"I'm sorry about that, Mick."
"Of course you are," growled the senator. "You're comfortable Benton Hawkes. Snug and warm in your blanket of respectable ethics. Spitting your pious sentiments down into the grave as you shovel the dirt in on top of the rest of us."
Carri reached for the sandwich on his sideboard. As he turned away, he allowed his eyes to go hard, allowing Hawkes to see the move. The senator turned back and took a bite, then started talking again, putting on one of his nastier faces.
"It must be easy to be you. Everything for you is laid out in such lovely shades of black and white." Shaking his sandwich at Hawkes, Carri snarled, "You take a hard line and everyone just assumes that it was the right thing to do. You're the good guy, you're the goddamned cowboy with the goddamned white hat, and anyone that says nay to you is some moustache twirler in a black one."
The senator looked at the sandwich in his hand. Having purposely mashed it for effect, he threw it back on the plate, as if seeing what he had done to it had taken some of the fight out of him. Looking around him wearily, Carri continued, asking, "I mean, did you think I liked giving you the orders I did? We're the same kind of person, Ben." Waving his hand toward the pine forest vid with calculated casualness, he said, "We want the same things, love the same things. But you aren't willing to do your share so that America holds its place—so that we get to keep what we have."
Hawkes started to protest, but Carri put up his hand, blocking the ambassador's effort. Acting as if he had wearied of their conversation, the senator shifted gears and started in on another track, bringing their conversation back to its beginning point to keep Hawkes confused.
"And so you want to know if you cost me? Yeah, you cost me. You cost me big, you bastard. You backed me into a corner and cut my balls off. And you sit there wondering how I'm going to thank you for it." The senator paused for a breath, then asked in mock earnestness, "You tell me, Ben, what am I supposed to do, throw some kind of hissy fit and hand the media a field day? 'Carri Says: Fuck the People' . . . that would look good in ninety-six-point type, wouldn't it?"
"I had to do it, Mick," said Hawkes defensively. "They wanted to take people's land without the slightest right."
Carri sat back in his chair, not commenting. His face glazed over in a cold, hard set.
"It was a corpor/national wanting to start a war—itching to kill people in the name of securing a better third quarter. I couldn't let it happen."
The senator continued to sit back, doing nothing but staring forward. Frustrated, Hawkes added, "Damn it, Mick, I told you not to send me. I told you what would happen."
"Oh, now there's a good excuse. 'I didn't want to do my job the way I was supposed to. I told you I wouldn't.' What do you want from me, Ben?" asked Carri, taking another bite of his sandwich. Still chewing, he said, "The people said, 'Send Hawkes.' And they said it loud enough that for once we had to give them what they wanted. I'm not an idiot. I knew what you were going to do. But I didn't have a choice. So I sent you and then threatened and fought with you on a regular basis to try and keep you in line. When they come to grill my ass black and bleeding, you will attest to the fact that I did try, won't you?"
Hawkes thought back over the blistering arguments he and Carri had had during the conference. He had been kept under constant pressure, every day, and most nights, hounded by the senator and his people to relent and throw the game to Deutcher.
"Oh, yes, you tried."
"Yes. Tried and lost. For then. But this is now. I won't ask if you have anything you want to say in your own defense, because frankly, I don't give a damn."
All right, thought the ambassador, actually relaxing somewhat now that Carri was getting to whatever he had planned on getting to all along. Here it comes.
"Oh. . . yes?"
"And don't take that tone with me. Damn it, Ben, you like honesty, okay, fine . . . I'll give you honesty," the senator lied carefully. Letting his true anger come forth, he growled, "I swear to you right now, if I could afford to have you cut up into fish bait and dropped in the river, you'd be there before dinner." Carri used a free finger to press together crumbs that had fallen from his sandwich. Licking them off his finger, he said, "But, you miserable fuck—I can't."
