And then, the tears broke forth. The tears held back for more than thirty years exploded out of him, shaking his body, washing his face, dripping onto his chest. As Martel put all the energy she had into holding his hand, the ambassador dropped his head forward, pressing it against the restraining bar on the side of the bed.
He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not hold back the tears, or the horrible sight so long buried in his memory. He saw them again, burning, screaming— the sticky gelatin paste clinging to them, eating into their skin, charring them to the bone, and beyond.
He had lost his mind then. Racing to the sandbag wall, he had slaughtered those coming forward, throwing everything in his armory at them. The thin line of human decency, the pity he had felt for his starving opponents, had unconsciously stayed his hand before. But that thin line had been crossed.
Gathering up control pads one after another, he set off every mine, blew every shell, launched every missile, every rocket, dropped every piece of sky-high he had on the approaching horde. The charred smell of his burning friends in his nostrils, he set his own defensive shields aflame, crashing his orbiters into the approaching line, did anything to kill as many of the tattered attackers as he could.
Then, when he ran out of electronics and ordnance to throw at the hated figures in the darkness, he gathered up whatever equipment was closest at hand and stormed over the wall, disappearing into the night.
His men found him the next day, wandering the smoking, ruined plain, searching for victims. Once he had run out of bullets, he had clubbed to death those he found with his empty weapons. When they had splintered and fallen away into pieces, he had fallen back to hands and knife, searching the dunes, killing those few he found remaining any way he could.
In the end, he kept the people whose land had been stolen from them away from their own food. The world was almost shocked at the death count: 318,000 people killed in a single night. An entire country of starving beggars wiped from the face of the planet for the greater glory of the Sands/Bender Corporation.
Val Hensen protected Hawkes, did not allow him to refuse his medals, his promotions, his glory. He protected the haunted, shattered young major, forcing him to keep his temper, not to throw away his entire life in some empty gesture. Putting "the hero of the line" on forced leave, he had taken the anguished young man on a retreat, staying with him until he had regained what he could of the threads of his life.
Hensen had understood. He had known Hawkes's father, had known of the sacrifice the senior Hawkes had made for his son, and how the deaths of his best friend and fiancee would affect the young man.
Hawkes told Martel the entire story—what had happened to his father, to Carnahan and Lodge, to the marching enemy that only wanted to eat. The emotion of it all overwhelmed him several times, but each time, as soon as he could continue, he moved on to tell her more.
Martel found herself crying as well, unable to control her emotions as she felt the aching depth of the ambassador's sorrow wash over her. He stopped then, his voice choked. Finally, though, when he could control himself again, he told her, "I've been alone since then. Oh, I've had people to talk to, who know me well enough . . . but I've never let anyone get close to me again. No one except a pup my dad had wanted me to care for. I loved that dog, and for all these years I've had pups from her line. The last was Disraeli, the dog Stine killed. Dizzy had been my only friend for his whole life—and then that rat bastard killed him. . . ."
Hawkes felt the sentiment and tears welling within him again. Shoving them aside, realizing there was no longer any time for self-pity, he said, "Back before, though, after the battle, I was ready to throw everything aside, denounce the corpor/nationals, the service—you know, make a noble speech, get a flash of media attention, ruin my career, end up a proud nobody." Hawkes paused, taking in a deep breath. Looking down at Martel, he let the aching ball his fist had become open into a hand. Letting her fingers slip into his, he told the woman, ''Val stopped me. He convinced me that it would be a waste. That if I really wanted to avenge what had happened, to make it right, to get back at the system . . . then I had to wait. I had to put in my time and become a part of the system—a part with enough power to throw the switch when the time came and bring down the game."
Standing up from Martel's bedside, the ambassador absently brushed at his clothes with his free hand. Looking down at the woman, he gave her a slight smile and said, "I think it's about time I tell the doctors they have a patient who wants to talk to them.''
