Of course, standing on the outside of the game, it was easy for Hawkes to see the self-fulfilling-prophecy aspect of it all, but that did not do him or anyone else any good. If the Earth League partners could not be calmed down, their desperately growing desire to turn their stock into capital held the potential of creating exactly the same level of disaster that any kind of physical conflict on Mars might.
And, point number four, conflict on Mars was beginning to look all but inevitable. Every one of the surviving original colonists was still trapped below the surface of the planet, living like a slave. Their children, born in the planet's lesser gravity, were bound to the planet even more closely than they were. Even if they could buy their passage off-world, they could not survive more than a few months in Earth's gravity without a great deal of medication and physical therapy—costly medication and therapy. They might migrate to the Moon, but from all reports, life there was even harsher than on Mars.
Three generations of people were trapped by greed and were powerless to get what they wanted—what they had been promised—in any way except through force. And Hawkes could see that more violence was coming. Reports showed that riots sprang up constantly. Two-, three-, ten-person outbursts were going off at random whenever another battered soul snapped and reached out for the nearest blunt object.
So far, no major damage had been caused. But from similar situations throughout his career, the ambassador knew that such things were only a matter of time. Without false modesty, he knew that his reputation was the only thing keeping things quiet for the moment. And he also knew from bitter experience that he could count on that for only so long.
Which brought him to the fifth point: the fact that Red Planet management did not seem inclined to change their policies much. To them, strikes were illegal because any attempt to unionize was illegal. Red Planet had turned into a sort of debtors' prison, with the cost of food and shelter more than its inmates could work off. The corpor/national's employees had no constitution. They had no rights. Legally, the company could do what it wanted with them.
On the other hand, immigration had fallen off to a trickle. No one wanted to move to Mars anymore because—despite massive attempts to silence such information—over the years the consequences had become all too apparent. Thus, Red Planet—and by extension, the Earth League—did need to negotiate, but they insisted that the circle still brought them around to the same starting point: there was no money to give anyone, there were no domes to move into, and there was nothing left for the colonists but working until they died.
A wave of tired hopelessness washed over Hawkes. Unlike most of the diplomatic problems he had been sent into during his career, this one was close to pure tragedy. There seemed to be no real villains . . . just a lot of helpless, scared people on all sides, looking for the way out of a room without doors.
Sighing, the ambassador stretched again, then got up out of his chair. He was tired to the point of irritability and knew he needed a distraction. Realizing he had not yet really inspected the quarters the Earth League had set aside for him, he began to move around the chamber, stretching out his cramped back and legs. He had to admit that he was surprised. He had gotten used to the opulence of government lodgings; he had been surprised to find something so . . . standard.
Everything about the two small rooms he had been given boasted pure functionality. Clean, straight-angled, relentlessly empty, it was a proud barrenness, one that spoke volumes about the severity of life on Mars. Everything was well built—the walls smooth and seamless; the table and chairs, couch, and shower area all practical and useful, but utilitarian.
Hawkes's mind roamed for a moment, taking him back to the clean, open beauty of his ranch. Shuddering as he contemplated the differences, he muttered, "God, I'm just so tired of this. I'm tired of being used, tired of working my way around in useless circles, tired of everything I accomplish always going for nothing."
And his cynical side reminded him, I'm tired of waiting to get my hands on the sons of bitches who killed Dizzy.
Suddenly Hawkes could no longer stand the sight of his pair of spartan rooms. Too tired to continue reading and yet too keyed up to rest, he found himself being consumed by darker and darker thoughts. The talks to come seemed hopeless. He could see them going on for months—months that might lead on to years. Years trapped below ground—years living in tunnels, no meat, no sun, no . . . "Oh, the hell with this."
Stalking across the room, Hawkes kicked his slippers under his bed and then grabbed up his boots. Pulling them on one at a time, he said, "All right, so I might be here for a while. If that's the case, I might as well go out and start learning my way around."
On his way to the door, he grabbed up his portable screen—just in case he decided to sit down and start reading again. He checked his pockets to make sure he had all the usual odds and ends. Then he pulled two beef jerky packs from his luggage, slid them into his inner vest pocket, and headed for the door.
For some reason, he did not take a weapon. He would soon have reason to question that decision.
17
EVEN WANDERING AS HE WAS, IT DID NOT TAKE HAWKES long to descend to the lowest levels of the Martian Colony. Not down into the factory levels, of course, but only into the bottom reaches of the living quarters—the Big