Hawkes sat forward, his mind racing. What was his opponent playing at? So far the senator had been wearing the mask of a hurt friend. He had even bothered to drag in the truth. But the ambassador had been certain it was all just a buildup toward his dismissal.
What's going on? he wondered. What in God's name could you want from me now, Mick?
Without any further hesitation, the senator told him.
4
"WE'VE GOT BIG TROUBLES, BEN," CARRI STARTED.
Sucking his anger back down, he laid out his problem to Hawkes.
"From what I've gathered so far, there's a potential for riots brewing, illegal strikes. I have rumors of people being killed, children pressed into forced labor, contracts broken. We're looking at threatened disruption of the world's food supplies—possible work stoppage on the processing of a hundred different alloys, rare earths, and the such that would cripple a thousand different industries."
"Wait a minute, Mick," said Hawkes, afraid of the direction he thought the senator was taking. "What are you talking about?"
"We need you to negotiate a settlement in a spot so hot that no one's even going to come to the table unless everybody thinks they've got someone in the middle they can trust."
"Who is this everybody?"
"The upper management, officers, staffers, and workers of Red Planet, Inc." As Benton Hawkes's eyes grew wide, Mick Carri reached for his apple.
"That's right," he said, holding the dark scarlet piece of fruit a few inches from his mouth. "We want you to assume the governorship of Mars."
"What?" Hawkes's voice sank to a whisper. He could not have been more surprised if the senator had suddenly melted down into a pool of jelly or sprouted flowers from the ends of his fingers. As the ambassador stared in dumbfounded amazement, Carri went on: "We need you to head out to Mars as soon as possible. We don't know what to expect for sure, but we know there's going to be trouble—probably bloodshed—if we don't move fast to cork it."
"Now wait a minute . . ."
"Don't worry," the senator growled. "You'll have complete autonomy. We've got no time to play politics with this one. It's too big."
"That's not what I meant," answered the ambassador. "I don't want to go to Mars."
"Who does?" countered Carri. "But that's not the point, is it? That's where you're needed, so that's where you're being sent."
"No, you don't understand," explained Hawkes, dancing his way through the minefield the senator was laying out. "I refuse to go. The grand race to get to the stars is what killed my father. I swore decades ago I'd never set foot off-planet."
Carri returned to the tactic of folding his arms across his chest and silently staring, forcing Hawkes to keep talking. The ambassador had no difficulty in continuing.
"Everyone in the corps knows that. You know that, Mick. You know it. You can punish me any way you like—go ahead. Go ahead. But I'm not going to Mars."
The senator maintained his silent stare. Hawkes kept on rolling.
"I'm not. Strip my power, take my job, take my pension, do whatever you want. I'm not going. And you don't have anything in your stockpile of fast answers that's going to change my mind."
"You don't mind if I try, do you, Ben?"
"Of course I do. I don't want to be convinced. You've got a thousand other people you could send to Mars."
"Not like you," answered Carri. His smile grew wide. "Not like Benton Hawkes, the man who turns against the wishes of his own government to side with the little guy . . . the man who always tells it like it is . . . who averts world wars for breakfast." Carri dropped his hands down to his desk as he continued.
"Your little escapade down in Australia sealed you into this one. You're the diplomat's diplomat now. Wha
tever hell is brewing up there, it's bigger than any of us. Everyone up there thinks he's in the right, and won't settle for anyone less than . . ."—the senator paused for dramatic effect, lifting his left hand slowly, finally pointing at Hawkes's forehead—"you."
"Well, I don't care. I'm not leaving. Let them solve their own damn problems. I've got some of my own. CME is trying to annex the whole Absaroka Range. My ranch is in there, Mick. The bastards that killed my father are now trying to take his home from me as well."
"Damn you, Hawkes," roared Carri. He stood up from his chair, pointing again. "Damn you. Just who in hell do you think you are? We're not talking some fucking little border dispute now. This isn't the fate of a few paltry millions now. This is the entire fate of mankind."
"Overreaching hyperbole? This soon after lunch?"
