Wonder Woman: The Official Movie Novelization

by Nancy Holder

  Diana studied the others’ faces: the remnants of Hippolyta’s guards, Antiope’s warriors, and the Senators. They all showed strain in the aftermath of the attempted invasion. This man’s fate had not yet been decided.

  Steve Trevor continued, “Assigned… to British Intelligence.” He looked down at the glowing rope. “What the hell is this thing anyway?”

  “The Lasso of Hestia compels you to reveal the truth.” Diana gazed down at him with authority.

  “It is pointless—and painful—to resist,” Menalippe added.

  “What is your mission?” Hippolyta demanded.

  “Whoever you are,” he said, “you’re in more danger than you think.”

  Menalippe tightened the Lasso, making him wince.

  “What is your mission?” the Queen repeated.

  “I’m a… spy,” Steve Trevor said. “I’m a spy, a spy, a spy.”

  Snared by the golden rope, unable to resist, the truth came pouring out of him.

  “I was working under cover for British Intelligence when they got word that the leader of the German Army, General Ludendorff, was visiting a secret military installation in the Ottoman Empire…”

  Diana looked to her mother for translation, but her face was blank.

  “I posed as one of their pilots, then flew in with them.”

  * * *

  I have no idea how to shut myself up, Steve thought as he described a massive hangar-like complex in Turkey heavily guarded by German soldiers.

  “According to our intel,” he told the Amazons, “the Germans had no troops left, no money, no munitions of any kind…”

  * * *

  What he found when he infiltrated his target area was something quite different. The building was an immense, highly sophisticated munitions factory with assembly line conveyor belts, furnaces to forge the casings for explosives, milling machinery, presses to load the warheads into their metal shells. Heat, oil, dust, filings. The bubbling of molten metal, the acrid stench of shellac. The roof was glass, presumably to let in more natural light, and it was manned by silent, elderly men, and by sullen, frightened women and children, hundreds of them. They moved with the trembling, dizzy gait of the starved and sleep deprived. Slave laborers, either taken from the local population or imported from elsewhere in Turkey, conscripted for the mass production of weapons of war.

  The flopsweat of fear. The scent of death.

  “But our intel was wrong. The Germans had the Turks building bombs for them. And not just bombs…”

  Contained within the bomb factory was a scientific laboratory, and nested inside that, a forbidding-looking testing chamber. Through a window, Steve saw General Ludendorff approach a slight figure who was dressed in head-to-toe protective gear inside the lab—a dark green smock and rubber gloves that came up to the elbows. When the mask and goggles came off Steve saw who it was. Pay dirt.

  She quickly scribbled something in a green notebook then, exuding confidence, greeted the general with respect and apparent pleasure. Ludendorff was brisk, but obviously eager to see her newest development. He was a war monger who lived for the battle. Combat was his staff of life—it sustained him, fed him. He relished any field advantage as some cherished jewels, or gold, or even loved ones. He reserved his love for one thing and one thing only: total world domination, to be won by the armies under his personal command.

  “New weapons,” Steve continued his story for the Amazons. “Secret weapons invented by Ludendorff’s chief psychopath, Dr. Isabel Maru.”

  When the scientist turned her head, his stomach clenched. Flesh-colored metal plates covered the lower half of her nose, two-thirds of her mouth on the right side, and three-fourths of her chin, hiding the damage previous failed experiments had done to her. Even though he had been briefed about the extent of the prosthesis, the effect startled him.

  “Boys in the trenches call her ‘Dr. Poison.’ For good reason,’” he told the Amazons, wondering if they understood what he was talking about. Where were the men? He had yet to see a single one. Had the Germans landed here before and murdered them? Why didn’t these women have real weapons?

  The woman holding onto the lasso gave it a tug. A sensation like heated electric shocks zinged through him. He continued his story.

  He watched from the window as Dr. Maru led the general to her personal laboratory, to stand before the fully enclosed test chamber with a viewing window of heavy glass rimmed with a black gasket. Presumably airtight. There were dials and levers below the window.

