"Get him!" ordered the one in the rear. "This has been too much for too little. Kill him, and let's get this X'd and off!"
The narrow confines of the hall gave the ambassador a small advantage. As long as he could hold the three back, he would have a chance. However, if the pirates could force him back the few yards to the main chamber where Jarolic was working, they would have him.
Forcing away his fatigue, Hawkes turned himself sideways, presenting as thin a target as possible. His sword extended, he fenced with the staff wielder as best he could. It was not the best way for the staffman to use his weapon, but it did extend his reach over the ambassador's, and it was the only way he could manipulate the long weapon in the narrow hall.
The two parried with each other twice more, twice again. The charged staff crackled with power. Several times Hawkes tried to slip his blade past the pirate's defenses, but he could not break the man's stabbing pattern. Worse than that, each exchange forced the ambassador to take a backward step. The staffman was herding him, using his longer reach to push Hawkes back into the larger room.
"You'd better hurry," the ambassador shouted over his shoulder.
"I'm almost there," answered Jarolic desperately. "You've got to keep them back a few more minutes."
"It might not be up to me," Hawkes told him truthfully.
The staffman grinned and spun his weapon. Hawkes lashed out in both directions, knocking the charged rod against one wall and then the other. The pirate, younger and possessing the advantage, pressed it again, bringing his weapon back from the wall before the ambassador could reach him with his blade.
A drop of sweat fell from Hawkes's hair, rolling down his forehead and dropping into his eye. He blinked it away, fury and desperation flooding his mind. And then, suddenly, the drop reminded him of his sash, still hanging from his bracing hand tucked behind his back.
Instantly he whipped it around and up into the air, aiming it at the end of the staffman's weapon. The wet end of the sash snagged the rod and clung to it. The pirate lifted his weapon desperately to break the connection.
Hawkes let his end go, never intending to try and break the staff man's grip. Instead he lunged forward, stabbing the pirate directly through the heart.
Blood sluiced out of the invader's body and into his shock armor through the breach made by the ambassador's weapon. The protective panel shorted instantly, sending a rush of power through both the pirate's and Hawkes's body. The ambassador was flung in one direction, the invader in the other. Hawkes landed badly at the very edge of the larger room. The pirate was thrown into his two mates.
The pair of invaders brushed their dying companion aside and started forward for Hawkes. Stunned for the second time during the battle, the ambassador had yet to regain his feet. The armor shock had not been nearly as severe as the staff jolt he had taken earlier, but combined with his fatigue, it was almost enough to render him unconscious.
"You've been a lot of trouble, Mr. Hawkes," said the closest of the two advancing invaders.
"Now, that he has," agreed the one in the rear. "Far too much."
"But," said the first, ignoring his partner—his eyes carefully watching Hawkes, "your head is worth a great deal of bank to me and me mate here . . . so you won't mind if we just gather it and then take our leave."
The ambassador could not answer. Gasping for air he could not keep in his lungs, shaking spasmodically, he could barely keep his knees together under him. His sword hand was flat against the floor. Hawkes knew if he moved it he would only fall over.
The ambassador fought for control of his muscles. He willed his damaged nervous system to respond, to fight back, to defend him before everyone who had died ended up having died in vain. With all the energy he had, Hawkes turned his head upward, staring at the approaching pirates. With his last remaining strength, he got one foot under himself and picked his sword up.
The pirates stopped for a moment—not out of fear, but a combination of amusement and pity. The one in the lead looked at the trembling, shaking weapon hanging weakly in the air before him and sighed. Then he brought his own sword up in a clean move and knocked the ambassador's weapon out of his hand.
"You're a brave man, sir. But you've come to the end."
Before anything else could be said, a small egg-shaped object flew from behind Hawkes and struck the first pirate in the chest. Instantly, micro-thin lengths of wire shot out of the egg and enveloped both the man and the one behind him. As the wires wrapped around the pair, they constricted and cut deep into the two pirates.
Before either man could even scream, their bodies exploded. Blood gushed, splashing both walls, pouring over the floor, and coating the ambassador. A spraying cloud of metal and cloth and bone and organ fragments followed, flying everywhere at once. The bits and pieces splattered everything within an eight-yard radius.
Hawkes sputtered, gagging on the death of his enemies. He wanted to wipe the gore away from his face. He wanted to know what had happened . . . where the egg had come from, who had thrown it, what had become of Jar-olic . . . and the ship.
The ambassador wanted to know everything, but he was helpless. He was too tired—had been pushed too far. Hawkes sighed and his eyes closed.
Whatever happened next was in someone else's hands.
16
HAWKES SAT BACK FROM THE LARGE, POLISHED FIBER table that separated him from the various Martian delegates. Staring out at them, letting the flurry of questions, requests, and demands wash through his mind, he could not quite believe what was being asked of him.
And you thought surviving the pirates was tough, he thought, letting the cynical voice sound in his brain, trying to amuse himself.