"Don't patronize me," growled the senator. "You know as well as anyone how important Mars is now. I would hope better. Mars and the asteroids supply half our food and two-thirds of our raw materials. Riots, a civil war, what do you think that would do to this country— to the whole planet, for Christ's sake?"
Carri pushed his chair back, stepping free into the large space between his desk and the wall. Pacing about, keeping his eyes glued to Hawkes, he snarled, "We're talking about the possibility of mass starvation. If the situation were to deteriorate and fall into even just a bargaining situation—one that only lasted as long as your stay in Australia—we could have tens of millions dead worldwide."
Hawkes turned away from Carri's relentless glare. He knew there was no disputing the senator. The Earth had gotten itself into a precarious balance by allowing itself to become so overly dependent on the outer colonies. He knew there was no exaggeration in Carri's facts. Before he could try, however, the senator was at him again.
"I'd give anything to crush you like the pompous, self-important shit you've turned out to be. And, God help me, you weasel your way out of this, and I will. But . . . I'm as close to begging you here as I have been to anything. For once, get beyond yourself and consider what we're talking about here."
Carri moved around his desk slowly. Stopping directly in front of Hawkes, he settled his weight onto the edge of his desk. Looking down at Hawkes, he said, "If Mars cuts off services—whether in some kind of united strike effort, or because they've been crippled by internal conflict—that'll be the end of us. You know warships will be sent in. You know it. But it'll be too late."
Reaching behind him, the senator grabbed up the papers he had set out previously. Pulling them around, he handed them to Hawkes, telling him, "Here are the projections the computers have given us. Figures on what we get if we let this situation degenerate. The worst-case scenario foresees a new dark age here on Earth, with all life outside our atmosphere coming to an end."
As he dropped the papers in Hawkes's lap, Carri continued, saying, "Now, you say to yourself, well, that's the worst case. But, what's the best? I'll tell you. The best we can hope for . . . if things only get to, say, a week or two of work stoppage due to riots or sabotage or whatever . . . system wide—two point eight billion dead."
Two point eight billion? The ambassador's brain reeled from the impossibility of the figure.
"We've overextended ourselves for too long in too many directions. Every country in the world is guilty of it. No question."
Two point eight billion?
"But that's besides the point now."
Carri struggled to keep a grin of triumph off his face. He knew exactly how much Benton Hawkes hated the idea of going off-world, of leaving behind his precious outdoors for vacuum hulls and air locks. He also knew exactly how much the ambassador wanted to stop CME from taking his home.
"The simple reality is that mankind bet its future on moving out into the solar system. Our chips are on red, Benton . . . and right now, you're the only person in the world that can keep the ball from falling into the black."
Two point eight billion?
Senator Carri watched as Hawkes's eyes closed. He could see the pain etched around them, could follow the agony inching through the ambassador's body. Not able to help himself that time, the politician smiled. He finally had Benton Hawkes where he wanted him.
And, no matter what happened next, he had to admit, it felt damn good.
5
"DIZZY," HAWKES SHOUTED, GROWING SOMEWHAT IMPATIENT with the barking dog, "for God's sake, will you shut up?"
The big retriever had been barking and running around the barn ever since they had come outside. Loping over to the ambassador's side, he playfully snapped at his master's left boot, then ran back to the other side of the truck, barking again. Deciding to give up on the dog for the moment, Hawkes grabbed up two pairs of work gloves from the utility table built into the wall.
"All right," he said, slipping on one pair, handing the other to Daniel Stine, "time for you to learn to work for a living."
"Really, sir," answered the ambassador's aide, holding the gloves away from his body as if they were some sort of dangerous insects, "this is not quite what I had in mind when I said I'd like to help you get your affairs in order."
"Well," said Hawkes, studying the engine before him, not looking at the younger man, "next time you'll know better."
