Man O' War

by William Shatner

  Hawkes took a step toward the connecting wall. Peste took a compensating step, turning his back on the woman in the bed to be able to keep his line of sight sharply on the ambassador. He started to order Hawkes not to try for the door, but the ambassador ran over his words.

  "As for killing me, you haven't pulled the trigger yet because even a worthless bucket of sewage like you can't feel much like a big man gunning down someone as old as me. It's your sense of the ridiculous. Half my age and hiding behind a gun."

  Hawkes took a breath, drawing out the pause as long as he dared, then added, "Of course, maybe you have a right to be scared. The last time you only had a knife and I almost handed you your head."

  Peste's sneer turned sour at the memory. He started bringing the needier down, fully intending to shoot Hawkes and be done with it. But he was distracted by a sudden noise behind him. Half turning, he saw Martel push her wheelchair across the room toward him. For an instant his attention was split in two directions, paralyzing his ability to act.

  Hawkes leaped. The needier fired. Martel screamed.

  36

  "WE CAN'T SIGHT THEM!"

  Variations on the same panicked sentence were repeated a dozen times over. Peste's second-in-command scanned the dust cloud himself, trying to spot any heat activity within it. Standing up to peer into the valley, he could not understand what was happening.

  "Where are they?" he muttered. Moving his helmet back and forth, he tried desperately to spot the fierce red glow their heat generators should have been throwing off. All he could see were tiny ghost shadows of energy residue—barely visible trace patterns—nothing he could target. "Where the hell are they?"

  The man knew the cold energy for the hydraulics—the radio sets; all the other smaller suit functions—would not give out anything their weapons could lock on to.

  But the heat-pac generators. You can always spot those. So where are they? Where are they?

  The thought was the second-in-command's last as a blast from below tore through his helmet, slicing off the top of his head. His pressure suit staggered, wobbling back and forth on the edge of the butte. Finally it toppled, falling over into the canyon. The man inside was dead before it had started to move.

  On the cul-de-sac's floor, Scully and his troops were making up for their bad start, taking the battle to the renegades. The old security man had been right. He had feared they would not be able to take their enemies by surprise. When he had told everyone to dress as heavily as possible, he had had their heat-pacs in mind. He remembered the complaints his people had made then. Helping one of his lieutenants sight the mortar he had had brought down from the Bulldog's stores, he thought, Nobody complaining now, I see.

  Then, with the small mobile cannon stabilized and ready, he signaled the order to launch. The mortar's internal tracker zeroed in on the largest concentration of heat forms outside its program-set perimeter and then fired. Seconds later, a half dozen of the renegades were hurtling down, jarred loose by the cannon's first blast. Three lay dead where the shell had gone off.

  The mortar launched again. Then again. In a matter of moments, scores of the enemy had fallen. Random shots rang down from the hills, but they found nothing inside the growing dust cloud. The renegades could not even target muzzle flashes through the ever-thickening billow.

  "Keep after 'em," bellowed Scully into his helmet mike. "Sight and shoot. We've got them on the run. Pick 'em off, kill 'em all."

  Through the dust, the old security man took careful aim at the warm, red outline of a figure desperately crawling down the side of the canyon wall. He coolly squeezed off his round, watching it flash straight toward the red glow. The figure froze, bounced, then dropped straight down and out of sight.

  "Good," spat Scully, the word a curse hurled at all his foes. Then, scanning about for his next target, he shouted to his troops encouragingly, "They started this little game . . . now let's show 'em how to play it!"

  In the cold silence of the dark Martian canyon, the opening battle of the solar system's first interplanetary war continued. The weapons were new, the techniques different. But in the end the motivations for the struggle were the same ones as always . . . as old as time, and just as pointless to the dead.

  HAWKES FELT THE STING OF THE FEW NEEDLES THAT HAD connected with his side, ripping his clothes, his skin, muscle. He slammed into Peste with all the force he could muster. He had not tried to grab the man's weapon from his hand, or to strike a blow. His attack had been one of strict projectile force, aiming to bowl the man over.

