Man O' War

by William Shatner

  "There's someone out there with a bearing launcher."

  "What?"

  "It's a compression weapon—kind that fires only small ball bearings."

  "BBs," exclaimed Hawkes. "An air rifle. Of course! No oxygen needed for combustion. But judging from the holes it's putting through the tunnel plastic, BBs or not, it can rip a hole in our suits just the same."

  "Right. And they've got themselves positioned somewhere out there between us and the door. We can't get back in, and security can't come out to rescue us."

  Another barrage slammed into the sand drift to which Jarolic had maneuvered the two of them. Both he and the ambassador looked their situation over. It did not look good to either of them. They were a pair of slow-moving targets, a long way from safety. A few holes in their suits and they would be dead before they could get back inside. They could not see the enemy—had only a vague idea of his position. And it seemed likely from the number of shots being fired that there might be more than one of them. Hawkes's mind rolled over all their options, wondering what they could do.

  His first impulse had been wrong. Not used to life in a pressure suit, he had forgotten for an instant how slowly they forced one to move. Anything moving at that speed was an easy target.

  Then the tactical section of his mind told him, Don't move at that speed.

  A hard smile crossing his face, Hawkes indexed his wrist-link, putting himself in contact with the security team in the bunker. He quickly alerted them to the situation outside, then ordered,

  "I want you to scope out their location, then lay down a pattern of covering fire."

  "We understand, Mr. Ambassador. We'll signal you when it's safe to return to the bunker."

  "That would be fine—if I planned on returning."

  "Sir . . . ?" Hawkes did not bother to explain himself, answering only, "You have your orders, mister." Then, turning to Jarolic, he said, "First off, thank you for helping me put things together out here."

  "Anytime."

  "I might hold you to that. Second, though, thanks for saving my life—again. You're a handy fellow to keep around."

  "Your point, Mr. Ambassador?"

  "When the security people start firing back at our friends, I'm going to make a move toward bringing them down."

  "What?" exclaimed Jarolic. "In one of these suits? You're not going to get very far very fast."

  "I am," answered Hawkes, reaching down toward his left boot, "once I get rid of these." With a flick, the ambassador released the weight plate on that foot, then moved to his right boot and released the other. Turning to Jarolic, he said, "You with me—or have you had enough heroics for one day?"

  "We wear these weights for a reason. If you don't keep yourself stabilized, you'll go down fast—helpless." His eyes flashing toward the broken rocks all around them, he added, "Which means you probably won't get up again."

  Hawkes nodded. "It's all right. You stay here. I've been wanting to get my hands on this bunch for a while now."

  The younger man stared through the dark glass of his helmet, straining to see Hawkes's eyes. As he did, he put a hand on the ambassador's shoulder, shook his head, and said, "You must have been a real hell-raiser in your day."

  "You want to see some hell get raised—you stick with me. This day isn't over yet."

  Reaching down to his boots, careful not to raise his head above the level of the protecting dune, Jarolic released his weights, saying, "Then, let's race to sundown."

  Before Hawkes could reply, the booming report of the security men's weapons echoed across the barren plain. Raising his helmet just enough to see where their shots were landing, the ambassador calculated the kind of arc he and his companion would have to set to sneak up on that position. Then, steeling himself, he gulped down a deep breath of his suit's pure atmosphere and shouted, "Let's do it!"

  The two men made their way to their feet and started bounding across the Martian surface. Both moved in staggeringly long leaps, covering hundreds of yards in just seconds. It was a speed unknown to either of them, helped in part by Mars's lesser gravity, in part by its atmosphere's lack of resistance. In less than a minute, they had raced down the length of the ruined tunnel and were rounding the dome.

  Trusting luck, and not daring to decrease their speed, the two barreled around the end of the dome, charging straight on. Instinctively, both headed toward the point drawing the security team's main fire. Their weightless boots slid across the surface of the sand, forcing them to bob and weave to maintain their balance. A fall at that point would not only ruin their chances of surprising their enemies, but—as Jarolic had implied earlier—with all the brittle, sharp-edged cinders littering their path, might prove fatal as well.

  Halfway from the curve of the dome, the two men split apart. They knew bunching together only gave their foes an easier target.

  If they see you, Hawkes thought to himself. And the whole idea here is to not be seen—so, get moving, old man. Get moving, and keep moving, and don't be seen until you want to be.