As Disraeli continued to bark, the ambassador pulled a dog biscuit from his vest pocket and threw it as far as he could into the tall grass beside the barn. As the retriever took off after it, Hawkes said, "Damn dog's going to drive me crazy." Then, poking his head back under the hood of the truck, the ambassador asked the other man present, "So, what's the problem, Ed?"
"Caught me there," the much older man admitted. "Truth, just got to her today, so I don't rightly know yet."
"Well, I see you got the oil pan off. What's it look like in there?"
"Oh, that's fine. All clean wet. Little metal, sure, but just specks. Normal bushing and thrust-washer wear. You know. Nothing serious."
"You check all the other fluid levels?. . ."
"Oh, yeah, always do the easy stuff first. Everything's topped off, all the colors are good. None of the hoses are cracked, all the vacuum lines are connected."
Hawkes stood back from his old 4X4 and frowned. Several decades earlier, personal vehicles had begun to disappear in America. Using public transportation had become the government-mandated mark of a good citizen. Gasoline and diesel fuel had been taxed excessively to give the infant electric and hover transportation industries an advantage.
Both of the new technologies shared the problem of working efficiently only in massive constructs, though. So for the good of the environment, and the bank accounts of several well-placed individuals, private ownership of vehicles was labeled un-American, elitist, racist, wasteful, phallocentric, and just plain bad. The cities and suburbs of America were given over to selected monopolies to move people about as they saw fit.
The problem for Hawkes was twofold. First, none of the monopoly-run bus, floating platform, subway, or train lines came anywhere near his property. And secondly, even if he were to apply for a private hovercraft ownership permit, it would do him no good. Hover technology still had not conquered the upgrade barrier. Any elevated plane that rose quicker than twenty-nine degrees caused all hover engines to choke. It was due to their inability to break away from the Earth at certain speeds, all of it beyond the ambassador, and all of it useless to a man who lived in the mountains.
So Benton Hawkes had been forced to learn to care for his four-wheel-drive vehicles. Over the years he and his foreman, Ed Keller, had tracked down parts from around the world, learning to build the ones they could not buy or barter. It was either that, or sell off the ranch and move into a city, Ed had joked once.
"I'd rather switch to forty-four-caliber mouthwash," the ambassador had answered. Ed had nodded grimly, and they both laughed.
The memory of that day came back to Hawkes as the two stood staring at the engine in the cold morning air. However, the moment was suddenly shattered as Disraeli bolted back into the
barn and began barking once more. Sighing, the ambassador smiled, then told his foreman, "Listen, maybe it's a fluctuation problem in the oil pressure. You've got Danny here. Why don't you two cycle the transmission, see if you can find any aeration."
"I don't know if I'll be much help, sir."
"Well, there's only one way to find out."
As Hawkes threw his gloves on the utility table, Ed asked, "Where'll you be, case I need to find you?"
"I'm going to walk the back divide, check the fence. Get used to things again."
"You think that's more important than getting this heap running?" the old man shouted over the Labrador's deep barking.
"I figured I'd take Dizzy with me."
"Deal," answered Ed, laughing. "No wonder they made you a negotiator."
"Well, it was easier than working for a living."
"They could still use you, sir," Stine threw in hurriedly. "Now more than ever."
"Danny . . ."
"You know they need you."
Hawkes turned with a cold look in his eye. In a quiet voice filled with steel, he said, "It's a long walk down the mountain, Stine. I'd think about helping to get the truck running."
And then he turned and walked away, Disraeli snapping at his heels. Silently, Hawkes disappeared into the livestock barn, the dog sitting down quietly at the front entrance to the larger building. Staring at the scene, Stine asked the foreman, "What's in there?"
"Horses," Ed answered, patting the 4 X 4's side. "No sense in wasting fuel when you got hay burners. 'Sides, he's going out to check the Scar. Ain't no roads back there."
"The Scar?" asked the ambassador's aide. Like any young man confronted with a job he did not wish to do, he badgered the foreman with distractions. "What's that?"
Man O' War Page 4