Chapter 8C

EastHem Capital Building, London
May 28, 2146

The Martian Declaration of Independence was a short document, less than a page in length. It contained no flowery speech, no legalese terms, in fact very few adjectives of any kind. It was a simple statement proclaiming that the Planet of Mars had forcibly broken ties with WestHem and now considered itself a free and sovereign nation, with all of the rights and privileges that went along with such a thing. It asked that the two governments of EastHem and WestHem immediately recognize the Planet Mars as such and that they publicly acknowledge it. The document was fingerprint signed by Governor Laura Whiting, the loyal members of the legislature, and General Jackson. Attached to it as a separate file were the certified results of the Independence vote. The declaration and the file had been digitized and sent over an unencrypted frequency to both EastHem and WestHem.

The upper echelon of the EastHem government had been following the events on Mars very closely over the past two weeks. They had watched with glee as the reports had come in regarding the takeover of the planet and the capture of a third of the WestHem navy at anchor. A certain trepidation had fallen over them when they'd received the text of Governor Whiting's address the night of the capture however. She had told the solar system that in order for their revolution to succeed that they would have to engage in trade with EastHem. She had admitted that on an open channel for all the people of both worlds to hear. That had forced the powers-that-be of EastHem into a frenzy as they tried to figure out how to respond to this.

Though EastHem was portrayed by the WestHem media as a fascist dictatorship, in truth the government there was very similar to the government of WestHem. Primarily EastHem was a capitalistic society in which huge corporations controlled the vast majority of the wealth. The official head of the government was a ruling council of nine representatives. Like on WestHem, these politicians were merely puppets for the corporate money that had purchased them and their votes.

Anthony Billings was the chief executive council member. A handsome, charismatic, fifty-five year old Londoner, he was owned quite thoroughly by A&C Hydrogen, the biggest producer of fuel in the hemisphere. He had called a special meeting of the council to discuss a matter of great importance in regards to the Martian situation.

"My fellow councilmembers," he said to his colleagues. "Forgive me for pulling you from your offices in the middle of a workday but I have received word from Mr. Jennings..." he pointed to Kelsey Jennings, the EastHem national security adviser, "... that an encrypted message from the Martian governor has arrived just thirty minutes ago. This is a message that has great bearing on the questions that we have been debating since the Martian revolution took place and one that needs a quick decision."

"Is she asking for trade?" asked Barbara Cassidy, another senior member of the council. Kiev Food Products, the agricultural giant of EastHem, owned her. Her sponsors, and therefore herself as well, were quite eager to participate in trade with Mars as it would easily increase their profits by more than a hundred percent.

"I will play the message for all of us to see in just a moment," Billings replied. "We will then open a discussion on the matter. I have taken the liberty of inviting Mr. Jennings to this meeting as well as General Hans, the chairman of our joint chiefs." He nodded towards a uniformed general sitting at his left. Like most of the EastHem military leaders, he was German in ancestry. "Both of these gentlemen possess some expertise that we will need in order to decide the next step in this process. And now, with no further ado, I will play the message for you."

He spoke a few words to the computer terminal, which caused the lights to dim down and the large view screen at the front of the room to come to life. Everyone watched attentively as Laura Whiting's face, a face that looked tired and drawn from the recent stress that the woman had undergone, filled the screen.

"Greetings, honored ruling council of EastHem," the image said emotionlessly. "By now I'm sure you're aware of the recent events on the planet Mars and I trust that you have received our declaration of independence — a document that was sent out two hours before this message — and had a chance to look it over. I am also confident that you have been monitoring the news broadcasts that have been generated, including the one that portrayed my Independence Day speech to the planet.

"As is the Martian way, I will get right to the point of what I want. Mars is going to have to go to war with WestHem in order to keep our independence secure. As I speak they are loading up marine units into naval ships with the intention of taking our planet away from us and putting it back under their control. We intend to fight them but in order to do that, we are going to need fuel, and lots of it. You folks have fuel and you have the means to deliver it. We would like to engage in straight trade with you for this commodity. In exchange we offer you the commodity that you are perpetually short of: food. We have the means of ending the famine that regularly plagues your nation and boosting your economy exponentially. We will exchange a large portion of our food surplus for your fuel. We require that the fuel will be shipped to our storage tanks at Triad on a bi-monthly basis and that your cargo ships arrive at the same destination in order to pick up the food products. The terms we will offer will be more than fair, in fact they will be quite extravagant.

"As I said in my speech, you hold our fate in your hands. If you refuse to do business with us, our revolution will die in the time that it takes the WestHem landing ships to arrive here. Mars will go back to being a WestHem possession and you will never enjoy Martian agricultural products on your shelves. If you do agree to trade with us you will be subjecting yourself to anger from WestHem. I don't think that that anger would lead to military action on their part but I cannot guarantee that. It is a question that you will have to decide for yourselves.

