All The Angles
All The Angles
by Jack Nimersheim
_(Originally published in "Animal Brigade 3000" - Ace Science Fiction)_
Somebody told me once that my original name was Socks -- or Spats, or Shoes, or Sneakers, or some equally inane sobriquet. I'm not sure which, exactly. This was back before the enhancement. It had something to do with feet. I do recall that much. The way I understand it, I was named after one of my ancestors, some famous political figure. At least, that's the story, as I remember it.
Nowadays, though, everybody just calls me Thom. Thom Cat.
Okay, so it's not very fancy. Don't you think I realize that? I also don't give a bowl of curdled cream. As far as I'm concerned, only paranoids and egomaniacs feel the need to inflate their image with a flamboyant name.
You want some free advice? Never trust anybody who always uses their middle initial. And never, _ever_ trust someone who tries to convince you that they're _really_ important by abbreviating their first name and then cramming their middle name into the leftover space. History is filled with people who practice this little affectation: E. Howard Hunt; F. Scott Fitzgerald; G. Gordon Liddy; H. Ross Perot; J. Edgar Hoover; L. Ron Hubbard; T. Boone Pickens. Like I said, paranoids or egomaniacs, every one. (I'll let you figure out for yourself who falls into which category.)
Anyway, if you've accomplished all of the things that I've accomplished, you don't need a fancy name to prove your worth. So don't expect me to answer to Thom S. Cat, or T. S. Cat, or T. Socks Cat, or whatever. If you want to get my attention, just call me Thom. That's good enough for me.
Right about now some of you must be wondering: Who is this arrogant S.O.B. and what's he ever done that gives him a right to be so damned self-righteous? Let me set you straight on two points.
First of all, although I'll confess that I'm probably not the kindest, gentlest creature you'll ever meet, I can't possibly be an S.O.B. Why? Because the "B" in this particular expletive stands for bitch. And a bitch is a female dog. My mother, on the other hand, was a queen. Don't misunderstand. No royal blood flowed through her veins. But she was a queen, nonetheless -- as in the proper term used to describe a female cat. Second, if you even have to ask this question, then you've either been catatonic or working in the methane mines of Io for the past half-decade.
On the outside chance that one of these two descriptions fits a few of you, let me tell you a little story about myself. Nothing overly impressive, just the tale of how I single-handedly saved an entire world, a few years back.
I assume you _have_ heard of the Deimos Uprising. It was in all the holo-casts. Even as far out as Io, I assume. That leaves only the brain dead among you to bring up to date on this one, right?
About seven years ago, the governor of Deimos -- this is one of two moons orbiting Mars, for those of you whose grasp of astronomy is as feeble as your knowledge of recent history -- decided that his people were being exploited by the Martian government. His observation was not totally without merit.
At the time, Mars charged the people of Deimos a substantial export fee for any goods shipped to that tiny moon from the planet's surface. Seeing as how Deimos -- which is little more than an orbiting mudball -- possessed few natural resources to speak of, this fee increased significantly the cost of a lot of merchandise, including many of the basic necessities of life. It also transferred a considerable amount of cash from the moon's relatively poor inhabitants to the movers and shakers down on Mars. Needless to say, this situation did not thrill Deimos' own governor, a man named Praetheor.
So far, our little narrative contains all the plot elements of your typical morality play: right versus might; the little people versus big government; those in need versus those who already have, and covet more. The only thing required to push it over the edge is my telling you that Praetheor's reaction was based on an inherent sense of justice and a deep devotion to his subjects.
Much as I'd like to, I can't. You see, the governor of Deimos was himself a petty, little autocrat, not unlike the folks in charge of Mars. About the only difference between him and his Martian counterparts was that the former saw wealth he craved flowing through his own fingers and down the gravity well of his celestial neighbor, where it proceeded to grease the outstretched palms of the latter.
Such an arrangement, denying Praetheor personal profit as it did, stuck in the governor's craw. So much so, that he decided to end this injustice. And so, in a well publicized press conference, Praetheor announced that Deimos was seceding from the Martian Confederation. It was a bold move for the usually meek politician. Praetheor's decision was greatly simplified, however, by the realization that he could call upon several thousand surrogates, his loyal citizens, to do the actual fighting that might be required to secure Deimos' independence.
That's all I'm going to tell you about how the Deimos Uprising started. If you're curious to know more, you can look it up yourselves. Like the history of most armed conflicts, it's an interesting, if all too familiar, story.
I entered the picture several years later, right around the time the uprising was beginning to wind down. As you might suspect, things were looking pretty bleak for Deimos by then.
Picture a gnat buzzing around an elephant. This image gives you a fair idea of how effective the tiny moon was in its efforts to challenge the forces of Mars. By the time I got involved Deimos' population was decimated, its already meager resources were almost depleted and its spirit was all but broken. Watching his realm crumble -- along with all those dreams of personal wealth -- forced Praetheor to wake up and smell the ozone. He finally called in some professional help. That's how Jonesy and me ended up joining the ranks of the Deimos Freedom Fighters.
Oh, yeah. I haven't told you about Jonesy yet, have I? I guess I should remedy this oversight, before continuing.
Jerry Jones -- that's Jonesy -- is my partner. He's a human, but I don't hold that against him. We share a long history together, Jonesy and me, all the way back to orientation camp. That was in `33.
Jonesy was a pretty gung ho dude, back then. He graduated from high school, enlisted in the Empath Corp, tendered his goodbyes to friends and family and started training -- all within two weeks of his eighteenth birthday. Jonesy confessed to me later that he'd bought into all that crap on the recruitment posters. You know the stuff I mean. That whole spiel about "serving humanity through service with other species."
I always considered this a bit of a stretch. Of course, nobody checked with me before they came up with that campaign. For all its faults, however, it proved quite effective. Jonesy fell for it -- hook, line and sinker.
We hit if off immediately, Jonesy and me. There was more to it than our highly resonant encephalo patterns. All of the pairings shared these. With the two of us, though, it was as if we were made for each other. I don't mean this in any perverse way. (Although, like you, I've heard the rumors that some strange things went on in the Corps.) It's just that our minds were so much in sync...well, it was pretty amazing; that's all I can say.
I remember this one time, it must have been about two weeks after we were assigned to one another -- long before the Emplant. That morning, the brass had scheduled some kind of special maneuvers. Humans only. We animals were informed that we could sleep in for a change.