  Inside the test chamber sat a prisoner, his terrified face covered by what looked like a regulation British gas mask—rubber on the sides, chin, and forehead, round mouthpiece filter unit, two glass lenses for the eyes, and straps to hold it in place. His wrists and ankles were cuffed and restrained by chains. The top of the gas mask had a metal ring in it, and the ring was connected to another, smaller diameter chain that led up into the ceiling. Knowing Maru’s background in chemical weapons, it wasn’t difficult to guess what might be in store for the poor soul behind the glass.

  In hushed tones Maru began to explain the experiment and chemical formulas to Ludendorff, but Steve was too far away to catch any of the details. They seemed to be quite chummy, heads almost touching as they reviewed her notebook.

  Steve fought the urge to push closer so he could eavesdrop. One thing was certain: the general would not have traveled so far from the Fatherland without good reason. Clearly something momentous—and, knowing the doctor’s history, horrendous—was about to be revealed. The prisoner in the chamber was an innocent pawn whom Steve could not protect.

  As soon as Maru closed her notebook and set it down on the desk, she turned away. Steve realized that he could probably snake his hand through the half-open door and take it. He had to time his attempt perfectly; too soon and she would realize it was gone. Too late—

  Steve inched closer.

  Smiling with half her face, she opened a valve below the window, and a glowing gas began to flow into the sealed chamber. Inside the gas mask, the prisoner’s eyes grew wide. His muffled screams for help could be heard through his mask, through the glass window.

  Ludendorff watched the proceedings intently, occasionally turning his head to mutter something to his second in command. The gas filled the chamber and as Steve looked on, the mask on the subject began to disintegrate. Thin cracks appeared in the glass lenses, the canvas straps began to fray and discolor, and the metal parts around the mouthpiece looked like they were corroding. It was difficult to see, with the chamber filling with smoke.

  Closer.

  The doctor leered at the man in the mask, her face pressing closer to the pane, eyes urging on the outcome she desired—like she was cheering on a horse in a race.

  But the process didn’t escalate. There was no finish line, no winner.

  The prisoner seemed to relax as the gas mask continued to protect him. His body language said he thought he was going to survive.

  Dr. Maru whirled away from the glass. Her expression, or the half that was visible outside the metal plates, shifted from joy and triumph to doubt and anger.

  Ludendorff let out a huff, shook back the cuff of his officer’s great coat, peeled back the hem of a leather glove to check his wristwatch. The message was clear: you are wasting my time.

  Instead of apologizing or explaining, an infuriated Dr. Maru reached out and pulled a lever beside the valve. Something whirred in the ceiling, and the chain connected to the top of the gas mask tightened. Before the prisoner could react, the mask was ripped from his face.

  Steve heard his shrieks—

  “From what I saw,” Steve said with the lasso around his chest, “if Dr. Maru was able to complete her work, millions would die. The war would never end—I had to do something… dammit.”

  “I need more time,” Maru told the general.

  “Unfortunately, doctor, we do not have more time.”

  Everything Steve needed was in the green notebook, everything the
Brits and their allies wanted to know. He had to chance it now. Coolly, he grabbed the notebook, turned, and walked briskly and calmly away.

  “This work,” Maru said. “This—”And that was when she noticed that the book was gone. “Stop him!”

  Behind Steve there were angry shouts and the tramp of heavy boots. He burst out of the factory and raced through the courtyard, making for the crude Turkish airstrip. One of the fleet of Fokkers was idling, prop whirring, a pilot about to board.

  Pops of pistol fire erupted from behind him. Bullets sailed over his head and wildly to his left and right. He ducked under the wing and slid, grabbing the pilot and yanking him out of his way.

  He climbed into the single-seat cockpit as the plane as the Germans rushed in. Advancing the engine’s throttle and working the foot pedals, he cut a hard left turn. Bullets struck the plane, punching holes in the sheet metal skin. No time for goggles or cap.

