Mind Candy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That would explain why they showed so little interest in either communicating with humans or exterminating them—they weren’t planning to stay. Humans were just a temporary inconvenience.

  One wonders when it would have occurred to them to use the human Untermenschen as slave labor in building the gun that would launch them back to Mars.

  And one also wonders whether the government that exiled them had any concerns about an eventual return. Might it be that the Martian high command knew perfectly well that Earth’s environment would be lethal in the end? Might it be that the apparently-humane exile was, in fact, a death sentence, disguised to appease the soft-hearted Martian masses, and to avoid martyring the troublemakers? After all, according to Wells’ epilogue the Martians also launched cylinders to Venus, and how could any native of cold, thin-aired Mars hope to survive in the superheated pressure cooker of the Venusian atmosphere? If our own species is used as a model, it probably wouldn’t be hard to sell the idea to the Martian man-in-the-street—or octopoid-in-the-tunnel—that the exiles would have a fighting chance. The educated elite, though, would know perfectly well that the plotters would be fried the instant they unscrewed the cylinder’s hatch.

  I think that pretty much eliminates any possibility that the exiles fled voluntarily; even a stupid Martian would surely stop and ask, “Can we survive there?” before agreeing to be launched to an alien planet. No, they must have been despatched hither by the Martian overlords, whoever and whatever they may be.

  It may well be that the worst exiles, the smartest of the plotters, were sent to Venus, to die quickly in the searing blackness there, while the less-dangerous underlings, the mere thuggish minions, were sent to Earth. That would explain nicely just how they could be stupid enough to fall naked from their craft, there on Horsell Common—these were Martians chosen by their leaders for loyalty, aggressiveness, and brutality, not for brains. Their Lenin, their Hitler, their bin Laden would have been sent to a fast end on Venus, while their street-fighters and bully-boys were permitted to strut about on Earth for a few days before succumbing to the subtler menaces of our ecology. When the Martian powers staged their version of the Nuremberg trials, Venus served as the hangman’s noose, Earth as their Spandau.

  All this is mere speculation on my part, of course, but in all modesty, I think it fits the known facts far better than the narrator’s unexamined assumptions. I do not mean to fault Mr. Wells, of course; I have the advantage of an additional century’s perspective—and a very busy century it was, at that, one which taught its survivors a great deal about what humans are capable of, and thereby gave us a better insight into the Martians. We also know now that no second wave of invaders ever arrived, a circumstance that the narrator had just cause to doubt, which supports the supposition that the “invasion” was nothing of the sort, but merely the convenient disposition of a few troublemakers.

  Still, it may be that I am completely wrong, that Martians, having evolved on a planet so unlike our own, think and act in ways so alien that we cannot begin to guess them. That would render all speculation, by Wells, the narrator, or myself meaningless—but it would also run counter to all past human experience. All known life seems to share the same basic drives, though they may be expressed in a myriad of unlikely ways, and there is no reason to believe that would not be just as true on Mars as on Earth.

  So let us now consider the significance of my theories, should they prove correct. What do they tell us about what we might find when we at last repay the unfortunate visit of a century past, and set foot upon the Red Planet?

  Obviously, to state the most basic fact, we know that there were Martians on Mars as of 1898, though we have seen no evidence of their presence in any of the reports sent by our various robot probes in the past half-century. Either the entire Martian civilization vanished sometime in the twentieth century—an event that would, I concede, fit better with Wells’ speculation about the last survivors fleeing a dying planet than with my own supposition that our attackers were cast out by the outraged rulers of a thriving nation—or it remains hidden, presumably underground. We can draw no conclusions from any evidence visible on the surface; we will know nothing for sure until we can explore whatever may lie below the red sands.

  We may find nothing but empty ruins, or the starving remnants of a dying race—that would fit Wells’ expectations.

  My own belief, though, is that we will find a complex living society, one that pays lip service to mercy and benevolence—they did exile their enemies, rather than slaughtering them on the spot—but which is, beneath the kindly surface, as ruthless as its rulers deem necessary. They had no compunctions about sending those exiles to certain death, after all, and spared no thought for what the exiles might do to our own great-grandparents. These beings might in truth be the vast, cool, and unsympathetic intellects Wells assumed.

  We will want to approach them cautiously, negotiate with them, make whatever treaties seem appropriate—but never trust them.

  And I would think it wise to equip every expedition to Mars with a sealed container of Antarctic bacteria—microscopic creatures that can live in the Martian climate, that our own immune systems can easily handle, but that could, if necessary, be unleashed upon the defenseless Martian masses.

  If that seems cruel—well, re-read Wells’ novel, and consider that these are the heirs of the creatures that unleashed that dreadful chaos upon Earth. We cannot allow them an opportunity to finish what their exiles began!

  Chinks in the Armor: James Bond’s Critical Mistakes

  Originally published in James Bond in the 21st Century

  Ah, those famous words, that classic introduction: “The name is Bond—James Bond.”

  We’ve heard that so often, and isn’t it just brilliant? Thank you, 007; you’ve just saved the bad guys a lot of investigative work. Have you forgotten you’re supposed to be a secret agent? Really, would it be so very difficult to say, “My name’s Fred Jackson,” and smile charmingly?