I looked forward to taking full advantage of the offer. I figured I'd lounge around a bit, grab a couple of cat naps, maybe catch a mouse or two. For the most part, however, I planned to do absolutely nothing. Like so many plans, this one didn't quite pan out as expected.
Shortly after the convoy of hovercraft left, transporting the humans to wherever it was that they were going to hold these special exercises, a sudden feeling came over me that something was wrong. It wasn't anything specific that I could put my paw on, mind you, just the overwhelming impression that someone close to me was in danger. The feeling was so intense, I couldn't ignore it. Nor could I concentrate on anything else, including the nothing with which I'd originally hoped to fill my idle morning.
Cats have finely honed instincts, you know. And these instincts have served us well, down through the millennia. That's because, unlike you humans, we pay attention to them. We don't waste a lot of time weighing a dozen different options, analyzing the potential pros and cons of each, before taking action. If something _feels_ right, we do it.
What felt right to me that morning was having someone contact the convoy and see whether it had run into any trouble. It had.
About a half an after takeoff, a main anti-grav unit on one of the hovercrafts failed. Considering the circumstances, the pilot pulled off a near-miraculous emergency landing. Lamentably, his amazing accomplishment didn't stop the twenty-five or so unlucky trainees crammed into the transport hold from being jostled about pretty badly as the damaged ship, now possessing all the aerodynamic qualities of a flying brick, belly-flopped in the middle of a Midwest corn field.
Would you care to guess who one of the unlucky trainees aboard this particular hovercraft was? If you said Jonesy, give yourself a gold star.
It seems that my partner-to-be ended up playing low man on the totem pole in a pile of two dozen flailing bodies. Relatively speaking, Jonesy was lucky. He walked away from his first crash with nothing more serious than a dislocated shoulder to remind him of the experience. That's an awfully painful reminder, however, a fact which leads directly to the point of the story: My feelings of anxiety kicked in at the precise moment Jonesy's shoulder popped out of its socket.
It was the first time the two of us realized just how strong an empathic link we shared with one another. It wouldn't be the last.
But, enough background. As I recall, I was working my way up to the critical role I played in the Deimos Uprising before I veered off on this latest tangent. Let's get back to that story, shall we?
I could have sworn Praetheor was going to kiss Jonesy and me when we disembarked on Deimos. (I would've scratched his eyes out, had he tried.) I'd never met the man before, but one look at him was all I needed to realize that we were dealing with a desperate man, someone standing close to the edge.
Praetheor looked like death warmed over, chilled out, and then warmed over again in a faulty microwave. Surrounding his eyes were shadows as dark and as deep as any ever cast by Mons Olympus -- a towering peak, probably the remnants of a once mighty volcano, that rises an astounding twenty-five kilometers into the thin Martian atmosphere. The eyes gazing out from this dark terrain were as bleak and bloodshot as the surface of the so-called Red Planet. His voice, when he finally stopped slobbering over the two of us long enough to speak in complete sentences, projected a curious combination of hope and despair.
"Thank the gods you're here! I don't know how much longer we could have held out without you.
"The equipment that was shipped ahead of you arrived several days ago. I had it transferred to my residence, just like you requested. My floater is waiting for us at the air lock. If you'll follow me, we can be on our way."
Praetheor delivered this entire speed directly and exclusively to Jonesy. I'm still amazed by how anthropocentric you humans are. More than a century has passed since the first successful human/animal Emplant was performed. For some reason, though, you still have trouble admitting to yourselves that mankind no longer stands alone atop the evolutionary ladder.
Old biases die slowly. I understand this. What you have to understand, however, is that I feel no obligation to promulgate the myth.
"Slow down, Praetheor. It's a long journey from Earth to Mars, even with the Hawking Drive. We've been bottled up in that damn ship of ours for three weeks. It would be nice if we could stretch our legs for a few minutes, before you strap on the yoke."
I love watching the shock wash over someone's face, the first time they realize that both Jonesy and me count speech among our respective skills. It was clear that Praetheor had never heard an animal talk before. Like most humans, he probably knew that some of us could. But knowing something and actually experiencing it are two different things. For a few seconds there, I thought the exasperated governor of Deimos was going to swallow his silver politician's tongue.
"Uh, er, well, okay. I, um, I didn't mean to rush you. It's just that, well, er, the situation has become quite desperate, of late."
Neither Jonesy nor I acknowledged immediately this obvious appeal for some affirmation that we were, indeed, there to provide assistance. Our years together had produced an unspoken pact between us that we would savor these first, few, faltering moments in the presence of some ill-prepared human, whenever the opportunity arose to do so.
I let Praetheor squirm for a full minute before responding. Once again, this happened without a word passing between Jonesy and me. I was the one who shocked Praetheor into silence. It seemed only appropriate, therefore, that I should also be the one to drag his sorry butt back into the conversation.
"That's good news -- about our equipment having made it here safely, I mean. And now, if you would be so kind to escort my companion and myself to your home, we can begin our preparations."
"Uh, yes. Of course. This way, please."
The three of us set off through the terminal, Praetheor in the lead, heading toward what I assumed to be the air lock he mentioned earlier. It was. I waited until we had settled into his floater, a deluxe model, spotlessly clean and obviously well maintained -- this, despite the hardships war had visited upon the less affluent citizens of Deimos -- before continuing the conversation.
"I trust you've also secured the other items we requested?"
"Oh, yes, er, uh, sir."
Watching someone figure out how to address me is almost as much fun as observing their initial reaction to my sentience. I'll give Praetheor credit. At least he got the sex right. It's amazing how often you humans screw up in this potentially sensitive area.
(Jonesy once confided in me that most humans instinctively assign feminine attributes to all cats, male or female. Tell me how much sense this makes. How do you think we reproduce? By asexually splitting off exact duplicates of ourselves, like an amoeba? I hate to burst your bubble, but allow me to paraphrase a popular song written by one of your own a couple centuries back: Birds do it; bees do it; even _Felidae_ that start with "C" do it. As if to compensate for your sexual _faux pas_, my partner went on to explain, dogs generally get lumped together using male-oriented words and phrases. Like this little bit of irrational rationalization is supposed to make me feel better? Yeah. Right.)
I mentally awarded Praetheor a couple of brownie points for keeping his genders straight, then pressed on with my questions. "How about personnel? We'll be ready a lot sooner if you can lend us about a half-dozen warm bodies to do the droid work. Is this a problem?"
"No. No. Of course not. It's no problem at all. Whatever you and Mr. Jones need, just ask for it. I'll find some way to get it for you."