The woman blinked, then nodded. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, searching for words that would allow them to break away from each other. After an eternal handful of seconds, Martel finally asked, "Do you think you've got the power now?"
Hawkes reflected on the question for a long moment, then looked down again and said, "Yeah. I think I do. And . . . I think I finally know where the switch is."
Smiling, the woman stared back up at him, then said, "Well, then . . . go throw it."
Feeling lighter than he had in decades, Hawkes left the room, finally ready to bring all his enemies low.
26
"CARL JAROLIC . . . JUST THE MAN I WANT TO SEE."
The environmentalist entered Hawkes's quarters, leaving his marine escort at the door. Giving the ambassador a look that revealed little, he moved his head to indicate the security people behind him, saying, "Yes, so I gathered."
Understanding his inference, Hawkes filled his voice with a soothing tone, saying, "The marines—oh, please, don't mind them. It's just that after all the different attempts on my life, those security people I can trust are getting a little edgy."
"Those you can trust?" Jarolic's interest was caught by the ambassador's choice of words. "Am I being told something here?"
"Not really," answered Hawkes. "You seem a clever enough man, so I wouldn't imagine so. Obviously someone is out to kill me. I have my opinions as to why, of course, but for reasons of my own, I'd like to hear yours."
"Mine?" Jarolic was taken aback. As he hedged, not understanding what the ambassador was after, Hawkes cut him off: "I'd just like to know what you think is motivating these attempts. Humor me."
"All right, if it will help in some way." Hawkes smiled encouragingly. Trying to organize his thoughts, Jarolic finally continued, "I'd guess that someone doesn't want the Martian work force to organize. Since it seems reasonable they'll get some kind of concessions out of all this, if someone wanted that halted badly enough . . . killing you would be a good way to stop negotiations. And if they succeeded, I guess it would be smart to try and point the blame toward the workers."
"Interesting," said Hawkes.
When the seconds continued to drift by in silence, Jarolic asked, "Excuse me, but is that it? Is that all you wanted? I mean, I do have duties to attend to."
"Not for a while, you don't," Hawkes told him. "I've requested that you be released from your duties to assist me for a while."
"What?" Jarolic almost came out of his chair. Although he kept himself under control, both shock and anger could be heard in his voice. "What do you mean? Who do you think you are that you can do this?"
"Who do I think I am? Governor of this planet. Until someone succeeds in killing me off, I can do anything I want. And what I want to do right now is prove your theory. I want to find out who it is that's trying to kill me, and to prove that they're doing it because, for some reason that probably only revolves around money, they want to keep the population of Mars indentured slaves forever." The ambassador stared at his guest, his face hard.
"From our discussion on the Bulldog, I got the feeling you were the kind of man that would be sympathetic to such a goal. Having fought alongside you, adding in the fact that you saved my life, I figure I can trust you at least as much as anyone else around here. Now, if you don't have any interest in helping these people, or if I can't trust you . . . well, then, say so now, and go back to those duties of yours."
&nb
sp; The environmentalist took a moment to pull himself together. Actually giving his answer a moment's thought first, he finally answered Hawkes, telling him, "No . . . no, sir. I would like to help these people. And, yes, you can trust me."
"Well, then, that's settled," responded the ambassador, standing up from behind his desk. "So, let's get going."
AN HOUR LATER, THE TWO MEN FOUND THEMSELVES fast approaching the surface of the planet. As they ascended in the same elevator Hawkes had taken with Martel a few days earlier, Jarolic said, "Almost there." When the ambassador seemed surprised, Jarolic reminded him that his work had already taken him to the planet's surface. Hawkes turned his attention to their security detail. As he prepared to don his helmet, he told the well-armed pair, "We're going to go out to inspect the collapsed dome. Don't remind me that the League and RP management have already looked things over. I'm the one someone was trying to kill out there—I'll take my own look, thank you." As the elevator slowed to a halt, he finished, "I want you two to stay here at the elevator door and guard our backs. I'm not making the same mistake twice. Contact us through the coms if you need to tell us anything."