  Permit me to explain what’s happening here. We represent a confidential board of review composed of retired operatives and experts in various fields, appointed by Parliament in hopes of improving the Government’s performance in certain areas, including clandestine operations. We have been charged with going over the history of Her Majesty’s secret service, determining what has worked well in the past and what has not, and offering suggestions for improvement.

  M has asked us to review your case files, 007, and point out some of your critical mistakes—oh, not the simple, one-time mistakes, the errors in judgment, the instances where you trusted the wrong woman or shot the wrong man, but the recurring themes, the problems that crop up again and again throughout your career. The theory is that making you aware of your flaws will help you lessen them, thereby improving your chances of survival on future missions.

  Given that you’ve already survived this long, and that thanks to you we haven’t all fallen victim to some madman’s scheme for nuclear blackmail or world domination, one could argue that you haven’t made any critical mistakes, and there’s a great deal to be said for that position, but my colleagues and I believe we have identified a few things that might prove critical in the future, and that are certainly areas of concern, with obvious room for improvement.

  Your ongoing resistance to actually staying undercover is one of them. Announcing your true identity to anyone you happen to meet at a bar or across a gaming table is really not in accord with policy.

  Practice these phrases, 007—“My name isn’t Bond.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I was just passing through.” “The British Consulate will hear about this!” Try to imagine yourself actually saying them in the field. Oh, we know most of the bad guys won’t believe you when you deny your identity, but if you could just learn to act a little you might at least put a bit of doubt into them. Telling everyone who you are may be good for the ego, but it is not good for the mission.

  Please, stop giving y
our real name.

  There might have been a time when you could justify this little quirk by saying that the name James Bond shouldn’t mean anything to your typical world-conquering megalomaniac, it’s just a boring, ordinary name, but really, 007, that dog won’t hunt anymore. Even if the public at large hasn’t seen your name in the newspapers, word gets around. International terrorist organizations, ex-Communist mercenaries, crazed multi-millionaires, and the like don’t live in a vacuum; they compare notes, 007. Surely you realize that; why build one’s world-spanning conspiracy from scratch, reinventing the wheel as it were, when you can learn so much from those who have gone before? Modern megalomaniacs do their best to stay informed, and learn from the errors of their predecessors. They listen to their henchmen—oh, not as much as they should, probably, but enough to have heard the stories about the arrogant British spy who took down Blofeld and Drax and the rest. Those henchmen give them your name, 007.

  Yes, word of your identity does get out, despite the devastation you leave in your wake. When you blow up the secret island lair, or the villain disposes of his own men once they’re no longer needed, you don’t really think all the underlings die, do you? Remember just how huge some of those lairs were, and how many hundreds of technicians, scientists, thugs, concubines, advisors, assassins, engineers, torturers, bodyguards, drivers, and assorted other minions it took to run them. Almost always, some of those people survive, if only by sheer dumb luck—the fellow who was out getting coffee and donuts when the balloon went up, the chaps in the blastproof underground vault, the ones who crawled out of the wreckage miraculously unhurt. No, Felix Leiter and his CIA pals don’t always put all of them behind bars.

  And it’s not as if you do much to help with rounding up the underlings. We know it’s not your job, you’re there for the big picture, stop the mastermind’s evil scheme and you’ve earned your pay, but somebody has to do it. You might want to make some effort to say a few words about that, point the fellows in the right direction, mention where the secret tunnels were—it would make things ever so much easier for the clean-up crew.

  So a few underlings do survive, in most cases, and slip away before we can incarcerate them. Now, when you’re a minion who’s escaped from the catastrophic failure of a world-conquering scheme, what sort of job do you find next? What can you put on your resume? You’ll hire on with the next megalomaniac who comes along, because that’s the only sort of person who’ll hire you, and you’ll tell him all about that dreadful Mr. James Bond who blew up your last boss, in hopes that maybe this time the scheme will work, the world will stay conquered, and you’ll get your little piece of the action.

  So please, 007—do try to maintain your cover just a little longer, rather than announcing yourself. We know it’s hard on your ego, pretending to be someone else when you’re so very obviously wonderful as yourself, but try.

  Speaking of ego, it’s not just the name. Would it kill you to drink a martini that had been stirred? Don’t you ever feel over-dressed, wearing a tuxedo so much of the time? Have you ever considered driving a Toyota rather than a Ferrari, and perhaps obeying the speed limit rather than making every little jaunt look like Le Mans? Must you draw attention to yourself at every opportunity? Blending into the crowd can be useful sometimes. The sheer gall you display, your open arrogance, is really rather disconcerting. If we were using you as the diversion while our real master spy slipped into the villain’s headquarters unnoticed, that would be one thing, but 007, you are the real thing, not the diversion. Making yourself so bloody obvious rather wastes any element of surprise you might have had.