Surviving the pirates had been tough. But he and the remaining crew and passengers had done it. The plan to distract the attacking vessel's bridge crew by releasing the Bulldog's main store of water had worked. The moment's diversion had allowed the liner's marine contingent to launch their counterattack effectively. Ultimately, they had not been able to destroy the enemy completely, but they had driven the pirates' mother ship off, a burning, smoking cripple, which everyone decided was good enough.
Yes, more than good enough, thought the ambassador, especially considering the alternative.
The last three days of the journey, desperately trying to get to Mars, had been an incredible hardship for all. Passengers filled in for the crew; all those who were still alive and uninjured struggled to clear the debris, watching over those few pirates abandoned by their fellows, living on a water ration of only one cup a day, and gathering the dead from every corner of the ship. The work had continued around the clock for everyone until the Bulldog finally managed to limp into its usual lunar orbit around Phobos. There had been more than a little trouble just getting to the moon itself, let alone trying to establish a proper orbital approach and final pattern. But the makeshift crew had done it—sometimes with their fingers crossed—but they had done it all the same.
From there Red Planet, Incorporated's shuttles took over. A replacement crew was brought up to tend to the ship while all the survivors were transferred to the planet below. Standard procedure in such cases called for the prisoners to be taken away for separate interrogation while everyone else was looked at by the corpor/national's medical staff and then interviewed by their security people.
After that, the survivors were finally allowed to get in touch with their families, their employers, or whatever else had brought them off-world in the first place. Most took no more than a few minutes to meet their Martian contacts before they went off for a shower or a meal or just to sleep. Benton Hawkes was an exception.
Forgoing any of the hospitalities Mars might have planned to offer its new governor-regent, the ambassador called for a meeting of all interested parties within a half an hour. Almost every one of the representatives waiting for Hawkes registered surprise. Many protested, some of them quite loudly. The ambassador merely frowned. Waving his arms for silence, he announce
d, "Ladies, gentlemen, you've been looking for an answer to your problems for some thirty years. I've been enmeshed in your struggle for a few weeks and people have already tried to kill me three times. I'd say we've all been at this long enough." Hawkes stared at his wrist-link, pretending to check the time. Raising his eyes, he made his face a dark scowl as he said, "Anyone who isn't seated at the tables in a half an hour isn't going to be seated at all." Looking out at the stunned faces on the crowd of managers, owners, workers' reps, and various other concerned parties, the ambassador had to hide a smile. Turning away, pretending to check his papers, he threw over his shoulder, "There are twenty-nine minutes remaining, everybody. If you have anything you want to present to me then, I suggest you go to get it now."
None of the representatives remained in the chamber when Hawkes turned back again. This time he did smile— for a moment, anyway. Then he glanced down to the table before him, locking onto the half dozen trays overflowing with report chips. He picked up a handful of the peanut-sized electronics as Martel entered the room. Letting them pour through his fingers back into the tray, he said, "Do you believe this? There must be six weeks' worth of reading here."
"Mr. Ambassador, what are you doing?"
"At least six weeks. My God, I haven't seen anything like this since they sent me down to South America to mediate that six-way war . . . when was that? Fifty-two."
"Ambassador, everyone expected you to get some rest." Martel stood in front of Hawkes, her hands on her hips. She had been on her way to bed when she had been made aware of his announcement. "They thought you would at least want to clean up a bit. No one thought you were . . ."
And then, sudden comprehension flooded her face. After a few seconds she remembered to close her mouth. As she began to apologize, Hawkes smiled, telling her, "Forget it. Let it be a lesson. Stopping for anything except getting down to work just gives your enemies time to get their next move organized."
"But how can you . . . I mean . . . to start a round of talks now." The young woman cocked her head to the side. Then, in a voice filled with serious concern, she asked, "Aren't you tired?"
"Exhausted."
The aide closed her mouth again, trying to think instead of simply blurting out the first thing that came into her head. Hawkes could see the effort in her face. Approving of thinking, he decided to sit back and wait to see what she said next.
"Sir, permission to be confused?"
"Permission granted," answered the ambassador with a grin. Taking pity on the bone-tired woman, he told her, "Go ahead. Ask your questions. I won't spin you."
"Thank you. That's the nicest courtesy you've shown me so far." Hawkes nodded, actually amused enough despite his fatigue to grin. Ever since Martel had saved his life he had found himself growing quite fond of the young woman. Too fond.
Damn it, he told himself, you're here to do a job, not rehearse Romeo. Leave the Shakespeare for someone with nothing better to do.
He stared at her as she moved across the room, freezing a nondescript look onto his face as he also reminded himself, And, in case you forgot . . . she's married—a newlywed—and, oh yes, in case you needed anything else to keep you from getting distracted these days, there are people trying to kill you.
Hawkes waited as his aide turned and then pulled up a chair of her own. Easing her weary self into it, she said, "You're twice my age, so I'm going to assume that after what we've been through you're at least as tired as I am."
"Ouch. Thanks," he answered with a mock show of wounded pride. "Let's just say, 'point granted.' "
"Thank you again." Pushing at her short, dark hair, Martel took a deep breath to help her stifle a yawn. Then, she bit her lower lip, exhaled through her nose, and finally asked, "Sir, how can you think of opening negotiations without any rest? We've been through so much. . . . How are you going to be able to do it—keep your guard up— especially when the hours start to drag on?"