The security people nodded, then unpacked the sole weights they had carried for Hawkes and Jarolic, and began sizing up the refurbished surface bunker for the best places from which to stand their watches.
As the two security officers attended to that, Hawkes and Jarolic did up each other's helmet tabs, started their oxygen flows, and then stepped into the weights laid out for them, all four of which snapped easily into place. The pair then tested not only the boot connections, but all the points on their pressure suits that could possibly be breached. Then, once they were both satisfied, they headed for the recently installed emergency lock.
The new air passage was a much simpler affair than the old compression door. It had been installed not as a permanent fixture, but only as a temporary necessity to allow access to the outside for the security teams that had combed the area. The doors were multiple layers of plastic membrane reinforced with embedded magnetic strips. Anyone visiting the outside would slide himself between the membranes as quickly as possible to prevent too much of the bunker's atmosphere from being lost as he passed through.
Once the two men were outside, Hawkes directed Jarolic's attention to the remains of the ruptured dome. As they made their way across the planet's rough surface, their weighted boots forcing them to drag their feet through the sand, the ambassador cued his com to Jarolic's wavelength, then asked, "So, tell me, what do you think of the Resolute?"
"Excuse me?"
"The Resolute. The Mars First group—the terrorists— the unionists—the underground that's been trying to get things jumping here."
"I'm not sure you can call them all of that."
"No?" questioned Hawkes. "Well, then, what parts would you say applied?"
"Why me?"
"Just making conversation." To prod the environmentalist, Hawkes added, "It's a long way to the dome in these boots."
After a moment, his companion answered, "I wouldn't know, really. I'd say it's possible they were behind some of the attempts on your life—before you got here no one really knew which way you were going to go—but, I must admit, from what I know about them I think that they have Mars's best interests at heart."
"But are Mars's best interests everyone's best interests? Mars's and Earth's combined?"
"I . . . I don't . . . I guess I don't know," stammered Jarolic. "Aren't you here to smooth things out for Mars?"
"No, of course not," answered Hawkes. "I'm here to smooth things out for everybody. What would be in Mars's best interests would be to make Mars the center of the solar system and shift all power away from Earth."
"Reversing the way things are now," Jarolic interrupted.
The ambassador smiled, admitting, "Blunt, but not incorrect. Earth now has too much power, and Mars too little. To reverse the situation simply reverses the problems. No, what I have to do is find a place where all the players can stand with something like equal footing." Hawkes paused to take a deep breath as the pair approached the ruined dome. As they worked their way in through a rupture point in the now-useless tunnel, the ambassador continued, "To do that, I have to understand all the players. I can't steady the boat until I can figure out who's rocking it." Hawkes paused as the pair moved into what was left of the old dome. Pointing toward the ruined garden, dry and frozen and useless, slowly rotting in the center of the massive plastic bubble, the ambassador asked, "Do you think the Resolute are capable of something like this?"
Staring forward, his eyes filled with unbelieving shock, the environmentalist whispered, "Do you mean growing it . . . or destroying it?"
"You tell me," answered Hawkes.
As the two men moved forward, Jarolic muttered, "This is unbelievable—this is impossible." As the environmentalist stared at the wrecked remains of the once-lush garden, he said, "I hadn't heard about anything like this being on the surface. Who could have done this?"
The ambassador watched the other man's body language. Even through the bulky pressure suit, he could tell that Jarolic was truly surprised. Tapping the man on the shoulder to break his fascination with the ruined plant life, he said, "I don't know, but I wish I did."
"I can tell you this," answered the environmentalist, "I don't know who tried to kill you and your aide, but I can't imagine the Resolute allowing something like this to be destroyed, no matter what the gain might be." Hawkes said nothing, waiting for Jarolic to continue.