  The ambassador bent low, compacting his form, running all out. As he moved, he indexed his wrist-link, ordering the security men to cease fire. Jarolic saw the motion and bent low as well, pouring on the speed. Both men knew they would be at the dune protecting the enemy in a matter of seconds.

  Then, thought Hawkes. Then we get some answers.

  That mean you won't be killing them like you did Stine? his cynical side joked with him. A vision of Marlel's body jammed in the doorway of the ruined compression chamber flashed through his brain. Again he saw her vacant eyes staring at him—the floating spheres of her blood escaping out the door—lived again the helpless horror of watching her die, unable to do anything more than pray and wait. Slamming the memory into the back of his brain, he snarled, "Oh, I'm going to kill them, all right. They just won't get off as easy as Stine."

  And then he was upon them.

  There were three figures camped behind the dune. Hawkes plowed into the largest of the trio at full force, lifting the man up and out of his crouch, sending him flying from behind the protective wall of sand. The man landed hard on his back, splashing sand and cinders in all directions.

  Jarolic reached his first target at the same moment. He chose the same approach as Hawkes: simply running headlong into his target. His attack knocked loose his foe's pressure helmet. Before anything could be done, all the air stored in the woman's suit rushed out, and was quickly followed by whatever her tank supplied.

  In a maddened panic, she scrambled for her helmet during the handful of seconds she had left. At the same time, the third member of the team turned, trying to bring his weapon to bear on either of the two attackers. He was able to get off a round of shots before Jarolic threw himself on top of him. They all went wild, however, managing only to further tear the panicking woman's suit.

  Hawkes turned back from his first foe, watching the flying helmet land at his feet. Instantly understanding the situation, he scooped up the helmet and headed back into the fray, just as the last shots fired by the man on the ground tore through the woman's suit—and her body. As the ambassador stopped, holding the helmet out to her, the woman gurgled, blood splashed out of her mouth, and then she fell to the sand—dead.

  When the first man Hawkes had hit did not rise, the ambassador inspected the situation, finding him dead as well. His suit—and his spine—had been pierced by a short, thick dagger of obsidianlike rock. Hawkes stared at the blood that soaked into the ground beneath the dead man's body, and leaked out of and around the woman's pressure suit, and, remembering the wave of it flowing from Martel, sadly whispered, "Maybe they weren't so wrong when they named it the red planet, after all."

  Then, throwing aside the useless pressure helmet, he helped Jarolic drag their only living enemy to his feet. Roughly pushing the man forward toward the security officers, who approached from the bunker, he thought to himself, Now . . . now we put an end to this.

  28

  THE PRISONER RE
FUSED TO TALK. HE HAD SPOKEN, OF course. He had made prophecies of the colony caverns running red with blood, warned of riots, the mass murders of Red Planet management, the rape and slaughter of their families, other ramblings in the same vein. But as to who he was working for, why he had twice tried to kill the ambassador, what he hoped to accomplish, his only answer—over and over—was, "The Resolute are firm. All else shall be washed away."

  Those facts had been only mildly surprising to Hawkes—certainly no more surprising than to discover that his attacker was the same long-haired man who had attacked him outside of Recycle. The ambassador had almost hesitated in turning him over to Red Planet security. On the one hand, he wanted to question the assassin personally. On the other, he still had his doubts about whom he could and could not trust.

  But, he decided in the end, standing in the interrogation area with the security men who had accompanied him and Jarolic to the surface, if I can't trust these two . . . who can I trust? Giving orders that the pair remain with the prisoner at all times, he retired for the moment. He had more than one reason. First, he wanted to check in on Martel. Despite her rally, he was concerned about her condition. Also, he wanted to consult with her on everything, especially his prisoner. He dismissed the man's rantings about being a member of the Resolute. His instincts told him that was a lie. Still, the captured assassin was the first concrete link he had found to whoever was behind what was going on, to whoever it was that was trying to kill him . . . and had killed Disraeli.

  You just might be a little too emotionally involved to handle this guy. Besides, it's always best to be second.

  Hawkes knew that Red Planet's people would play by the rules with their prisoner. Whatever he had to say under their gentle questioning, Hawkes would study the vids of it. . . then it would be his turn.

  And I won't be so gentle.

