The force of the blow sent both of them reeling onto the tunnel floor, knocking the assailant's weapon from his hand. Both men grasped for it. Worry ran through the ambassador's mind. His opponent was younger by at least thirty years. He was a bigger man, and stronger.

  Shoving fear aside, Hawkes replaced it with determination, and steeled himself as he crawled, trying to keep his foe from regaining his blade. The two grappled with each other every inch of the way—wrestling clumsily, striking at each other with awkward, flailing blows—each only trying to slow the other down as they crawled across the black floor, struggling to reach the lost knife.

  Hawkes's mind pounded with confused questions as he fought his way forward.

  Who wants me dead now? Is he from the same source as the attacks on Earth, or am I in someone else's sights now? There's big money at work here, just to kill one man.

  No, he reminded himself. Not just to kill me. Nobody cares that much about me.

  Heat coursed through Hawkes's body. He fanned his rage, feeling himself gaining on his attacker with each angry thought.

  Me—I'm nothing. It's enslaving this planet that someone wants. It's my blood and the blood of a million others. A billion. A trillion—not that numbers matter. Not to them.

  Hawkes felt his fingers balling. . . .

  Kill off everyone—what does it matter? Ignite the universe just to light one of their cigars . . .

  "No!"

  The ambassador's fist came down in the small of his attacker's back. Forgetting the knife, Hawkes slammed his fist into the small of his attacker's back again and again. As the other man kept groping for the weapon, the ambassador dug the fingers of his left hand into his foe's side, twisting the flesh he found. His right caught up the man's longish brown hair and wrenched back with all his might, bringing a wailing scream from his would-be assassin's lips. As he pulled the man off the floor, Hawkes demanded, "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

  "Vat you, green thing. You'll sell Mars out for a shiny slug."

  The knife forgotten, the two men were grabbing at each other, slapping each other's hands away, wrestling their way to their feet, each trying to topple the other. The ambassador hissed, "That's not true. I'm here to help."

  "Stuff it. You're Earth. Earth bites our hearts out. You'll never side with Mars over Earth."

  The two men suddenly pushed at each other in the same direction. The force of the maneuver sent them stumbling once more. They slammed into the wall—Hawkes luckily on the outside. Gasping for breath, the ambassador said, "You're wrong. Whatever treaty I negotiate . . . it'll be the fairest . . . fairest one possible."

  "Liar! No paper's ever going to free Mars! Fat Earth will never free us. But we will! The Originals didn't eat red dirt so you could drink their children's blood."

  Hawkes could feel his hold on the younger man weakening. He had given it everything he had, but he was too tired. As the fatigue of days without rest started to eat at him, he struggled merely to maintain his grip, but to no avail. Sensing the loosening of Hawkes's hold on him, the assassin shifted his weight and then threw his arms apart, hurling Hawkes away.

  Dashing to his fallen weapon, he screamed, "The Resolute don't listen to Earth lies. We reject you and all the green." Grabbing up his blade, the assassin turned back toward his victim. A cold sheen in his unblinking eyes, he began moving
forward again, snarling, "Mars first, Eart'hog!"

  But suddenly the Recycle area's massive door clicked open. The noise distracted the killer long enough for Hawkes to make it back to his feet. His enemy made another forward step, but as he did, a voice called out, "Hey! Whadya think yer doin'?"

  "Stay back," cautioned the ambassador, recognizing the gardener's voice. "He's got a knife."

  "Crunch it," replied the worker, moving up to Hawkes's side. Displaying his own weapon, one several inches longer than that of the now-outnumbered attacker, he said, "Everyone on Mars got a knife."

  Shaking his fist at the gardener, the attacker shouted, "The Resolute won't forget this, bootlicker."

  More people appeared in the Recycle doorway. As they began to step out into the hall, the foiled assassin ran off, his oaths fading behind him: "The Resolute don't forget!"

  As the Recycle personnel began to crowd around the two figures in the hall, Hawkes leaned back against the wall. Safety was making him aware of his pains. Reaching out to the gardener, he rolled his eyes and gave the man a feeble smile, saying, "Thank you."

  "I owed you one," the man answered matter-of-factly.

