Man O' War

by William Shatner

  And then, as the dark bowl snapped into place, he heard the rush of oxygen filling the suit. Sucking down a deep breath, he dropped to his knees, fumbling for the power attachments on the floor. Grabbing up the pile driver he had noticed earlier, he grappled with the awkward tool, trying to align its contacts so he could bring it to bear. Struggling to keep it sliding along its tracks, he prayed, Come on, you can do it. You can do it. You're not going to let that girl die. Not like the others. Not again. No one dies again. Come on . . . come on . . . come on . . . come—

  The connection took. Instantly Hawkes moved back to his feet, forcing the ponderous compression suit toward the other wall with all his strength. He wanted to look back to see if Martel was still conscious, wanted to examine the voice controls to see if he could find the outer speakers, but there was no time.

  The older compression suits had been designed as life-saving equipment. Their basic design was simple enough that anyone could get one running—could keep himself alive just by getting into one. Anything else, though, took time to figure out. Mere seconds, split seconds, even . . .but Hawkes had no seconds to spare. The time it would take to rotate his head to look at the woman willing to sacrifice herself for him might be the time it took to sign her death warrant.

  "Just keep moving, old man," he growled to himself. With sweat running down his forehead, he fought the dizzying fatigue that clawed at him, pushed away the internal suggestions his body was sending to his mind, growling again, "Just keep moving. Do it. Do it. Do it!"

  Reaching the next door, he swung up the power attachment, slammed it against the curved lip of the heavy door, and then pulled back on the pile driver's trigger. Immediately the robotic arm piece began pounding at the hatchway's edge. Hawkes kept moving the slicing chisel edge back and forth, trying to get it wedged inside the vacuum-tight seal.

  "Hang on, Dina," he whispered, alone inside his helmet, not knowing if the woman was even still alive. Once inside the suit, his senses of hearing and touch had been completely shut off. Now he had no idea if the air was still rushing away . . . or already gone. Ignoring the grim possibility, he continued to work, still praying, "Hang on. You can do it. You've got to do it."

  Monstrous sparks arced away from the end of the arm piece, bouncing from the ceiling to the walls and floor. Ignoring them, blinking at the sweat filling his eyes, tasting the blood running down the side of his head, Hawkes worked at calming his heart rate and keeping the pile driver aimed correctly. As recoil tension tore through his arm, he gritted his teeth against the pain and redoubled his efforts. He knew by now that alarms would be ringing below. There was no doubt he had enough air to last until help arrived.

  Dina Martel's fate, however, was another question.

  That thought firmly planted in the front of his mind, he kept ripping at the air-lock seal, until suddenly, "Yes!"

  Broken chips of titanium steel broke away from the hatchway lip. In another second a spiderweb of cracks splintered outward from the ambassador's attack point. In another, his arm attachment broke through the hatch.

  Instantly Hawkes was hurled onto his back by the fresh rush of air being pulled from the inside of the colony out into the air lock. Fumbling his way to his knees, the ambassador cursed the slow-moving compression suit as he struggled to turn around. After a handful of yearlong seconds, he had made his way to his feet, had turned the suit, had found Martel.

  From the looks of the bloody tangle her body had made when it snagged against the opposite doorway, it did not appear that Hawkes's efforts had been completed in time.

  24

  AN UNSHAVEN BENTON HAWKES SAT IN THE STIFF-BACKED but comfortable woven-fiber chair off to the side in the white room. The ambassador had refused to leave the intensive-care unit, even though he had been assured repeatedly that Dina Martel would live.

  Oh well, of course, she'll live, Hawkes had thought bitterly as the medical staff cooed their never-ending reassurances. He stared down at the slight, broken body in the bed before him with the death white skin. After all, all the damn machines you have attached to her say she'll live, so she'll just have to. Right?

  The ambassador had dismissed the staff, saying that he would sit with her . . . by himself. Postponing the negotiations, he took his meals there, slept sitting up in the single chair, and washed his face off occasionally in the room's duty sink.