  It worked. Peste went down hard. His weapon hand struck the edge of the bed frame. The needier was jarred from his grasp, sent bouncing off toward the opposite wall.

  Hawkes did not try to break their fall. He landed on Peste as hard as he could, driving his elbow into the man's stomach. They collided with the floor roughly, the shock of contact pounding through them both.

  "You fuck," gasped Peste, struggling for breath. "I'll kill you."

  Hawkes clambered to his knees. Putting everything he had into one punch, he made a clawed fist and launched it toward the renegade's throat. As his stiff fingers slammed into the man's Adam's apple, he felt something break underneath.

  Peste exploded into a raging mill of arms and legs. Hawkes was thrown off balance, falling to one side. He landed badly on his shoulder, bouncing the back of his head off the floor. Struggling to his feet, Peste turned and kicked Hawkes in the stomach, then did it again.

  As the ambassador howled in pain, the renegade closed in, aiming a splintering kick at the ambassador's ribs. The blow knocked all the wind from Hawkes and left him gagging on the floor.

  Peste staggered back, gasping for air himself. He would kill the ambassador and then make his escape. Even with most of the security people in the colony gone, he knew there was no sense in taking any more chances.

  You're dead, old man, he thought. I'm not wasting another minute on you. I'm just getting my gun, filling you full of tiny holes, and then getting back to carving out my throne.

  Peste turned in the direction he knew his needier had fallen. When he did, he found Martel kneeling weakly at the edge of her bed, his weapon in her hands.

  As if reading his mind, she asked, "Looking for this?"

  And then she fired. The recoil knocked her over her bed and onto the floor on the other side. Her shot went wild, barely connecting with Peste. The volley of needles aimed at his chest went high and wide, tearing away the right side of his face. Blood, exploded outward from the side of his head, splattering across the far wall and drenching the floor.

  The renegade howled in agonizing pain. Whirling around, half-blind, he tried to focus what was left of his vision. His only thoughts were of finding the woman, finding his weapon, and killing everyone in the room.

  Only one thing stood in his way.

  Back on his feet, Hawkes tackled Peste, forcing him into the door. The metal panel buckled as the two men fell heavily against it, and the lock snapped. The pair fell out into the hall, landing side by side.

  Making it to his feet first, the ambassador locked his hands into one large fist, and then slammed it against the still-solid side of Peste's face.

  "Die, you son of a bitch!"

  Hawkes knocked the renegade's head first one way and then the other. His hands covered in blood, breath coming in labored gasps, he continued to strike and scream, scream and strike, until long after Peste had lost consciousness.

  Until long after he had died.

  37

  HAWKES MOUNTED THE STAGE, HEADED FOR THE POLISHED wooden podium at its center. He had written and rewritten his speech twenty times on the way back from Mars. For a while he had been comfortable with it, able to leave it alone and worry about other things. Now that it was finally time to give it, though, he was suddenly not certain it covered all the ground it needed to.

  You don't have that much to say, he reminded himself. Besides, it's a little too late to change it now.

 
Stepping behind the podium, he looked out over the audience as he arranged his papers. He had come to address a joint session of the U.S. Congress, a session with a great number of powerful players. Nowhere before him did he see a friendly face.

  Well, then, you didn't expect any, did you?

  Just to prove his cynical side wrong, he turned to the left. There he saw Dina Martel, almost fully recovered, standing with Ed Keller. Martel had risked coming because, as she had put it, "I have things to do on Earth, I want to, and you're only my boss, Mr. Ambassador Benton Hawkes, not my keeper."

  "It could be dangerous," he had warned her.

  "Could be dangerous?" she repeated. Giving him a witheringly droll look, she asked, "And what in our lives isn't?"

  Both of them had laughed. Their trip to Mars had indeed been dangerous. It had indeed been a number of other things as well, many of which the two had not even begun to figure out.