"Our terms for this deal are few but they are non-negotiable. If you accept our offer it must be done openly, without deceit. We require that you publicly recognize us as the legitimate government of Mars and that you acknowledge our independence. We will not engage in secret trade agreements or clandestine operations to secure this fuel. If you treat us as one sovereign nation dealing with another, you will reap huge benefits. If you are not willing to do that, than we would rather flounder. The decision is now yours. Please get back to us as quickly as possible with your response.

"Thank you, Laura Whiting, acting Governor of Mars."

The screen clicked off and the lights came back on. Everyone continued to stare at the screen for a moment, all of them somewhat taken aback by the briefness of the message.

"Well," said Cassidy, "she certainly doesn't mince words, does she?" As a third generation politician, used to being addressed formally, she was actually a bit offended by Whiting's brevity.

"No," Billings agreed with a sigh, "she certainly doesn't. But let us forgive her for this minor transgression, shall we? Martians are well known for their crudity with the spoken word. After all, look at their ancestry. They are the descendents of welfare recipients of a society that were once the lower classes from this hemisphere. It amazes me sometimes that they can speak coherently at all."

The assembled politicians and military leaders all had a laugh at this jest although, in truth, none of them really thought it was all that funny. But when the CECM made a joke, you laughed at it. That was proper etiquette after all.

"In any case," Billings went on, "I suggest we concentrate more on Ms. Whiting's message than the words she used to deliver it with. Though no firm terms have been laid out, she is offering us a portion of their food surplus in exchange for fuel and official recognition of their government. The question we need to be asking is: are these terms acceptable?"

"We can't recognize the Martian government as official," Cassidy said immediately. "There's no telling what WestHem would do in that instance. They have nuclear weapons pointed at our cities and millions of troops across the Bering Straight from us. It's simply too risky to change the status quo in that manner."

"So you're saying that we should ignore this offer?" Billings asked. "Ignore the strengthening of our economy that this influx of food resources could represent?"

She shook her head. "We don't ignore it completely," she said. "We officially condemn their actions and call for a return to WestHem rule. We then make clandestine shipments of fuel to them in exchange for the food."

"They said that the offer was non-negotiable," another member, a more junior one, pointed out.

"Everything is negotiable," Cassidy said confidently. "They need our fuel more than we need their food. Without shipments from us their entire revolution is lost. She admitted that herself. The worst that can happen to us is that we go on as we always have. It is we that are in the position of strength here."

"I tend to agree," Billings said with a nod of his own. "There is of course the question of whether clandestine fuel shipments are even possible. General Hans, perhaps you can answer that one for us?"

"It would be impossible to deliver anything to the Martians without WestHem knowing about it," he said immediately. "Fuel ships and cargo ships are huge machines, detectable from hundreds of thousands of kilometers away. Keeping such a thing strictly secret is out of the question."

"I see," Billings said thoughtfully. "I was afraid of that." He turned back to the rest of the council. "That leaves us with the option of open deceit in this matter. We refuse to acknowledge Mars as a government, we condemn their actions, but we ship anyway and keep it out of the public's eye. I don't think that WestHem would attack us for this. They would not be happy about it, but they wouldn't risk military action for such a thing, especially since they seem to think that they'll take their planet back with their military forces no matter what we do or don't do. Relations would be strained this way but they're always strained, aren't they? And in this way we'll be able to get the best of both worlds."

The other council members liked the idea. General Hans seemed to think it was something that would work as well, although he suggested that military ships escort any ships making pick-ups or deliveries. They all talked this and other aspects over and then took a vote. It was unanimous in favor of opening clandestine negotiations for clandestine trade.

"Of course we will not respond to Ms. Whiting ourselves," Billings said after the measure was passed. "We don't want her thinking that she and her planet are important enough to be brought directly to our attention. I'll have one of my staff members record the reply to her and we'll send it off within the hour."

Capital Building, Eden, Mars

May 28, 2146

"Who in the hell is this moron?" Laura asked General Jackson as the image of a power-suited man appeared on their view screen.

"He sure ain't one of the council members," Jackson responded. "I have full dossiers on all of them."

They were in Laura's office and it was late in the workday. They had sent their request for negotiations to Earth more than seven hours before. And now, when the reply had finally come in, they were not even looking at one of the people to whom they were hoping to negotiate with.

"Greetings, Ms. Whiting," the man's image said to them, a phony, corporate smile upon his face. "My name is William Warringer. I am a special assistant to executive council member Billings."

"Special assistant?" Jackson snorted in disgust. "I told you they were going to play games with us. They want us to think that our request wasn't even important enough to bother the council with."

"You gotta love Earthling politics, don't you?" Laura asked.

"... asked by my boss and his associates on the council," Warringer was saying, "to send a response to the offer that you presented to us earlier today."