"Good," Jonesy finally joined into the discussion. "For now, however, our personal equipment, those additional items we requested and a few extra hands should be enough. We'll get started as soon as we arrive at your residence." I guess he figured that I'd kept Praetheor uncomfortable enough, long enough, that his human chauvinism no longer threatened our chances for success.
When an empath team finds itself involved in a sensitive situation like this one, they have to know that the sponsor has complete confidence in their ability to get the job done. It's difficult enough anticipating the actions of your adversary. The last thing you want is to be in the position of having to second guess your allies, as well.Now that Praetheor accepted my intelligence, he'd be much less likely to go out and devise on his own some hair-balled backup scheme that could jeopardize whatever course of action Jonesy and me ultimately settled upon.
With my partner back on the case, I could curl up and catch a short cat nap. My earlier comment to Praetheor about the length and tedious nature of our trip had been more than a mere tactical ploy. I really was exhausted. I figured I might as well grab some shuteye while I still could. If this assignment followed the typical scenario, things were about to get very hectic, very quickly.
I was right, of course. Me, Jonesy and six not too bright but extremely strong and obedient menial laborers culled from what remained of Deimos' diminished work force spent the next several days assembling our equipment. By the end of the first week we had converted Praetheor's home into one mother of a surveillance outpost from which we could monitor virtually every transmission emanating from the vermilion planet spinning below us.
The most powerful weapon in any conflict is knowledge. Prior to our arrival, Praetheor possessed no intelligence-gathering capabilities worth mentioning. We quickly rectified this situation. Now, at least, Jonesy and me would be able to pick up some clues as to what our opponents were planning. Armed with this information, we could then devise a strategy of our own, one that might provide Deimos at least a slim hope for victory. Unfortunately, the very first coded message we intercepted and deciphered caused us to adjust our initial estimates in this area considerably downward -- from slim to damn near none.
"They're planning to do what? Surely, they can't be serious!"
"Oh, they're serious, Praetheor. Deadly serious. From a tactical standpoint, it's a perfectly logical strategy."
"You think destroying Deimos is logical? You're as crazy as they are!"
I let the accusation slide. Praetheor wouldn't like what I already had to tell him. Prefacing it with my opinion of this inane comment would have really pissed him off.
"I was speaking as a tactician, sir. From a tactical standpoint, the only question I have to ask myself is, What would Mars lose, if it were to annihilate Deimos? You may not want to hear this, but the answer to that question is, Nothing. If I'm sitting down on the sufrace of Mars, charting the future of that world, Deimos is of no value to me."
I thought Preatheor was going to pop a vein, his reaction was so severe to this observation.
"We're talking about one of the planet's two moons! How can you say that it possesses no value?"
"You're thinking too much like someone whose ancestors evolved on Earth, where the Moon -- as in Moon, with a capital M -- is a singularly majestic object that dominates the night sky. Given its historical significance, size and orbital proximity to its parent planet, the destruction of the Earth's moon would be a disaster, in every sense of that word.
"But consider objectively, if you can, the facts of Deimos' existence. It's a cosmic pebble a mere six or so miles across. It orbits Mars at a mean distance of approximately 24,000 kilometers. To someone standing on the planet's surface, Deimos is scarcely visible against the backdrop of the infinite universe. It's a barely discernible pinpoint of light, moving east to west across the sky. If anything, it resembles the primitive artificial satellites of the late 20th century did to curious Earthlings at that time. That's hardly a cultural icon worth preserving.
"Even more crucial as I consider the strategic options available to me -- were I a Martian tactician, mind you -- is the fact that Deimos' physical influence upon the planet is almost negligible. Negligible, hell. It's non-existent!
"If some disaster were to strike Earth's moon, the consequences would be catastrophic. The gravitational disruption alone would trigger tectonic and other geological upheavals on Earth, the effects of which would last for decades. By contrast, Deimos could disappear from the Martian sky tomorrow and the planet would not so much as twitch for so long as a split-second.
"So there I am, sitting down on the surface of Mars, contemplating how best to deal with the problem of Deimos. One possible course of action, the one that stands out above all the others, is to eliminate the irritation at its source. And how do I do that? I destroy Deimos, that's how. Martian technology could accomplish this as easily as I'd scratch a flea that was irritating me, and both acts would have about the same impact on the respective entities performing them. I'd suffer no ill effects from the death of that flea, I assure you. Nor would Mars endure any hardship from the loss of your world."
I studied Praetheor's reaction as I spoke. The more details I revealed, the more the color drained from his face. By the time I finished, he was pale as the Earth's moon that figured so prominently in my revelation. Yes, Praetheor was petty. Sure, he was greedy. And to be honest, he wasn't all that bright. Despite these shortcomings, however, he loved the small world over which he governed. The thought that it might be destroyed horrified Praetheor. (I don't know whether he recognized the irony inherent in the fact that it was his own avarice which created the situation he now found so unnerving.)
"And you believe that the Martian government is actually preparing to pursue this -- how did you describe it -- `perfectly logical strategy?'"
Jonesy responded to this one. My partner probably felt it would be more appropriate if Praetheor's worst fears were confirmed by a member of his own species. Mercifully, he kept his affirmation short and sweet.
"We're almost certain of it."
A dark shadow descended over Praetheor's face, somber emotions eclipsing his pale-as-the-Moon countenance. We'd made our case. The governor of Deimos recognized a strong possibility existed that his world was about to be obliterated. Now all Jonesy and me had to do was come up with some creative and, we hoped, non-lethal way to prevent this disaster from happening.
Cats are dignified creatures. It's no accident that the ancient Egyptians elevated us to a status nearly equal to that of their myriad deities.
Consider how we comport ourselves in public. You won't see a cat loping about -- eyes bulging, ears flopping, tongue flapping hither and yon -- the way dogs do. When we walk, we do so with grace and no small measure of pride. Some would say we saunter. When we sit, we strive to keep our back erect, our head held high. Should we require attention -- which, I can assure you, happens only rarely -- we'll meander nonchalantly over to your side and communicate our needs in a most discriminating manner. Perhaps with a gentle nudge to the leg. Possibly through an almost imperceptible purr. When we defecate, as all living creature must, we're considerate enough to conceal the by- product of this essential yet indelicate activity.
I repeat: Cats are, by their very nature, creatures of great dignity. Imagine the sorry state of my self-esteem, therefore, as I crawled through a dank and dirty ventilation shaft, literally inching my way toward a chamber few people knew existed. Fewer still were aware of the true and highly classified purpose for which it had been built.