  Hawkes turned back to his audience. He could see that quite a number of his enemies were present. Mick Carri had a prominent seat, as did Herbert Marrow of the Earth League, and a number of Clean Mountain Enterprise executives. Tapping his papers until they came together evenly, the ambassador took a final look out over the crowd, and then, with a gesture calling for silence, he began his speech.

  "Ladies, gentlemen, I thank you all for coming. My intention is not to draw out these proceedings. I will try to make my points clearly and quickly. If there are any questions, I will endeavor to answer them to the best of my ability."

  Hawkes glanced up, throwing his eye over the audience. He had several faces he wanted to be watching when he hit certain portions of his speech. Their reactions to what he had to say were going to be very important.

  Memorize their seats now, he told himself. I doubt anyone's going to be getting up for popcorn once you get rolling.

  "First off, I will address the matter of communications silence between Mars and Earth for the past month. This began at your end, with an executive order forced through by Senator Carri. This order called for a filter blanket to be placed between these two worlds to keep Martian messages from reaching the Earth. Since this is the way Earth felt, the Martian government decided that the sovereign mother planet must be right in all things, and complied, setting up a reciprocal blanket at our end."

  Hawkes paused for a second, then conspicuously directed his attention to Carri as he asked, "I trust they did a good job? No messages got through, did they, Mick?"

  A number of people in attendance chuckled. Not amused, the senator rose to ask, "You said that was the decision of the Martian government. What Martian government?"

  "Sit down, Mick," answered the ambassador dismissively. "Q and A is later." As the senator sat down, red faced and steaming, Hawkes continued, saying, "As to the troops sent to Mars illegally . . ."

  An uproar thundered through the great hall. Carri, bouncing back up out of his seat, bellowed over the other voices. "Illegally?! What are you talking about? What is all this?"

  "And isn't that just what I'm doing here—trying to tell you just that?" Peering over his nose, Hawkes said, "It is illegal to send troops to invade an independent country without a formal declaration. It is illegal to make war on a peaceful people without just cause."

  "You've gone mad, Hawkes," counted Carri. "You never traveled in space before, and now you've got loose oxygen in your brain. You're not well."

  "And you are out of order, Senator. But in the interests of establishing friendly diplomatic relations, I will try to explain, if the interruptions can be kept to a minimum." Hawkes took a breath, then continued, ' Two days before your troops arrived and established orbit, the newly elected Martian government passed the following resolutions . . ."

  Again, pandemonium broke out. Getting order restored once more, the ambassador told the assembly, "Maybe I'd better just menu the facts for you people. Mars is no longer your plaything. No one in this congregation has any further power over the future of Mars."

  "The hell we don't," roared Herb Marrow. "The goddamned hell we don't. The Earth League owns Red Planet, Inc., lock, stock, and barrel."

  "Mr. Marrow," answered Hawkes, his voice dry and challenging, "aside from the fact that the new government could simply nationalize your equipment, buildings, et cetera, let's get down to the facts. You may not be aware of this, but the Earth League no longer has controlling interest in Red Planet. Over the past few weeks, that has been bought up and consigned to the new government for concessions that are to be granted later."

  A sinister joy filling his voice, the ambassador went on, telling Marrow, "You and the rest of your cronies are out of a job, sir. Your powers of office have been curtailed. If you managed to hang on to a bit of stock, then you might still be some sort of minority stockholder. You can voice any grievances you want at the annual stockholders' meetings. They'll be held once every four months in Greentop."

  "And where the hell is that?"

  "It's a new gigantic-scale park being created by a talented man named Pebelion. You would know it as the old number ten dome . . . on Mars."

  Another uproar ensued. Knowing it was time to hit the assembly with everything he had, Hawkes pulled a packet of vid chips from his coat pocket. Holding them up for everyone to see, he announced,

  "I think the moment has come for me to let everyone know just what has happened. Please pay attention. Much like Israel so long ago, Mars has bought its freedom, drawn up a constitution, voted on it, ratified it, held elections, created itself a separate government. Although you tried to stack the deck against her, she played the game by your rules . . . and she's won;"

  The assembly finally went silent. For a month there had been no word of any kind from Mars. Not from Red Planet management, not from the troopships—nothing. The food barges had continued to arrive, but they were robot-piloted drift ships that brought no messages of any kind.