  Ready to walk off, the ambassador caught his arm, holding him back. Reaching inside his vest, he asked, "Have you ever had meat before?"

  The gardener looked at Hawkes with a puzzled stare. When he realized the ambassador was serious, he said, "No. No one in the family's seen meat since the grandolds."

  Finally getting his inner seal undone, Hawkes got his hand into his pocket and pulled out the two beef jerkies he had taken with him earlier. The ambassador was almost embarrassed by the look in the gardener's eyes.

  The man read the words on the outside of one of the packages. He did not know what a "kippered beefsteak" was, but he appeared willing to find out. As the small crowd gathered about watched, Hawkes took one of the jerkies back and then tore open its vacuum-sealed package with his teeth. Peeling back the plastic outer coating, he bit into the barest end of the thick, red meat stick. Then he chewed up the bit he had torn free and swallowed it. Handing the packet back to the gardener, he urged the man to do the same.

  While Hawkes went back to trying to regain his breath, the man did as he had been shown. He chewed slowly, rolling the shredding fibers around in his mouth. The gardener moved the small chunks around in his mouth, his eyes wide, his expression near rapturous. He swallowed as little of the precious mouthful as he could, forced into the reaction only by the fact that his mouth was filling with saliva at a rate he had never known before.

  Then, suddenly, he became aware of the reaction of the crowd around him. Neither embarrassed nor gloating, he slid the unopened jerky into his pocket. Then he folded the plastic wrapper down over the one Hawkes had opened and slid it into his pocket with the other. He took a step closer to the ambassador, smiled, and said, "I guess I still owe you one."

  19

  THE NEXT NIGHT, HAWKES AND DlNA MARTEL SAT IN

  one of the low-energy people movers that buzzed about through all levels of the Martian Colony. Little more than a golf cart with a primitive robotic brain, the small three-wheeler quietly carried its passengers toward their destination.

  "Do you think this is a good idea?" asked Martel, worrying at the strap of her gown.

  "It was my idea, wasn't it?" Hawkes raised an eyebrow at her in amusement. "Yes, I think it's fine." Reaching over, he helped with her dress. "But you'd like an explanation, wouldn't you?"

  "As to why you're showing such favoritism this early in the game? Yes."

  "That barely deserves a response, but as my old commanding officer used to say, 'You can't be expected to play along if you don't know the game plan.' So, let me ask you: What do you think we accomplished today?"

  "We opened negotiations," she answered. "We got everyone seated at the same table and we got them talking to one another."

  "Were we in the same room?" asked Hawkes with mild sarcasm. When his aide was silent, he reminded her, "We didn't get anyone talking. We baby-sat a bunch of children. We listened to the same useless gaggle of threats and demands and accusations we spent our first two days here reading about." As their vehicle slowed to enter the elevator to the next level, he continued, "No one was talking to anyone else—they were just blaming each other for how lousy their lives are. You and I—we think we know what the story is, that we know what everyone's grievances are. We don't know anything."

  Martel's eyes narrowed and she focused her attention on Hawkes. She knew he was leading her somewhere, but she also knew that it was an important part of her job never to think something was a good idea simply because it had come from the great Benton Hawkes. The ambassador needed more than that from her.

  "We don't know who's telling the truth—any kind of truth beyond the self-serving type that everyone believes. If we're going to help anyone here, then we're going to have to go out and get a few of the facts for ourselves."

  "And so we use poor Glenia as our patsy?"

  "To answer your question," answered the ambassador, "yes—we certainly do. We use anyone to get the job done to the best advantage of the greatest number of people." His voice going a bit softer, he added, "I like Glenia Waters. She was sweet and charming. We're not going to hurt her. We're simply going to use her to try and get this whole process moving forward. Maybe you're thinking of settling down here—I'm not."

  The elevator doors suddenly opened again. As the silent cart moved out into the residential area set aside for the upper management of Red Planet, Inc., the ambassador lowered his voice and said, "We met Mrs. Waters on the Bulldog. We all survived the pirates together. Now we've accepted her invitation to dinner. We're not taking sides— we're taking dinner with an old friend. We're diplomats— we're allowed."