I had to give the people running the Martian military credit. The course of action they ultimately settled upon for ending the Deimos Uprising was quite creative.
Clearly, Mars couldn't just blow its foe out of the sky. Oh, logistically this was possible. Don't doubt that for a minute. It wouldn't even be a very difficult undertaking. One high-energy plasma burst to a hairline fissure extending far enough down into the diminutive moon's interior would suffice. Taking such a drastic and obvious step to silence what many throughout the solar system perceived as the legitimate grievances of an exploited world, however, would have proved politically disastrous.
What the people in charge of Mars needed was some way to create a catastrophe and still avoid accountability. As it turned out, they discovered the perfect means to accomplish this in their own back yard, relatively speaking.
Between Mars and Jupiter exists a region unlike any other in our solar system. Officially dubbed the asteroid belt, it contains the raw materials for what many believe was a planet that couldn't quite get its act together, so to speak. Several hundred thousand rocks (for that's all they are) lie scattered about this interplanetary gravel pit. The smallest of these are little more than dust motes. The biggest, Ceres, is nearly one-fourth the size of Earth's moon, or a hundred times larger than Deimos.
Like an enormous school of fish in a vast cosmic ocean, the asteroids swim lazily through space. Barring any outside influence, they follow roughly the same orbital itinerary, year after year, tracing and retracing a migratory route dictated by the same gravitational laws that bind the solar system -- indeed, the entire universe -- together. That's good news for all the other objects submerged in the celestial sea. A rogue asteroid could wreak havoc on any planet or moon it inadvertently ran into, during its leisurely travels.
Everyone who thinks they've figured out the purpose of this brief science lesson, raise your right hand. For those of you not grabbing air right now, I'll try to explain. In order to eliminate the irritation Deimos had become, the Martian government decided to create just such a rogue asteroid by providing the "outside influence" I mentioned earlier. If Jonesy and me could believe the messages we'd been intercepting for the past several weeks, the top-secret chamber that was now approximately ten meters below me contained more electronic equipment than your typical kid-vid arcade, all of which had been constructed for a single purpose: to initiate a pre-defined chain of events designed to bring death and destruction raining down from the heavens upon Deimos.
You see the picture now, don't you? You don't? Okay, then, let me connect a few more of the dots. A deadly game of high-tech billiards was about to begin, and Mars had the break. Calling upon the same scientific principles that govern the trajectory of billiard balls, Mars planned to divert a medium-sized asteroid from its natural orbit and onto a direct collision course with Deimos. In other words -- and you've probably been waiting for me to lay this next pun on you, so I'll mercifully end the anticipation -- Mars was banking its hopes for victory on one hell of a cosmic bank shot.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the bottom of the shaft. Only a wire grill separated me from the room I'd worked so laboriously to reach. Withdrawing the laser knife from my neck pouch, I cut through the fine mesh in less time than it takes to tell you about it.
I spent the next few minutes balanced on the edge of the conduit, staring down at the Martian command center. The room was laid out pretty much as Jonesy and me assumed it would be. A bank of computers completely covered one wall, each busily performing its fair share of the billions of calculations required to guide a concentrated laser beam toward a specific target.
Returning to my fictitious billiard game for a moment, this beam corresponded to a cue stick. Somewhere on the surface of Mars, the laser canon controlling that "stick" was preparing to take aim (lining up its shot, as it were) at an asteroidal cue ball several million kilometers distant. No doubt, it was a large and quite formidable apparatus.
As impressive as that laser cannon was, however, it would have been little more than a pile of scrap metal without the contents of the room below me to back it up. The computers and other equipment it contained ensured that the beam the cannon would fire -- and fire soon, if our information was reliable -- struck with just the right force, at just the right angle, to send the targeted asteroid careening toward Deimos with much greater precision than would be possible, were the process not fully automated.
It's a funny thing about automation, though. Its major strength can turn quickly into its greatest weakness. So many wonderful machines able to perform so many wonderful tasks, without any human intervention! The logical question then becomes, Why waste manpower manning the damn things? At least, this was a logical question Jonesy and me assumed someone in the Martian chain of command would ask. Luckily for me, our assumption once again proved correct. Here I was, scrutinizing what, at that moment, had to be one of the most critical military facilities on Mars, and no one was around to observe my clandestine observations.
There'd be plenty of time to thank my lucky stars, once I got back to Deimos. At that moment, I had work to do.
Two weeks later Jonesy and me were back aboard our ship, returning to Earth. I have to confess, we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. Why shouldn't we, considering all that we had accomplished?
For the first time in many years, Deimos knew peace.
Shortly before we lifted off, the Martian government announced that it was repealing the export tax, effectively immediately.
Mars also agreed to refund to Deimos all of the fees it had collected over the past decade. Jonesy and me figured Praetheor would skim at least 25% off the top, before distributing what remained to his constituents; like I explained earlier, he didn't start this little conflict for altruistic reasons. Even after Praetheor took his rather substantial cut, however, there would still be a lot of lucre to divvy up among the citizens of Deimos.
Like I said, Jonesy and me had every right to be proud of ourselves. We were heading home after completing an extremely successful assignment, one which ended in a way that my partner found particularly amusing.
"I wish I could have been there to see the looks on their faces, Thom."
"I _was_ there, Jonesy. Remember? You must have sensed my satisfaction."
"Oh, I did. I certainly did. And it was gratifying as hell, believe me. But nothing can take the place of observing, in person, the results of your handiwork.
"I can only guess what went through those bastard's minds, when that message you programmed into the computers along with the new target coordinates showed up on their screens. That was a stroke of genius, Thom. When in the hell did you come up with that?"
"It was just an impulse, a thought I had while I was hacking through their system. It was a pretty obscure reference, I'll admit. They probably didn't even know what it meant, when they first saw it."
"Maybe not, but you can damn well bet they understood later, once they figured out the _real_ target of that asteroid they hoped to bring crashing down on Deimos.
"Man, I can just see their faces, as they saw your message scrolling across there terminals. `Eight ball in the Mons Olympus pocket.' That's a classic, Thom, a real classic."
Yeah, I guess it was -- a classic, I mean.
Word of our success spread swiftly through the Martian Confederation. In fact, the Deimos mission earned Jonesy and me quite a reputation in that particular part of the solar system. I think I can safely say, without fear of contradiction, that the two of us made quite an impression on Mars.