"The hours aren't going to drag on. I didn't call for an opening to the negotiations. I just called a meeting."
His aide stared for a long moment. The woman was tired, as exhausted as everyone else that had come off the Bulldog—more so than most. Her mind raced over her conversation with Hawkes, searching for the piece she was obviously missing. Finally, knowing she was walking into a verbal trap, but not knowing how else to get the answer, she conceded, "Okay, sir. You win. I'm just too wrung out to keep up with you. All I can see is you making people angry. You want them to run off, grab all their materials and run back here, and then you don't intend to start negotiations."
The aide let a thin smile cross her face. It showed a delicate mix of helpless surrender and "I'll get you later." Hawkes liked it. Before he could say so, however, Martel added, "If a humble battery fetcher can be privy to the workings of genius . . . could you please tell me what you're up to?"
"All you had to do was ask." Hawkes raised both eyebrows mockingly. His aide felt like sticking her tongue out at him but refrained, settling for a simple scowl instead. Paying off his last comment, the ambassador told her, "We have a small advantage here. No one expected us to sit down to the tables now. We're half-dead, thirsty, tired." Hawkes feigned sniffing his armpit, then added, "We smell . . . well, I smell. But then you know what they say about diplomats. You, maybe . . ."
Martel laughed despite her fatigue. Hawkes smiled. After the past three days, he felt the serious young woman needed a good laugh.
"All right—motion passed. The entire corps smells. Anyway, we came in with everyone working under an expected given . . . no one was going to be in any shape to do any work. So, since no one expects us to do anything, no one's totally prepared. They don't have their arguments in place. Like I said, I didn't call for an opening of negotiations, I just called for a meeting."
Hawkes sat forward in his chair, his hands checking his vest pockets for something he could not seem to find. As he did so, he realized he had on the same clothes he had left the ranch in, the same outfit he had been wearing when Disraeli had found the bomb, when his home had been attacked, when he had killed Stine. Suddenly, whatever he had been searching for was forgotten. Leaning forward out of his chair until he could rest his forearms on the table between himself and Martel, he told her, "I want them all to go grab up their half-prepared statements. I want to see what they have to say before they get a chance to polish it up and craft it into wording that hides what they really mean to say."
The woman nodded, more to herself than to Hawkes. She was used to functioning with formal, by-the-numbers types. She had never seen someone like him in action before. And then, a sudden thought seized her. Emboldened by the ambassador's style, moved to speak in a fashion she would not have thought proper with anyone else in the corps, she asked, "Excuse me, sir, but what would you think of someone who came to the table with nothing prepared?''
Hawkes smiled again. The woman was good. His mind flashed back to the Bulldog, focused on the pirate stabbing for him with his electro-staff, saw Martel's bullet blow open the front of his chest.
"What would you think?"
"At this point, Mr. Ambassador, I'd think anyone who wasn't prepared to start negotiations would be someone who thought you weren't going to get here to lead the negotiations."
Hawkes's smile split his face. He was too tired to hide his feelings as he normally might. Besides, not only is she right, he thought, but the woman saved your life. You can give her some of her due.
The ambassador's mind raced. In a moment, a hundred thoughts crowded through his brain. In that flashing split second, his guard down because of his weariness, because of all they had been through together, because she was beautiful and trusting and they were strangers alone in a world unknown, he almost forgot about everything. For a second she had no husband, and he had no reason to keep her out of his life—the way he had everyone for so long.
But the moment ended, and he remembered who he was, and who she was, and why they had gone through all they had in the first place. Hi
s all-too-reflexive restraint choking back his sparking feelings, he told her in a low voice, "Well, all I can say is"—the door to the chamber opened to admit the first of the returning negotiators—"if you thought something like that . . . you'd be right."
And then, despite his safeguards, their eyes met. Before he could stop himself, volumes of feeling passed from one to the other as Hawkes's defenses slipped and let the woman see at least a part of who he was. Martel did the same, willing to give as much as she got.
Then, finally understanding each other, the pair turned to face the incoming delegations.
16
HAWKES SET ASIDE THE HAND SCREEN HE HAD BEEN studying for hours and then stretched his arms out to both sides, as far as he could. It had been two days since he had reached the surface of Mars. If he thought he was tired then, he had forgotten what kind of energy it took to stave off angry civil wars. He was bone tired—more weary and drained than he had ever been before in his life.
His opening gambit had succeeded well enough. None of the parties to the negotiations had been totally prepared. The management of Red Planet, Incorporated, and those designated to speak for the workers had brought the most material to the table. The Earth League monitor, the representatives from Lunar City, and those picked to audit the proceedings for the Asteroid Workers Federation came with far less, but that was understandable. They were there mainly as observers in the first place.
All five groups had been a bit miffed when Hawkes merely gathered in the materials they had brought, thanked them politely, and then dismissed them. But he had gotten what he wanted, and that was all that mattered.
As he had explained to Martel later, "They're all annoyed with me right now. Hopefully that's good. Mad at me, they might not take it out on each other—yet. It might keep the lid on things for another few days."
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