  Now Hawkes had arrived out of the blue and was confirming far too much of what some in the assembly had already been suspecting. Hanging on his every word, they listened while he continued.

  "When your troops discovered the actual situation on Mars, they surrendered."

  "What?" roared Carri again.

  "Yes. In fact, most of them do not have any intention of returning. I have their resignations on vid. They have applied for Martian citizenship and begun to draw their pay as security people working for Red Planet, Inc."

  Targeting Marrow with his eyes, Hawkes said, "Considering that most of the murderers you sent to Mars to kill anyone who didn't follow your party line are now dead, the planet did need a new army. But don't worry, Herb . . . I only said 'most.' There are a few on their way back."

  As the Earth League head squirmed in his seat, Hawkes added, "You might want to go confer with your lawyers, Herb. Although I beat your handpicked assassin Peste to death myself—the fourth time he tried to kill me—it seems he was afraid you might try to double-cross him. He kept a complete set of records on his activities." Morrow got up out of his seat and began heading for the aisle.

  "He names you quite prominently." As the Earth League leader moved for the back door, the ambassador raised his voice, and said, "He was even considerate enough to get firm-vid of you ordering my death." As Morrow disappeared out through the door, others began to leave the room as well. Having known it would start sooner or later, Hawkes ignored the small exodus, addressing those remaining.

  "Let me try to give you who have remained something to work with. As you know, food and supplies have continued to be shipped to Earth. The Martian government has assured me this will not stop. Earth bank units are fairly useless to Mars, but there are things they want, and they are willing to trade for them."

  "Trade?" came a lone voice. "Trade for what?"

  "Seeds. Animals. Plants. More advanced robotics. Ice. And a few more frivolities—entertainment. Art. It's a long list. Don't worry about it now." His hands gripping the podium, Hawkes looked out over the crowd, then said,

  "
Believe me when I say that Mars doesn't want to see mass starvation, it doesn't want to see riots. It doesn't want war. Greedy, soulless men here on Earth have already visited riots and war on Mars. No one there wants to see any more of it . . . or cause any of it."

  The ambassador took a deep breath. He held it for what seemed a long moment. Closing his eyes a split second, he spent what seemed to be a lifetime in the moment of darkness, then came back to the world once more, telling it, "What happens next is up to Earth. If her leaders can accept the simple fact that the people of Mars are human beings and not cattle to be herded and slaughtered for their pleasure . . . if they can accept that they are going to have to ask from now on, instead of demand, then we will all know peace."

  "But if not," he said, letting his tone go dark and grim, "then Earth will know suffering like it never has in all its history. Any—any—act of aggression against Mars, including interfering with me or my people, from this moment forward, will be considered a declaration of war. If this happens, all food and materials barges will be stopped—destroyed, if necessary. This is no idle threat. Mars is a self-sufficient planet. It is not a comfortable life, but it is not a life dependant on Earth for anything. Earth depends on Mars. Try and shackle her again, and it will mean the end of life as you know it here."

  A flurry of noise and activity followed. A hundred questions were hurled toward the ambassador. Choosing those few he would answer, he told them, "I shall leave the vid-pac I showed you earlier with the sergeant-atarms. How he disposes of it, what you do with it, is up to you. This will make clear what the Earth League has been doing over the last half century. It will show you the crimes that this body—and every other major governing body on this world—are guilty of. How this is handled is up to you."

  Another breath, and then—his arms shaking, his forehead beading with perspiration, but his soul clear and calm—he went on, saying, "Mars does not care what you do to these people. For them, sweet freedom is enough. They have paid for it in toil, they have paid for it in sweat. Its price has been met in courage and in blood and with an honor sorely lacking here . . . and it shall not be taken away."