-----
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All The Angles
All The Angles
by Jack Nimersheim
_(Originally published in "Animal Brigade 3000" - Ace Science Fiction)_
Somebody told me once that my original name was Socks -- or Spats, or Shoes, or Sneakers, or some equally inane sobriquet. I'm not sure which, exactly. This was back before the enhancement. It had something to do with feet. I do recall that much. The way I understand it, I was named after one of my ancestors, some famous political figure. At least, that's the story, as I remember it.
Nowadays, though, everybody just calls me Thom. Thom Cat.
Okay, so it's not very fancy. Don't you think I realize that? I also don't give a bowl of curdled cream. As far as I'm concerned, only paranoids and egomaniacs feel the need to inflate their image with a flamboyant name.
You want some free advice? Never trust anybody who always uses their middle initial. And never, _ever_ trust someone who tries to convince you that they're _really_ important by abbreviating their first name and then cramming their middle name into the leftover space. History is filled with people who practice this little affectation: E. Howard Hunt; F. Scott Fitzgerald; G. Gordon Liddy; H. Ross Perot; J. Edgar Hoover; L. Ron Hubbard; T. Boone Pickens. Like I said, paranoids or egomaniacs, every one. (I'll let you figure out for yourself who falls into which category.)
Anyway, if you've accomplished all of the things that I've accomplished, you don't need a fancy name to prove your worth. So don't expect me to answer to Thom S. Cat, or T. S. Cat, or T. Socks Cat, or whatever. If you want to get my attention, just call me Thom. That's good enough for me.
Right about now some of you must be wondering: Who is this arrogant S.O.B. and what's he ever done that gives him a right to be so damned self-righteous? Let me set you straight on two points.
First of all, although I'll confess that I'm probably not the kindest, gentlest creature you'll ever meet, I can't possibly be an S.O.B. Why? Because the "B" in this particular expletive stands for bitch. And a bitch is a female dog. My mother, on the other hand, was a queen. Don't misunderstand. No royal blood flowed through her veins. But she was a queen, nonetheless -- as in the proper term used to describe a female cat. Second, if you even have to ask this question, then you've either been catatonic or working in the methane mines of Io for the past half-decade.
On the outside chance that one of these two descriptions fits a few of you, let me tell you a little story about myself. Nothing overly impressive, just the tale of how I single-handedly saved an entire world, a few years back.
I assume you _have_ heard of the Deimos Uprising. It was in all the holo-casts. Even as far out as Io, I assume. That leaves only the brain dead among you to bring up to date on this one, right?
About seven years ago, the governor of Deimos -- this is one of two moons orbiting Mars, for those of you whose grasp of astronomy is as feeble as your knowledge of recent history -- decided that his people were being exploited by the Martian government. His observation was not totally without merit.
At the time, Mars charged the people of Deimos a substantial export fee for any goods shipped to that tiny moon from the planet's surface. Seeing as how Deimos -- which is little more than an orbiting mudball -- possessed few natural resources to speak of, this fee increased significantly the cost of a lot of merchandise, including many of the basic necessities of life. It also transferred a considerable amount of cash from the moon's relatively poor inhabitants to the movers and shakers down on Mars. Needless to say, this situation did not thrill Deimos' own governor, a man named Praetheor.
So far, our little narrative contains all the plot elements of your typical morality play: right versus might; the little people versus big government; those in need versus those who already have, and covet more. The only thing required to push it over the edge is my telling you that Praetheor's reaction was based on an inherent sense of justice and a deep devotion to his subjects.
Much as I'd like to, I can't. You see, the governor of Deimos was himself a petty, little autocrat, not unlike the folks in charge of Mars. About the only difference between him and his Martian counterparts was that the former saw wealth he craved flowing through his own fingers and down the gravity well of his celestial neighbor, where it proceeded to grease the outstretched palms of the latter.
Such an arrangement, denying Praetheor personal profit as it did, stuck in the governor's craw. So much so, that he decided to end this injustice. And so, in a well publicized press conference, Praetheor announced that Deimos was seceding from the Martian Confederation. It was a bold move for the usually meek politician. Praetheor's decision was greatly simplified, however, by the realization that he could call upon several thousand surrogates, his loyal citizens, to do the actual fighting that might be required to secure Deimos' independence.
That's all I'm going to tell you about how the Deimos Uprising started. If you're curious to know more, you can look it up yourselves. Like the history of most armed conflicts, it's an interesting, if all too familiar, story.
I entered the picture several years later, right around the time the uprising was beginning to wind down. As you might suspect, things were looking pretty bleak for Deimos by then.
Picture a gnat buzzing around an elephant. This image gives you a fair idea of how effective the tiny moon was in its efforts to challenge the forces of Mars. By the time I got involved Deimos' population was decimated, its already meager resources were almost depleted and its spirit was all but broken. Watching his realm crumble -- along with all those dreams of personal wealth -- forced Praetheor to wake up and smell the ozone. He finally called in some professional help. That's how Jonesy and me ended up joining the ranks of the Deimos Freedom Fighters.
Oh, yeah. I haven't told you about Jonesy yet, have I? I guess I should remedy this oversight, before continuing.
Jerry Jones -- that's Jonesy -- is my partner. He's a human, but I don't hold that against him. We share a long history together, Jonesy and me, all the way back to orientation camp. That was in `33.
Jonesy was a pretty gung ho dude, back then. He graduated from high school, enlisted in the Empath Corp, tendered his goodbyes to friends and family and started training -- all within two weeks of his eighteenth birthday. Jonesy confessed to me later that he'd bought into all that crap on the recruitment posters. You know the stuff I mean. That whole spiel about "serving humanity through service with other species."
I always considered this a bit of a stretch. Of course, nobody checked with me before they came up with that campaign. For all its faults, however, it proved quite effective. Jonesy fell for it -- hook, line and sinker.
We hit if off immediately, Jonesy and me. There was more to it than our highly resonant encephalo patterns. All of the pairings shared these. With the two of us, though, it was as if we were made for each other. I don't mean this in any perverse way. (Although, like you, I've heard the rumors that some strange things went on in the Corps.) It's just that our minds were so much in sync...well, it was pretty amazing; that's all I can say.
I remember this one time, it must have been about two weeks after we were assigned to one another -- long before the Emplant. That morning, the brass had scheduled some kind of special maneuvers. Humans only. We animals were informed that we could sleep in for a change.