  More bullets, dangerously close.

  The Eindecker roared into the head wind. The added lift made his takeoff quick and easy. He pulled back on the stick and the plane responded, streaking up into the sky.

  More gunfire rattled up from below, rifles this time. Bullets struck the side of the fuselage as he made a tight loop, swinging back over the installation and the airfield. He had what he wanted. It was a long way to Whitehall. The last thing he needed was aerial pursuit by a squadron of fighter planes. Diving toward the field, he steered with one hand and reached for the cockpit lever that fired the mounted Spandau IMG 08 machine gun. As he bore down on the row of parked planes, he pulled the trigger. Synched with the propeller, the machine gun appeared to fire right through the spinning blade. A line of 7.92 mm bullets stitched along the ground and through the aircraft, kicking up a flurry of dust. The aircraft exploded in flames, sending the German troops scattering for cover. He eased off. Spent shell casings fell through a hole and emptied into the fuselage.

  Steve released the trigger, opened the throttle, and pulled back on the stick. He made another figure eight, and as the installation once again came into view, he saw two figures running for a parked command car. There was no mistaking it. One was General Ludendorff, the other Dr. Maru. Seizing the chance to end the German weapons program in one fell swoop, Steve lined up to strafe the car. But they must have had a driver waiting behind the wheel because it had already started to move. Before the general and the doctor could shut the doors, the vehicle was roaring out the gate. The side of the brick complex blocked Steve’s shot and he had to abort. He didn’t want to waste precious bullets.

  Circling the installation, he watched the last of the slave labor force evacuate. The workers and their masters spread out in all directions, trying to get as far away from the factory as possible.

  Sweeping down over the main building he blitzed the glass roof, sending it crashing down into the building. It was necessary for what he intended to do next. Cutting another tight turn, he lined up on the structure again. Holding the stick trapped between his knees, he armed a fifteen-pound hand bomb that was clipped to the inside of the cockpit. It had a contact fuse, which meant that to achieve full effect, it had to fall unimpeded through the roof and into the building before it struck something. He banked the Eindecker to gain altitude, this to avoid the resulting blast. He knew German hand bombs of this size would blow a crater fifteen feet wide and three feet deep. Eyeballing the drop, he hung the bomb outside the cockpit, and let go dead center of the structure. Immediately he banked hard left and pulled back on the stick to gain even more altitude.

  A tremendous fireball erupted behind and below him. He felt both the heat and shock of the explosion, which blew the Fokker off course. Debris sailed past him, slicing into the plane’s skin, and making it wobble. He turned west. With no pursuit to worry about, he trimmed back the throttle to get maximum distance out of his available fuel.

  Steve Trevor’s face strained as he again tried to fight the power of the lasso, and again failed.

  “I was on my way back to London when the Germans shot me down,” he said, his eyes locked onto the messenger bag resting at Hippolyta’s feet.

  Diana opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a green-bound notebook.

  He nodded at it. “But if I can get those notes to British Intelligence in time …” His voice broke and he swallowed hard—the lasso was forcing him to reveal not just the facts but his feelings about them. “It can stop millions more from dying… Stop the war…”

  “War? What war?” Diana said.

  “The War To End All Wars. Four years, twenty-seven countries, twenty-five million dead—soldiers and civilians…” He swallowed again. The lasso was forcing him to reveal deep, painful truths. “Innocent people. Women and children, slaughtered. Their homes, villages: looted, burned. Weapons deadlier than you can imagine. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s like… the world is going to end.” His voice was deep and he ground out the words, each one costing him dearly. Every piece of his soul cried out for him to stop this horrible massacre. He had to make them understand that he had a duty to the entire world. They had to set him free.

  Standing behind the woman named Diana—the one who had saved his life—the Queen of these women wore such an expression of despair that he was certain he’d gotten though to her. Yes, yes, you’ve got to let me go, he silently told her.