  Yes, yes, we know, you’re trying to lure the evil mastermind out of hiding by making yourself a target, but one of these days you’re going to run into an evil mastermind bright enough to realize that’s what you’re doing, and he’ll either ignore you or kill you in some simple, fairly foolproof way, such as dynamiting your hotel (or better, your girlfriend’s hotel), rather than inviting you to dinner, setting up an elaborate deathtrap, or sending exotic assassins after you with rare poisons and razor-edged derby hats.

  There are other ways of getting inside the fortress besides being taken in under heavy guard as the mastermind’s soon-to-be-murdered guest, you know.

  Well, yes, you do know, because often enough you’ve swum in through the submarine pens or crawled in through an air vent, and in those cases your displays of ego are relatively harmless. They merely ensure that when you’re captured, the villain won’t need to ask who you are—he’ll already know.

  Saving the evil mastermind a few minutes of interrogative effort is not really something we want to encourage, 007.

  Have you ever considered hiring on as a low-level minion? I mean really hiring on, rather than whacking some poor bastard on the head and stealing his uniform half an hour before doomsday. You could infiltrate the evil organization weeks or months in advance, get a look at exactly what it’s doing, report back to headquarters on who’s been supplying these arch-villains with their hardware, where they’re hiring their technicians, all manner of useful little tidbits like that, and then take down the megalomaniac and blow up his lair. Maybe then we and the other good guys could make it a little more difficult for the next world-conquering crackpot to equip his troops and build his secret headquarters.

  Or, just possibly, you might consider not blowing up the villain’s lair; has it ever occurred to you that some of that stuff might be useful? Not just the information about where the bad guys get all those expensive high-tech toys that you blithely obliterate when you destroy the computer systems, but the toys themselves. That’s got to be a few billion pounds of hardware and real estate you’ve destroyed; it could have been turned over to Her Majesty’s government for their own use, or for resale to trusted allies. You know, the British government has no serious qualms about owning orbital death-rays, or maintaining secret outposts on uncharted islands; in fact, this sort of thing could be quite handy sometimes. Getting the funding through Parliament could be difficult, building it ourselves might have the Americans looking askance, but if it just falls into our lap, no, we are not morally obligated to blow it up.

  A good island lair or undersea base or hideout under the polar icecap has many possible uses; it isn’t just for world domination. A forward listening post here, a covert refueling station there—Britain could use these, 007.

  Really, destroying them all seems terribly wasteful. Yes, we want them out of the villain’s hands, but can’t you ever find a way to manage that short of wholesale annihilation?

  And of course, you always escape the conflagration at the last minute. The last minute. Might you ever consider setting the timer for a few minutes more, so you can make sure the arch-villain and his major henchmen are really dead, and won’t be back in the sequel?

  It’s just sloppy, 007. For someone so fastidious about food, drink, and clothing, you can be astonishingly sloppy about your work. Blown covers, ruined equipment, escaped bad guys, demolished lairs—it’s dreadfully untidy.

  And then of course, there’s that other area where you are noted for being something less than fastidious. Really, 007, must you bed every attractive woman you encounter?

  Yes, we understand that you have been successful several times in acquiring vital information from your playmates, and sometimes in convincing your foe’s female associates to betray their employer and come over to our side, but a little more selectivity might be a good idea. Seducing your CIA counterparts may save on hotel bills, but it does nothing to hasten the successful completion of your assignments, and the benefits in international goodwill are at best trivial and more often non-existent. Furthermore, involving random strangers in your work simply because they happen to be absurdly attractive is not in keeping with the policies of Her Majesty’s government concerning sensitive operations.

  What’s more, there’s the whole question of being lured into traps by women who were not as thoroughly seduced as you thought. Don’t try to tell us it
hasn’t happened; we’ve read the files. Admittedly, you’ve always managed to survive and turn the tables, but it is an added risk.

  That does not even mention the little detail that the mortality rate among your bed partners is appalling. Getting beautiful women killed is not part of your job, nor do we consider it advisable. It’s not as if the world had a huge surplus of them; those of us less favored by Nature than you do not appreciate this reduction in the supply. Yes, it does establish that your opponents are absolute rotters, but honestly, we don’t really need that much proof; generally, the construction of a death ray or an attempt at nuclear blackmail is enough to convince us. Leaving a woman dead in your bed and making it personal is unnecessary.

  We would never advise you to attempt celibacy; even if we thought you would pay any attention, we don’t think it’s possible. You wouldn’t be you, 007, if you didn’t have an eye for the ladies. We merely suggest you try to cut back a little and choose your targets more carefully.

  Really, 007, that’s all we ask—a bit of restraint. Don’t be quite so obvious about who you are. Don’t be quite so quick to blast everything to smithereens. Don’t be quite so eager to tumble into bed. Is that so very difficult?

  We can guess how you’ll respond, 007. You’ll point to your unbroken streak of more than forty years of successfully defeating megalomaniacs and evil international conspiracies, and ask why we want to fix something that isn’t broken. We concede you have a point; really, how critical can these flaws be when they haven’t resulted in a single failure in so long?

  But admit it, 007—you’ve been lucky. You know it, we know it, everyone knows it. Your enemies have had dozens of opportunities to simply put a bullet in your brain, and as yet they’ve never actually done it. The compulsion to make speeches and play elaborate games has always saved you.