I looked forward to taking full advantage of the offer. I figured I'd lounge around a bit, grab a couple of cat naps, maybe catch a mouse or two. For the most part, however, I planned to do absolutely nothing. Like so many plans, this one didn't quite pan out as expected.
Shortly after the convoy of hovercraft left, transporting the humans to wherever it was that they were going to hold these special exercises, a sudden feeling came over me that something was wrong. It wasn't anything specific that I could put my paw on, mind you, just the overwhelming impression that someone close to me was in danger. The feeling was so intense, I couldn't ignore it. Nor could I concentrate on anything else, including the nothing with which I'd originally hoped to fill my idle morning.
Cats have finely honed instincts, you know. And these instincts have served us well, down through the millennia. That's because, unlike you humans, we pay attention to them. We don't waste a lot of time weighing a dozen different options, analyzing the potential pros and cons of each, before taking action. If something _feels_ right, we do it.
What felt right to me that morning was having someone contact the convoy and see whether it had run into any trouble. It had.
About a half an after takeoff, a main anti-grav unit on one of the hovercrafts failed. Considering the circumstances, the pilot pulled off a near-miraculous emergency landing. Lamentably, his amazing accomplishment didn't stop the twenty-five or so unlucky trainees crammed into the transport hold from being jostled about pretty badly as the damaged ship, now possessing all the aerodynamic qualities of a flying brick, belly-flopped in the middle of a Midwest corn field.
Would you care to guess who one of the unlucky trainees aboard this particular hovercraft was? If you said Jonesy, give yourself a gold star.
It seems that my partner-to-be ended up playing low man on the totem pole in a pile of two dozen flailing bodies. Relatively speaking, Jonesy was lucky. He walked away from his first crash with nothing more serious than a dislocated shoulder to remind him of the experience. That's an awfully painful reminder, however, a fact which leads directly to the point of the story: My feelings of anxiety kicked in at the precise moment Jonesy's shoulder popped out of its socket.
It was the first time the two of us realized just how strong an empathic link we shared with one another. It wouldn't be the last.
But, enough background. As I recall, I was working my way up to the critical role I played in the Deimos Uprising before I veered off on this latest tangent. Let's get back to that story, shall we?
I could have sworn Praetheor was going to kiss Jonesy and me when we disembarked on Deimos. (I would've scratched his eyes out, had he tried.) I'd never met the man before, but one look at him was all I needed to realize that we were dealing with a desperate man, someone standing close to the edge.
Praetheor looked like death warmed over, chilled out, and then warmed over again in a faulty microwave. Surrounding his eyes were shadows as dark and as deep as any ever cast by Mons Olympus -- a towering peak, probably the remnants of a once mighty volcano, that rises an astounding twenty-five kilometers into the thin Martian atmosphere. The eyes gazing out from this dark terrain were as bleak and bloodshot as the surface of the so-called Red Planet. His voice, when he finally stopped slobbering over the two of us long enough to speak in complete sentences, projected a curious combination of hope and despair.
"Thank the gods you're here! I don't know how much longer we could have held out without you.
"The equipment that was shipped ahead of you arrived several days ago. I had it transferred to my residence, just like you requested. My floater is waiting for us at the air lock. If you'll follow me, we can be on our way."
Praetheor delivered this entire speed directly and exclusively to Jonesy. I'm still amazed by how anthropocentric you humans are. More than a century has passed since the first successful human/animal Emplant was performed. For some reason, though, you still have trouble admitting to yourselves that mankind no longer stands alone atop the evolutionary ladder.
Old biases die slowly. I understand this. What you have to understand, however, is that I feel no obligation to promulgate the myth.
"Slow down, Praetheor. It's a long journey from Earth to Mars, even with the Hawking Drive. We've been bottled up in that damn ship of ours for three weeks. It would be nice if we could stretch our legs for a few minutes, before you strap on the yoke."
I love watching the shock wash over someone's face, the first time they realize that both Jonesy and me count speech among our respective skills. It was clear that Praetheor had never heard an animal talk before. Like most humans, he probably knew that some of us could. But knowing something and actually experiencing it are two different things. For a few seconds there, I thought the exasperated governor of Deimos was going to swallow his silver politician's tongue.
"Uh, er, well, okay. I, um, I didn't mean to rush you. It's just that, well, er, the situation has become quite desperate, of late."
Neither Jonesy nor I acknowledged immediately this obvious appeal for some affirmation that we were, indeed, there to provide assistance. Our years together had produced an unspoken pact between us that we would savor these first, few, faltering moments in the presence of some ill-prepared human, whenever the opportunity arose to do so.
I let Praetheor squirm for a full minute before responding. Once again, this happened without a word passing between Jonesy and me. I was the one who shocked Praetheor into silence. It seemed only appropriate, therefore, that I should also be the one to drag his sorry butt back into the conversation.
"That's good news -- about our equipment having made it here safely, I mean. And now, if you would be so kind to escort my companion and myself to your home, we can begin our preparations."
"Uh, yes. Of course. This way, please."
The three of us set off through the terminal, Praetheor in the lead, heading toward what I assumed to be the air lock he mentioned earlier. It was. I waited until we had settled into his floater, a deluxe model, spotlessly clean and obviously well maintained -- this, despite the hardships war had visited upon the less affluent citizens of Deimos -- before continuing the conversation.
"I trust you've also secured the other items we requested?"
"Oh, yes, er, uh, sir."
Watching someone figure out how to address me is almost as much fun as observing their initial reaction to my sentience. I'll give Praetheor credit. At least he got the sex right. It's amazing how often you humans screw up in this potentially sensitive area.
(Jonesy once confided in me that most humans instinctively assign feminine attributes to all cats, male or female. Tell me how much sense this makes. How do you think we reproduce? By asexually splitting off exact duplicates of ourselves, like an amoeba? I hate to burst your bubble, but allow me to paraphrase a popular song written by one of your own a couple centuries back: Birds do it; bees do it; even _Felidae_ that start with "C" do it. As if to compensate for your sexual _faux pas_, my partner went on to explain, dogs generally get lumped together using male-oriented words and phrases. Like this little bit of irrational rationalization is supposed to make me feel better? Yeah. Right.)
I mentally awarded Praetheor a couple of brownie points for keeping his genders straight, then pressed on with my questions. "How about personnel? We'll be ready a lot sooner if you can lend us about a half-dozen warm bodies to do the droid work. Is this a problem?"
"No. No. Of course not. It's no problem at all. Whatever you and Mr. Jones need, just ask for it. I'll find some way to get it for you."