"Let's hear the bullshit," Laura said with a frustrated sigh. Didn't these EastHem suits know that time was of the essence? Couldn't they dispense with the games for once?

"It is our understanding," Warringer told them, "that you are requesting recognition of your government in a public forum and that you wish to engage in a trade of fuel for food products. Unfortunately it is not possible for our government to condone the actions that you have taken against your mother nation. We cannot, in good faith, recognize your government or those actions as official or just. We must in fact condemn what you have done and speak out publicly against it. Grievances should be aired in courtrooms and on the Internet, not by force of arms or by the capture of a possession. It is our duty as a civilized nation to implore you to give up your illegal action before any more blood is shed."

"Jesus, this is pretty thick," Jackson said.

"Yep," Laura agreed.

"However," Warringer continued, "since we realize that you are unlikely to give up your ill-gotten gains at the present time and since we also realize that the welfare of the common people on your planet depend upon a steady supply of hydrogen fuel, we might be willing to engage in a limited amount of the sort of trade that you mentioned."

Laura and Jackson both had a sharp, cynical laugh at this statement.

"Beautiful," Laura said. "They'll do it for our common people."

"Of course such trade would have to be kept... shall we say... under the table," Warringer told them next.

"Of course," Jackson commented.

"We might be persuaded to arrange for some quiet shipments of fuel to your orbiting space dock in exchange for shiploads of food surplus. It would be imperative that such shipments be kept secret from the general public and from the WestHem government. Please respond at your convenience, using the same communication method as your original message. If these rather generous terms that we are offering you are deemed acceptable, and if the full council agrees, we can commence with some quiet negotiations of the terms of this trade.

"Awaiting your reply, William Warringer."

The screen blanked out, leaving the two of them two stare at it for a moment.

"Christ," Laura finally said. "I don't know why I'm surprised by this but I am. Those EastHem morons don't know the deal of a lifetime when it's staring them in the damn face."

"What now?" Jackson asked.

"Now," she said, "we send a reply back and lay our cards down on the table." She turned to the computer screen on her desk once more. "Computer, open mail program. Addressee, EastHem ruling council. Highest level of encryption."

The computer repeated what she had said and told her to record when ready.

EastHem capital building, London

May 28, 2146

They had all been on the verge of leaving for the day when Jennings informed them all that a reply had come in from Mars. This was surprising to them — they hadn't expected to hear from Laura Whiting for at least another twenty-four hours — but they nevertheless gathered back in the executive briefing room to view it.

"It's only been six hours since we sent our message," Cassidy said sourly as she took her seat near the head of the table. "When you account for the travel time of the radio signals, she couldn't have spent more than thirty minutes or so before she answered us."

"She's desperate," someone suggested. "She wants to open negotiations for our deal as quickly as possible."

They all informally agreed that that was probably the case.

"Open message," Billings told the computer once everyone was seated and paying attention.

The lights dimmed down once more and the screen came to life. Laura Whiting's face greeted them for the second time that day. She did not appear very happy.

"This message is in response to the insulting reply that you gave us to our offer," she said sternly, making everyone gasp a little at her insolence. The image took a deep breath and stared into the camera. "Look, people," she told them next. "We are in a very desperate situation here on Mars and we don't have time to play nice little political games and negotiate back and forth. Nor are we willing to accept clandestine shipments on your terms. I believe I made that point perfectly clear in my first message. This is the deal: We will trade one half of our monthly food surplus for three hundred million metric tons of liquid hydrogen per month. You will provide the shipping for both of these commodities and we will supply the labor needed to load and unload it. In order for this deal to be binding, we require public acknowledgment of our government and public acknowledgment that we are an independent nation. That is it. These terms are not open to negotiation or change. Take it or leave it. We require an answer within twenty-four hours. That answer will be either yes or no. If you fail to respond to us or if you send me a message from some political underling or if you send me a message that asks for some modification of this deal, there will be no deal. Half of our food surplus should be more than enough to compel you to do as we ask and it is well beyond fair.

"Awaiting your reply, Laura Whiting."

The first, instinctive reaction around the table was outrage. The council members erupted into a chorus of indignant exclamations, shocked words, and even a few utterings of politically incorrect profanity, the likes of which was rarely heard in such a setting. They could not believe that this Martian woman, this greenie, would dare talk to the ruling council of the most powerful nation in the solar system in such a manner. There was talk of simply abandoning the entire deal on that basis alone. The Democratic Republic of the Eastern Hemisphere certainly did not wish to do business with uncouth, uncivilized welfare scum who did not follow or apparently even know the most basic rules of propriety. It took several minutes for it to even occur to anyone just how magnanimous of a deal they were actually being offered.

It was one of the junior members of the council, the forty-five year old representative of the Zimbabwe region in Africa (though she had never actually been to Zimbabwe, which was one of the worst and largest slums on the planet), who finally ventured that maybe they should think about this for a second.