  He did not hamper the medical unit's personnel as they passed in and out to perform their duties, but he was quite adamant about not desiring any company. His was a solitary vigil—except for the two security men outside the door, assigned to stay with him at all times for the remainder of his stay on Mars.

  About time, his cynical side chided him. How long did you think your luck was going to hold out, anyway?

  "Longer than hers . . . I guess."

  Hawkes whispered the words with angry regret. He had chastised himself incessantly since two days earlier, when the last attack had been made.

  What did you think you were doing? Where did you think you were? Bad enough wandering around in the middle of the night and almost getting yourself killed . . . but to risk her life . . . to risk her . . . .

  The ambassador turned his head back toward Martel's bed. Her limp body was still pale, still unmoving. Hawkes turned away, ashamed of himself. It had been his decision to go out without security people.

  Staring down at her, he remembered her face without any bruises—laughing, shouting, scowling at him, arguing—bright and glowing and filled with an energy most women could only dream of possessing. And then, staring down at her, suddenly he had his answer.

  True, he mistrusted both Red Planet's and the Earth League's security people. But the real reason he had taken Martel and gone off without anyone else was simply because he wanted to be alone with her.

  Ah, me, the noble Ambassador Hawkes, his cynical side sneered, lusting after another man's wife. Mick Carri would be so proud of you.

  Hawkes turned away, but did not leave the bedside. For the ten thousandth time his mind replayed the nightmare of their escape. Blowing the door had flooded the air lock with atmosphere—sucking it up from the lower levels— and had immediately brought scores of emergency workers. He had saved them—saved her—by the merest of seconds.

  Collapse crews had filled the ruptured door with a quick spray of plastic foam to stabilized the leak. Even before they were finished, Hawkes and Martel had been spirited down into the lower floors of the colony. Hawkes had stayed as close as he could the entire time they had worked on her, waiting out the desperate hours, fearing she might die because of his foolishness eating at him every moment.

  Once her most obvious injuries had been treated, the worst part of the waiting began. The ambassador turned back toward the bed, wondering what the final outcome for the brave woman before him would be.

  Brain damage? Possible—there was no guarantee she had received enough oxygen during the last moments of his assault on the door. Full use of her hands? Fingers? Legs? Who knew? Blindness? Deafness? Full or partial? No way to determine. Not in her present condition. The doctors all agreed there would be no way of knowing for certain until she woke up. . . .

  If she wakes up. If I don't send her back to her husband a vegetable, or a corpse.

  There was so much science could do—and so little of it had been shipped up to Mars.

  Why bother? It wasn't like it was a world or anything. It was just a factory. Just another section of real estate owned lock, stock, and barrel by another band of banks and corpor/nationals. Not a place where people lived . . . just where they worked.

  Worked and bred and died.

  Hawkes stared down at Martel. With all the tenderness he could manage, he reached down and brushed a single loose hair back in place over her ear. Then, taking her hand in his, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Dina. I'm more sorry than . . ."

  Hawkes froze. Feeling something moving in her hand, he shifted his eyes in that direction. Opening his fingers, he saw several of hers
flex—once, then again. His breath stopped, choking in his throat. His head snapped back in the direction of hers just in time for him to see her eyelids flutter, to hear, "Ben?"

  It was a soft, struggling whisper, but it brought air rushing back into his lungs, hope into his soul, as he whispered back, "Dina? Dina—are you awake? Can you hear me?"

  "Oh, Ben . . ."

  Her voice was weak, distant. Her words were not slurred, however, and suddenly the ambassador had to restrain himself from shouting. Squeezing her hand, he asked with fearful excitement, "Can you feel that? Can you see me?"

  His questions not registering, she said, "You did it. You saved us."

  "How do you feel? Can you feel your toes? Your fingers? Can you move your fingers?''