"Good," Jonesy finally joined into the discussion. "For now, however, our personal equipment, those additional items we requested and a few extra hands should be enough. We'll get started as soon as we arrive at your residence." I guess he figured that I'd kept Praetheor uncomfortable enough, long enough, that his human chauvinism no longer threatened our chances for success.
When an empath team finds itself involved in a sensitive situation like this one, they have to know that the sponsor has complete confidence in their ability to get the job done. It's difficult enough anticipating the actions of your adversary. The last thing you want is to be in the position of having to second guess your allies, as well.Now that Praetheor accepted my intelligence, he'd be much less likely to go out and devise on his own some hair-balled backup scheme that could jeopardize whatever course of action Jonesy and me ultimately settled upon.
With my partner back on the case, I could curl up and catch a short cat nap. My earlier comment to Praetheor about the length and tedious nature of our trip had been more than a mere tactical ploy. I really was exhausted. I figured I might as well grab some shuteye while I still could. If this assignment followed the typical scenario, things were about to get very hectic, very quickly.
I was right, of course. Me, Jonesy and six not too bright but extremely strong and obedient menial laborers culled from what remained of Deimos' diminished work force spent the next several days assembling our equipment. By the end of the first week we had converted Praetheor's home into one mother of a surveillance outpost from which we could monitor virtually every transmission emanating from the vermilion planet spinning below us.
The most powerful weapon in any conflict is knowledge. Prior to our arrival, Praetheor possessed no intelligence-gathering capabilities worth mentioning. We quickly rectified this situation. Now, at least, Jonesy and me would be able to pick up some clues as to what our opponents were planning. Armed with this information, we could then devise a strategy of our own, one that might provide Deimos at least a slim hope for victory. Unfortunately, the very first coded message we intercepted and deciphered caused us to adjust our initial estimates in this area considerably downward -- from slim to damn near none.
"They're planning to do what? Surely, they can't be serious!"
"Oh, they're serious, Praetheor. Deadly serious. From a tactical standpoint, it's a perfectly logical strategy."
"You think destroying Deimos is logical? You're as crazy as they are!"
I let the accusation slide. Praetheor wouldn't like what I already had to tell him. Prefacing it with my opinion of this inane comment would have really pissed him off.
"I was speaking as a tactician, sir. From a tactical standpoint, the only question I have to ask myself is, What would Mars lose, if it were to annihilate Deimos? You may not want to hear this, but the answer to that question is, Nothing. If I'm sitting down on the sufrace of Mars, charting the future of that world, Deimos is of no value to me."
I thought Preatheor was going to pop a vein, his reaction was so severe to this observation.
"We're talking about one of the planet's two moons! How can you say that it possesses no value?"
"You're thinking too much like someone whose ancestors evolved on Earth, where the Moon -- as in Moon, with a capital M -- is a singularly majestic object that dominates the night sky. Given its historical significance, size and orbital proximity to its parent planet, the destruction of the Earth's moon would be a disaster, in every sense of that word.
"But consider objectively, if you can, the facts of Deimos' existence. It's a cosmic pebble a mere six or so miles across. It orbits Mars at a mean distance of approximately 24,000 kilometers. To someone standing on the planet's surface, Deimos is scarcely visible against the backdrop of the infinite universe. It's a barely discernible pinpoint of light, moving east to west across the sky. If anything, it resembles the primitive artificial satellites of the late 20th century did to curious Earthlings at that time. That's hardly a cultural icon worth preserving.
"Even more crucial as I consider the strategic options available to me -- were I a Martian tactician, mind you -- is the fact that Deimos' physical influence upon the planet is almost negligible. Negligible, hell. It's non-existent!
"If some disaster were to strike Earth's moon, the consequences would be catastrophic. The gravitational disruption alone would trigger tectonic and other geological upheavals on Earth, the effects of which would last for decades. By contrast, Deimos could disappear from the Martian sky tomorrow and the planet would not so much as twitch for so long as a split-second.
"So there I am, sitting down on the surface of Mars, contemplating how best to deal with the problem of Deimos. One possible course of action, the one that stands out above all the others, is to eliminate the irritation at its source. And how do I do that? I destroy Deimos, that's how. Martian technology could accomplish this as easily as I'd scratch a flea that was irritating me, and both acts would have about the same impact on the respective entities performing them. I'd suffer no ill effects from the death of that flea, I assure you. Nor would Mars endure any hardship from the loss of your world."
I studied Praetheor's reaction as I spoke. The more details I revealed, the more the color drained from his face. By the time I finished, he was pale as the Earth's moon that figured so prominently in my revelation. Yes, Praetheor was petty. Sure, he was greedy. And to be honest, he wasn't all that bright. Despite these shortcomings, however, he loved the small world over which he governed. The thought that it might be destroyed horrified Praetheor. (I don't know whether he recognized the irony inherent in the fact that it was his own avarice which created the situation he now found so unnerving.)
"And you believe that the Martian government is actually preparing to pursue this -- how did you describe it -- `perfectly logical strategy?'"
Jonesy responded to this one. My partner probably felt it would be more appropriate if Praetheor's worst fears were confirmed by a member of his own species. Mercifully, he kept his affirmation short and sweet.
"We're almost certain of it."
A dark shadow descended over Praetheor's face, somber emotions eclipsing his pale-as-the-Moon countenance. We'd made our case. The governor of Deimos recognized a strong possibility existed that his world was about to be obliterated. Now all Jonesy and me had to do was come up with some creative and, we hoped, non-lethal way to prevent this disaster from happening.
Cats are dignified creatures. It's no accident that the ancient Egyptians elevated us to a status nearly equal to that of their myriad deities.
Consider how we comport ourselves in public. You won't see a cat loping about -- eyes bulging, ears flopping, tongue flapping hither and yon -- the way dogs do. When we walk, we do so with grace and no small measure of pride. Some would say we saunter. When we sit, we strive to keep our back erect, our head held high. Should we require attention -- which, I can assure you, happens only rarely -- we'll meander nonchalantly over to your side and communicate our needs in a most discriminating manner. Perhaps with a gentle nudge to the leg. Possibly through an almost imperceptible purr. When we defecate, as all living creature must, we're considerate enough to conceal the by- product of this essential yet indelicate activity.
I repeat: Cats are, by their very nature, creatures of great dignity. Imagine the sorry state of my self-esteem, therefore, as I crawled through a dank and dirty ventilation shaft, literally inching my way toward a chamber few people knew existed. Fewer still were aware of the true and highly classified purpose for which it had been built.
