Man O' War

MAN O'WAR
William Shatner
Copyright © 1996 by William Shatner
ISBN: 0-441-00454-7
e-book ver. 1.0
Leslie, Lisabeth, and Melanie have been the joy of my life and have also become my friends. This book is dedicated to them and to our love for adventure.
I want to acknowledge Chris Henderson, who is a man of discipline and imagination and whose Chinese food I have yet to eat . . . but will very soon.
I want to note also that Carmen LaVia may be the greatest literary agent in the world.
And Susan Allison, with whom I have been associated now for several years and several books, is without peer.
"A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday but never remembers her age."
ROBERT FROST
"If you are to stand up for your Government, you must be able to stand up to your Government."
SIR HAROLD, LATER LORD, CACCIA
"A man-of-war is the best ambassador."
OLIVER CROMWELL
PROLOGUE
There were no directional markers in the darkhallway. It held no communications boxes, was not painted with any classification or designative stripes. It was one of the old passageways, dug out of the flesh of the ground by directed lava flow and human hand, so ancient its walls were made of nothing more than beams and soil. It was unlike the upper cavities, the sprawling network of factories and homes and all that went with them. Those had been laid out neatly, with a vigorously antiseptic sense of functionality, by the central planners, who had followed the first expedition of miners. The Above was solid and secure, with floors formed from strong ceramics, and walls and ceilings poured and sprayed and molded into place. Nothing from the outside world would intrude.
This tunnel was not neat, however, nor did it follow any kind of plan. It was an old explorer bore—one of the snaking, wildly arching deep-digs the Originals had chewed out back when the worth of the entire venture still needed to be proved. In its time it was not exactly sturdy, now it was a treacherous leftover, sealed off and labeled AVOID in black and yellow at every entrance.
Over the years the crumbling overhead had filled the corridor with a reddish yellow dust. It was a cold and desolate place, with neither heat nor lights. Air was still allowed to filter into it, only because sealing it off would have been prohibitively expensive. It was an old and profitless place, abandoned by the corporations because it had ceased to offer them any profit. Which is what had made it perfect for the Resolute.
A man and woman, both members of the secret group, walked through the old passageway. They kept to the left side, unsure whether to move quickly to stay warm, or slowly, to keep from being heard. Each was wrapped in several layers of clothing. For both, it was most of the clothing they owned. They had but a single light with which to find their way, an old recycled thing powered by an open-water battery.
Their breath came out in silver-gray gushes that evaporated behind them. They said nothing, their attention on the path both ahead and behind. They were certain they had not been followed. Why would they be? No one above the pit-and-bang level knew of the Resolute. It was off-shift time. There was no reason for anyone to look for them.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
People were reassigned, work groups were disbanded, shuffled—for no apparent reason. Some people disappeared. Security monitors were being installed in new places all the time, in spots where one would not think they would be needed—not unless someone was looking for something.
Concern over that fact prompted the man to whisper to his companion, "Sometimes I still wonder if management suspects."
"Gerald, you have to stop worrying so. There's no way for them to know of our existence," the woman assured him. "We've been too careful."
"Maybe, Marta," he answered. Their pale light illuminated the fine dust on the floor, showing them brief glimpses of the rolling clouds their feet were kicking up. "Maybe. But ever since Renker and Samuels stumbled over what's actually going on Above, nothing's been the same."
"Don't start," hissed the woman through clenched teeth. "This debate just never ends. We have been careful. As careful as we can be. We've left no trails, stolen nothing. All the proof we've gathered has been copied."
Marta stopped moving. In spite of the cold, she wanted to see her husband as she talked to him. As he turned to her, she looked into the deep lines carved around his face, at the gray of his skin and the concern etched into his eyes, and her heart ached for him.
He worked so hard. She did, too, but he was the one who never stopped—never stopped working, never stopped worrying, never stopped pushing himself and all around him.
"Listen to me," she said, putting a finger to his lips, trying to find the energy to smile. "The Resolute is unknown. We are safe. We haven't even done anything wrong."
' 'Neither did any of the people who have disappeared since all this started."
"They gave up, they went to the Earth," she reminded him, straining to keep from her voice the exasperation and fear she was feeling. "We saw the passage bookings."
"Yes, we did," he admitted. "But that's all we saw. One minute we had friends, the next their quarters are empty and they are supposedly on their way to Earth."
Gerald had to stop talking for a moment, had to set his fragile lamp down and back away from his wife so he could clap his freezing hands together. Marta, as chilled as her husband, crossed her arms and beat her shoulders, trying to drive away the cold.
Then they started walking again. As always, they avoided the right-hand side of the tunnel, but abandoned caution when listening for anyone who might be following. Time was too precious.
It meant the possibility of extra shifts and perhaps even rest. It meant moments with children. Free time even allowed the liberty of