  "No," she answered weakly. "I can't move my fingers." After a moment's pause, she continued, "You're holding them too tightly."

  He looked down at their hands, then shifted his gaze up to her face. He saw her eyes opening fully, saw the twinkle in them, saw the unsteady smile working to spread across her face. Releasing his crushing hold on her fingers, he smiled himself, asking, "Better?"

  "I don't know," she answered with mock seriousness. "Think I'll be able to play the piano when I get out of here?"

  "I don't know why not," he told her, knowing what was coming. He waited as she took a deep breath and then gave him the punch line.

  "That's great," she said first, then added, "I could never play before, you know."

  "I know."

  "Oh," she teased him, her voice still faint. "You've heard that one before."

  "That joke, dear girl, is older than radio waves. Everyone's heard it before."

  "You're just a mean old bully," she teased him again, her voice even fainter.

  "Yes," he agreed. "And you're in intensive care for a number of good reasons. So, let me ask—do you want anything? Food? Drink? Are you in pain?" When she shook her head in response to all his questions, he said,

  "Then why don't you close those beautiful green eyes of yours and get some more sleep?'' When she started to protest, he scowled at her, then said, "I won't go anywhere. You go back to sleep. We'll talk again when you wake up."

  Martel tried to summon the energy to disagree, but she could not. Even as she told him no, her eyelids closed and she fell back into unconsciousness. Hawkes noted, however, that the smile she had worn since she had first opened her eyes and seen him standing above her did not fade. Patting her hand gently, he bent down and kissed her forehead, then returned to his chair across the room. The ambassador started to sit down, then suddenly stopped. Grabbing up the chair, he crossed the room with it, and placed it down next to the bed.

  Then he sat down. Finally certain that his aide would be all right, he closed his own eyes and got his first real rest since entering the emergency unit. His own smile did not leave his face any faster than Martel's had left hers.

  25

  "SO," ASKED HAWKES, "HOW ARE WE FEELING NOW?"

  "Outside of the pain," his aide responded, "I feel swell."

  Martel had slept for another seven hours. When she awoke the second time, she felt much stronger and far more alert. She was surprised to find that Hawkes had not left the room, that he had abandoned the negotiations to stay with her. A notion crossed her mind, one that involved feelings between her and the ambassador—but she dismissed it at once.

  Then, suddenly, her eyes met his and she saw something that made her call it back for further consideration. Looking up at him, she started to speak, but felt the words catching in her throat. It did not matter. She could tell by his reaction that he understood—that he knew what she was going to ask. She could see the awkward embarrassment in his face.

  "Ambassador, back on the Bulldog I gave you a story about being the next person in the system rotation. You thought I was lying. You were right."

  Hawkes's face did not move. Giving him a moment to think, she continued, "The next person in the rotation was nowhere near close enough. So when my boss heard what you were up to, he pulled the right strings to get me the assignment."

  "That right?"

  "Umm hmm. He sent me to the subcontinent on an over-the-ice-cap one-seat rocket shuttle."

  "Spared no expense," interjected the ambassador. His mind was racing, wondering just where her confession was leading.

  "If he couldn't get me the assignment, I was to get as close to you as possible, anyway—stay near your back." Still weak, the woman paused for a breath, then added, "Val said you were too impulsive for your own good."

  "Val?" Hawkes's eyes lit up. Suddenly everything made sense. "Val Hensen. That's how you could catch up to me—that's how you were able to get a gun on the Bulldog."

  "The commander is very thorough." Martel gave the ambassador a coded message from his old commanding officer, a string of words that would mean something only to a soldier from Hensen's former brigade. Hearing the words, Hawkes nodded thoughtfully, suddenly realizing a number of things.

  "Then you're not married. At least . . . you weren't on your honeymoon."

  "No," she said, holding back something not important at that moment. "No honeymoon. Val picked that story out. He said it was best to present a professional front that would keep some distance between us."