I had to give the people running the Martian military credit. The course of action they ultimately settled upon for ending the Deimos Uprising was quite creative.
Clearly, Mars couldn't just blow its foe out of the sky. Oh, logistically this was possible. Don't doubt that for a minute. It wouldn't even be a very difficult undertaking. One high-energy plasma burst to a hairline fissure extending far enough down into the diminutive moon's interior would suffice. Taking such a drastic and obvious step to silence what many throughout the solar system perceived as the legitimate grievances of an exploited world, however, would have proved politically disastrous.
What the people in charge of Mars needed was some way to create a catastrophe and still avoid accountability. As it turned out, they discovered the perfect means to accomplish this in their own back yard, relatively speaking.
Between Mars and Jupiter exists a region unlike any other in our solar system. Officially dubbed the asteroid belt, it contains the raw materials for what many believe was a planet that couldn't quite get its act together, so to speak. Several hundred thousand rocks (for that's all they are) lie scattered about this interplanetary gravel pit. The smallest of these are little more than dust motes. The biggest, Ceres, is nearly one-fourth the size of Earth's moon, or a hundred times larger than Deimos.
Like an enormous school of fish in a vast cosmic ocean, the asteroids swim lazily through space. Barring any outside influence, they follow roughly the same orbital itinerary, year after year, tracing and retracing a migratory route dictated by the same gravitational laws that bind the solar system -- indeed, the entire universe -- together. That's good news for all the other objects submerged in the celestial sea. A rogue asteroid could wreak havoc on any planet or moon it inadvertently ran into, during its leisurely travels.
Everyone who thinks they've figured out the purpose of this brief science lesson, raise your right hand. For those of you not grabbing air right now, I'll try to explain. In order to eliminate the irritation Deimos had become, the Martian government decided to create just such a rogue asteroid by providing the "outside influence" I mentioned earlier. If Jonesy and me could believe the messages we'd been intercepting for the past several weeks, the top-secret chamber that was now approximately ten meters below me contained more electronic equipment than your typical kid-vid arcade, all of which had been constructed for a single purpose: to initiate a pre-defined chain of events designed to bring death and destruction raining down from the heavens upon Deimos.
You see the picture now, don't you? You don't? Okay, then, let me connect a few more of the dots. A deadly game of high-tech billiards was about to begin, and Mars had the break. Calling upon the same scientific principles that govern the trajectory of billiard balls, Mars planned to divert a medium-sized asteroid from its natural orbit and onto a direct collision course with Deimos. In other words -- and you've probably been waiting for me to lay this next pun on you, so I'll mercifully end the anticipation -- Mars was banking its hopes for victory on one hell of a cosmic bank shot.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the bottom of the shaft. Only a wire grill separated me from the room I'd worked so laboriously to reach. Withdrawing the laser knife from my neck pouch, I cut through the fine mesh in less time than it takes to tell you about it.
I spent the next few minutes balanced on the edge of the conduit, staring down at the Martian command center. The room was laid out pretty much as Jonesy and me assumed it would be. A bank of computers completely covered one wall, each busily performing its fair share of the billions of calculations required to guide a concentrated laser beam toward a specific target.
Returning to my fictitious billiard game for a moment, this beam corresponded to a cue stick. Somewhere on the surface of Mars, the laser canon controlling that "stick" was preparing to take aim (lining up its shot, as it were) at an asteroidal cue ball several million kilometers distant. No doubt, it was a large and quite formidable apparatus.
As impressive as that laser cannon was, however, it would have been little more than a pile of scrap metal without the contents of the room below me to back it up. The computers and other equipment it contained ensured that the beam the cannon would fire -- and fire soon, if our information was reliable -- struck with just the right force, at just the right angle, to send the targeted asteroid careening toward Deimos with much greater precision than would be possible, were the process not fully automated.
It's a funny thing about automation, though. Its major strength can turn quickly into its greatest weakness. So many wonderful machines able to perform so many wonderful tasks, without any human intervention! The logical question then becomes, Why waste manpower manning the damn things? At least, this was a logical question Jonesy and me assumed someone in the Martian chain of command would ask. Luckily for me, our assumption once again proved correct. Here I was, scrutinizing what, at that moment, had to be one of the most critical military facilities on Mars, and no one was around to observe my clandestine observations.
There'd be plenty of time to thank my lucky stars, once I got back to Deimos. At that moment, I had work to do.
Two weeks later Jonesy and me were back aboard our ship, returning to Earth. I have to confess, we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. Why shouldn't we, considering all that we had accomplished?
For the first time in many years, Deimos knew peace.
Shortly before we lifted off, the Martian government announced that it was repealing the export tax, effectively immediately.
Mars also agreed to refund to Deimos all of the fees it had collected over the past decade. Jonesy and me figured Praetheor would skim at least 25% off the top, before distributing what remained to his constituents; like I explained earlier, he didn't start this little conflict for altruistic reasons. Even after Praetheor took his rather substantial cut, however, there would still be a lot of lucre to divvy up among the citizens of Deimos.
Like I said, Jonesy and me had every right to be proud of ourselves. We were heading home after completing an extremely successful assignment, one which ended in a way that my partner found particularly amusing.
"I wish I could have been there to see the looks on their faces, Thom."
"I _was_ there, Jonesy. Remember? You must have sensed my satisfaction."
"Oh, I did. I certainly did. And it was gratifying as hell, believe me. But nothing can take the place of observing, in person, the results of your handiwork.
"I can only guess what went through those bastard's minds, when that message you programmed into the computers along with the new target coordinates showed up on their screens. That was a stroke of genius, Thom. When in the hell did you come up with that?"
"It was just an impulse, a thought I had while I was hacking through their system. It was a pretty obscure reference, I'll admit. They probably didn't even know what it meant, when they first saw it."
"Maybe not, but you can damn well bet they understood later, once they figured out the _real_ target of that asteroid they hoped to bring crashing down on Deimos.
"Man, I can just see their faces, as they saw your message scrolling across there terminals. `Eight ball in the Mons Olympus pocket.' That's a classic, Thom, a real classic."
Yeah, I guess it was -- a classic, I mean.
Word of our success spread swiftly through the Martian Confederation. In fact, the Deimos mission earned Jonesy and me quite a reputation in that particular part of the solar system. I think I can safely say, without fear of contradiction, that the two of us made quite an impression on Mars.
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