  Her face downcast, she said nothing.

  He was at a loss.

  * * *

  It must be Ares who is doing this, Diana thought, flooding with dread. She could see the anguish in Steve Trevor’s eyes. It mirrored theirs—the Amazons. He was a warrior, like them. He was trying to stop the God, as her mother had done. He was more like them than he, a human man, was not.

  It was clear that Hippolyta wanted Diana to accompany her and her inner circle into the courtyard. Diana followed them out. Everyone was stunned, dismayed.

  “Should we let him go?” Phillipus said.

  Hippolyta’s gaze was steely. “And risk him bringing more men to our shores? Phillipus…”

  “Mother?” Diana tried to interrupt, but was ignored.

  “We can’t hold him forever, my Queen,” Phillipus countered.

  “Excuse me, Mother,” Diana said, more firmly. “But after everything the man said, this must be Ares.”

  Everyone stopped and turned to stare at her.

  “What are you talking about, child?” Senator Acantha said.

  “Forgive me, Senator Acantha, but the man called it ‘war without end.’ Millions of people already dead. Like nothing he’s ever seen. Only Ares could do such a thing. We cannot simply let him go. We must go with him.”

  There was a stir in the group. Surely she was not the only one to whom this had occurred.

  “I will not deploy our army and leave Themyscira defenseless to go and fight their war,” her mother said.

  “This is not their war,” Diana argued. She repeated the history lesson her mother had drilled into her night after night, gazing into the panel, brushing her hair.

  “That was a story, Diana,” Hippolyta bit off. “There is much you do not know. Men are easily corruptible.” She spoke as if the matter was closed. But Diana was not put off.

  “But Ares is behind that corruption,” Diana reminded her. “It is Ares who has these Germans fighting. And stopping the God of War is our foreordinance. And now mankind must be freed. As Amazons, this is our duty.” She looked to the others for agreement. But all eyes were focused on Hippolyta.

  “But you are not an Amazon like the rest of us, Diana,” her mother said.

  The words cut her to the heart—not only because they were unjust, but because her mother was only using that as an excuse. Deflecting the point Diana was making. This was the entire reason Zeus had created the Amazons, was it not?

  Was it not?

  “So you will do nothing, as your Queen forbids it,” Hippolyta ordered her. As if the matter was closed.

  But it was not.

  7

 
Diana sat on a low examination table in the Amazons’ infirmary while Epione, a skilled healer, prepared to stitch up her arm. But after Epione had threaded the needle, the Amazon paused.

  “Strange,” she said. “You healed quickly.”

  Diana glanced down at her shoulder. Epione was right: the wound had closed up on its own. It was strange—or maybe it simply hadn’t been that deep. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

  “Is it true you saved his life?” Epione asked.

  Diana shifted her attention. “Who told you that?”

  “He did.”

  So her mother had sent him to be checked over. Diana took that as a good sign—and left the infirmary with the idea that she should check him over as well…

  * * *

  Plunging waterfalls cascaded from the roof of the cavern where Steve Trevor lounged in the topmost of four stacked bathing pools brimming with glowing blue water. He moved his foot through the water; the intensity of the color changed and he chuckled, intrigued. And as he rose naked from the water, in she walked.

  * * *

  Oh, good, she thought. Now I can inspect him more closely.

  His injured shoulder had been bandaged, but the rest of his body was covered with lesser cuts and bruises, and old scars from other battles. So many scars. And as for the rest…

  “Would you say you’re a typical example of your sex?” she asked, approaching the pools.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I am above average,” he declared.

  Diana’s gaze dropped below his waist. “What is that?” she said, looking puzzled.

  He flushed, then followed her eye line to the object that sat on the edge of the pool, on top of his clothes. “It’s a watch,” he said with apparent relief, scooping it up as he covered his front.

  “A watch,” Diana repeated.

  “A watch. Tells time. My father gave it to me. Been through hell and back with him, and now it’s with me, and good thing it’s still ticking.”