  "Well, yes," answered the ambassador slowly, old sections of his past suddenly flooding his brain, "I suppose that was probably the best approach." Hawkes closed his eyes for a moment, fighting old pains. Opening them again, he said, "Val would know that better than most, I guess."

  "I know it's not my place," said Martel, looking up out of her bed, tubes still running into her arms, disappearing under the sheets aimed toward her chest. "But if it was something . . . if you wanted to talk . . ."

  In his mind, the ambassador could feel long-buried memories clambering up out of the dark corner to which he had relegated them so many years before. He could feel the hot wind blowing in off the desert, hear the explosions all around him, see the thousands of enemy shapes hunkering off in the dark night.

  The taste of burned plastic and fried air came to him again. The feel of sweat trickling down behind his ears returned to him so realistically that his hand almost rose to wipe it away.

  So reflexive had his instinct become to pull away from anyone who came close to him—to his past—that Hawkes found himself actually pushing away from the woman's bedside. His involuntary response tore at him, pushing up walls almost faster than he could tear them down. His fingers clawing into a fist, he steeled his will, then said, "It was a long time ago." The words felt awkward in his mouth. Pushing them out one by one, he continued, saying, "It was my last year in the service. Of course, I didn't know then that it was my last year . . . I just, I mean . . ."

  Her hand moved slowly, dragging itself across the bed to reach his shaking fist. Her fingers closing over his hand, she closed her eyes and simply listened as he talked.

  "I was, what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? A kid. A kid playing at being a man."

  Hawkes could see it all again. Fire rained down out of the sky, drenching the reflector net, lighting the area. His remaining troops were illuminated—revealed for the pitiful handful they were. For eight days Hawkes had maintained the line he had been sent to hold. He had lasted longer than anyone else Hensen could have sent because he would go anywhere, carry out any order, and his troops would follow him. They knew he would always get them out, no matter what.

  "I'd advanced pretty quickly. I kept trying to get myself killed, command kept giving me medals and promotions for it."

  He could see the last night clearly again. To his right was Max Carnahan, his second in command, his best friend. On his left was Angie, Captain Angela Lodge, his reconnaissance and communications chief, his best officer, his fiancee. Neither of them was worried. They had followed Hawkes from the Aleutian campaign, through the Korean run, the Standard Oil/Sudanese conflict, and the food riots in Providence. They knew he would find a way to turn the tide.

  Another
flood of fire washed down at them, and then the final assault came. The robot tanks began their crawl across the sand, followed by the thousands of starvelings desperate to follow them to food. They came in evergrowing waves, and try as they might, Hawkes's troop simply did not have enough trigger fingers to aim at the never-ending torrent of bodies.

  "The enemy just kept coming. The force had invested in machines along the perimeter. Thought the threat of death would be enough to hold back the border. Didn't think they needed more than a handful to monitor their automatic weapons. Well-fed bureaucrats in air-conditioned offices. Forgot what hunger does to people."

  The ambassador shuddered as he relived the final assault. Explosions continued to light up the night sky, pounding at the enemy, pounding at his own encampment. While his people continued to concentrate on the unceasing line coming toward them—advancing constantly over its own dead—Hawkes continued to argue with his superiors, trying to force them to recognize the reality of his situation.

  Finally, when they broke connection, demanding he stay in place, he had turned to give the order for withdrawal. Let the bloody fools come, he had thought. Let them take what they want. They were going to, anyway . . . he saw no reason to die to make sure a few more or less were stopped.

  And then, just as he turned to order his people out, a lone shrieker burst through the reflector net. The chemical gas bomb had shattered a fried-out section of the silvered plastic screen directly over Hawkes. Carnahan and Lodge saw it before he did.

  "A bomb—a burner—made it through our defenses. I didn't know. It was right over my head—couldn't hear it for all the other noise. But two . . . two of my people . . . they saw it. They both moved before I knew what was happening . . . pushed me out of the way. Took the brunt . . . they took . . . they, they . . ."