His voice afire with trembling anger, he said, "Plant life on the surface of Mars—I mean, this would have proved their case—that the domes were a viable place to live. You can tell just from the remains that whoever planted this had already attained a viable ecosystem."
The environmentalist moved farther into the dome, pointing excitedly. "Look," he shouted. "Up along there—you see that streaking on the inner curve of the bubble? This place was generating its own moisture. There was enough plant life here to offset a full-time community of at least fifty people. Easily. Perhaps a hundred. Especially if they introduced a further range of growth in their own personal areas. Lawns, flowers—you understand—for the oxygen/carbon dioxide ratio . . ."
"I understand," Hawkes said softly, implying more than he admitted to. Turning back toward him, Jarolic approached the ambassador, his arms moving wildly for emphasis.
"This is a terrible crime. Life—life growing on the surface of Mars—plants pushing down roots, going to seed, dying, decomposing, giving birth to new life . . ." The man's voice was wild and excited. His hands clutching Hawkes's shoulders, he said, "It was all starting. Someone had taken the first step. Moved toward . . . toward getting people up out of that damned hole in the ground back there. Up to the sun, to the sky."
"Yes," agreed Hawkes sadly. "And someone else destroyed it."
Suddenly, Jarolic went rigid. His mouth straightened out into a thin line. His eyes narrowing, he demanded, "Show me."
Hawkes led the environmentalist back to where he had first seen the oxi-candle used to destroy the dome. After a few minutes of searching, the pair found the remains of the device that had been used to put Dina Martel in intensive care, and had almost killed Hawkes as well.
Jarolic was well acquainted with the mechanism. He had used similar candles to light many an underground site where their by-product of heat was as welcome as the light they produced. The oxi-candle was still in place where it had been planted, its securing spike deep within the loose Martian soil. Jarolic suddenly moved away from it. As he stared down at the candle, he said.
"Ambassador, when you noticed the candle before . . . was it on the inside of the tunnel?" When Hawkes asked what Jarolic meant, the man simply said, "You humor me this time."
"Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. It appeared to have been set to burn a hole through the tunnel wall. By the time I got back to this point, the hole had stretched up, down, sideways. What's your point?"
"
Okay. First, the trigger is pointing outward. That would mean whoever set off the candle shoved the trigger up against the wall. Much harder to reach that way . . . if they were on the inside." Hawkes blinked, his mouth opening in surprise. Before he could say anything, his companion continued in an excited voice.
"Second, look at the line created by the bracing beams to either side of the initial hole. If you look closely, you'll see that the candle wasn't set up inside that line."
Hawkes dropped to his knees. As he studied the scene, he had to admit that the environmentalist was correct. But then, even as he worked his pressure suit erect again, Jarolic noticed something else. Pointing frantically away from the tunnel, he shouted, "Look! Look at that." As the ambassador stared across the broken, empty plain, the environmentalist moved away from him, pointing at the ground as he did so. "Look," he ordered again. "Don't you see them?"
It took Hawkes a moment to note what Jarolic's trained eye had spotted. Eventually, though, he said in hushed amazement, "Tracks."
"Exactly," said the excited Jarolic. "Leading up to the tunnel from the other side of the bunker, and then back again that way—out into the desert." Bending down to examine the ground more closely, the environmentalist added, "This is why you never heard anyone. Whoever tried to kill you didn't do it from inside the tunnel. They were outside."
And then, before Hawkes could say anything, the first shots flew silently in front of his helmet.
27
"RUN!" SHOUTED HAWKES, PUSHING JAROLIC BACKTOWARD the dome. Several more shots tore through the thick plastic of the runnel, showing the environmentalist in no uncertain terms what had started Hawkes moving.
Jarolic reached out and grabbed the ambassador's arm. Jerking him back, he halted Hawkes's progress just as more tiny projectiles tore in front of him.
"Down!" shouted the environmentalist. Letting himself drop, he pulled Hawkes down along with him as another fusillade went over their heads.
Man O' War Page 18