  As their carrier slid to a quiet halt near a doorway labeled with the number they had been watching for, Hawkes noted that the entrances to the various apartments on the management level seemed fairly close together. Storing the fact away for later consideration, he whispered, "After all, I had dinner with one of the working class last night, so you can hardly call this taking sides."

  Martel started to make a retort, but was forced to stop as the door opened. Glenia Waters flowed out of her front door. She was all smiles and open arms, calling to them, "Come in. Come in. My God, I haven't seen either of you since we left the ship, and that was only for a moment across a crowd." Taking Martel's hands in her own, the woman added with genuine warmth, "Of course we all heard that the ambassador hadn't been harmed . . ."

  "Well, nothing permanent," Hawkes interjected with a tone of mock pride.

  Rolling right past him, Waters continued, "But really, Dina, I hadn't known whether or not you survived until you accepted my invitation."

  "I'm fine. But what about you, Glenia? Did anything . . . ?"

  "No, no, not an old warhorse like me. Someone pushed me backward into a crew locker. It was uncomfortable, but considering the alternative . . ."

  The trio made silent agreement that they were lucky to have survived. Before any further comment could be made, a man roughly the same age as their hostess arrived at the door, making a final adjustment to his tie. He was tired looking, his eyes dark, and his skin tight and sallow.

  But he was as happy as his wife with their guests, and immediately asked why everyone was in the hall when the party was inside.

  In the Waters living room they ritually were introduced to the children, who were then sent off to amuse themselves while Glenia went to attend to things in the kitchen. Samuel Waters took over as host, first serving drinks, then picking up a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Extending it to his guests, he said, "Every bit of it grown right here on Mars. This is no reconstituted sponge/mush. This is the fresh act. The real deal. And maybe it's just hometown pride, but I think dehydration just kills the taste." He gave Hawkes and Martel each a moment to make a selection, then asked, "What do you think?"

  Martel's eyes opened wider as she bit into the canape s
he had selected. Holding it away from her mouth, she exclaimed, "This is very good—it really is." As Waters's head turned toward Hawkes, he agreed, saying,

  "Yes. I must admit I've never had anything quite like it."

  "It's the parsley and the peppers," called Mrs. Waters from the kitchen.

  "Now, honey," complained her husband lightly, "don't give away all my secrets."

  "Peppers? Parsley?" questioned the ambassador. "I thought you folks only grew smush here."

  "For export," offered Mr. Waters. "Pretty much everyone keeps some kind of home 'ponics system. Good as fresh smush is, who could eat it all the time?" When Hawkes merely smiled and nodded, not bothering to mention that that was all he had been fed throughout his stay so far, his host rose to his feet and offered, "Come on, let me show you our setup."

  Alerting his wife that he was taking their guests into the back of their apartment, Waters led Hawkes and Martel into a tunnel carved into the solid rock of Mars beyond the clean lines of their home. The rough ceiling was covered with a sophisticated series of grow lights. Rows of hydroponic equipment hummed silently below. Tubes of water hung from the ceiling with plants growing in them: root bases curling about in the fluid, long vines flowing down into the room. Examining a length of potato vine growing in one of the tubes, Martel said, "I had no idea there were private setups like this here."

  "Oh, my," Waters answered, "everyone has them. We have to." As his guests waited politely, he continued, explaining, "Every apartment as it's built is set up with a 'ponics unit. Having plants everywhere throughout the colony keeps up the oxygen levels. People grow whatever they want."

  Pointing to a long rope of eggplant curling down a pegged pole, the manager said with pride, "The seeds for these came from Earth almost forty years ago. It was about then that the vat central fellows started trying to figure out what to do with the fibers from the sponge/ mush plants."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, sorry, Mr. Ambassador, I'm getting ahead of myself. One of the big problems we have is keeping the plants trimmed back. I'm sure you realize the smush growth is a self-replicating body. What most people aren't aware of is that after the meat is harvested from the stems, and the pulp from inside them, there isn't anything we can do with a lot of the stem fiber. We can only recycle so much. The stems are pretty acidic . . . takes a lot of other waste to balance them out."