  The ambassador rounded the last bend before the intensive-care unit. In the distance he could see Jarolic in heated discussion with the two marines stationed outside Martel's door. As he neared, he asked, "Gentlemen, anything I can help with?"

  "Our Mr. Jarolic here doesn't seem capable of understanding a no-admittance zone, Mr. Ambassador."

  "Mr. Hawkes," started the environmentalist, "all I wanted to do was—"

  "Please, please," said Hawkes, cutting Jarolic off, "everyone . . . we're all one big happy family here." Turning to the pair of marines, he said, "Ed, Dave, job well done. Thank you very much. I think in the future we can afford Mr. Jarolic a bit of latitude." Turning back to the steaming environmentalist, he said, "It's an old saw, but they were just following orders. My orders, to be exact. So blame me, and let's go see the patient."

  The marine closest to the access panel stepped aside and then indexed the door open, allowing the two visitors to enter. As they did they found Martel, still flat on her back, stuck with tubes and attached to monitors, but with a highly amused look on her face. As they approached, she laughed and said, "Carl—I see you finally got in."

  "Very funny," said Jarolic in a bitter tone. "Our shipmate's a comedian." Hawkes spread his hands, offering, "I rescued him for you. He's done it for me so often, I figured it was my turn."

  Turning as best she could to face the two men, Martel said, "I could hear him outside—arguing and arguing. It was just so . . . so . . ." The woman stopped, alternating between gasping weakly for breath, then giggling again.

  Jarolic rolled his eyes, offering defensively, "I came down to visit . . . and they told me to go away. I have to admit I really came down in the hopes of finding you, Mr. Ambassador, but . . . after they cheesed me I just bug-flipped. Guess it became one of those principle-of-the-thing bits. You know."

  Raising an eyebrow, Hawkes noted, "You know, Carl, you get a bit colorful when you're miffed." Martel laughed again, covering her mouth out of pity for Jarolic but still unable to control herself.

  Turning back to her, Hawkes said, "You'd better settle down, young lady. You keep on laughing like that and you might break something in your condition."

  Then, turning back to his companion, the ambassador asked, "But you said you were actually looking for me. You sounded a little serious, too. What's up?"

  "Ah, actually . . . it was . . . ah . . ."

  "Unless it's something embarrassing, you can speak freely here. This is sort of a meeting of the Keep Benton Hawkes Alive Club. If the three of us can't trust each other . . ." The ambassador let the thought briefly hang in midair, then asked, "So, what's on your mind?"

  "Sir, I've been hearing some very disturbing rumors ever since we came back in from our little expedition."

  "The ones about riots, murder, management pogroms— those kinds of rumors?''

  "Yes. They're spreading throughout the colony— fast." Jarolic moved toward the room's single chair. Grabbing its arm, he turned it slightly and then sagged into it, as if all the energy had suddenly drained out of him. As the environmentalist tried to pull himself together, Hawkes offered, "We were hearing the same thing from our prisoner."

  When Martel asked what he was talking about, the ambassador quickly filled her in on all that had happened outside. By the time he was finished, Jarolic seemed a bit more steady. Turning back to him, Hawkes said, "Anyway, I'm not sure we have that much to worry about. The guy claims to be a Resolute slogan spouter. He was talking in cliches the first time he tried to kill me, and that's all he's been doing since we started to question him."

  "I'm not so sure he's Resolute," said Jarolic. "And, I'm not so sure he's just spouting slogans."

  "Carl," said Hawkes with a touch of calculated frustration, "the man's on file. His name's Ray Peste. He's a Martian—a low-level commander in the security force, no less. He's been here three years. He hasn't said much, but he does claim to be one of the Resolute. He says they have members at every level. He also said," finished the ambassador, forcing his voice to grow more serious, watching Jarolic's reaction carefully, "that he's their assassin, that it was his job to kill me."

  The environmentalist stared for a moment, then lowered his eyes, breaking contact with Hawkes's. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then looked up again and said, "Mr. Ambassador, I really wish I didn't have to say this . . . but I do."

  "Carl," asked Hawkes, only somewhat surprised in the darkening shift in Jarolic's manner. "What is it?"

  "I think there is something going on here no one knows about, and that it's going to blow wide open—soon. I think there's going to be some kind of outbreak . . . and that it's going to be a lot worse than anyone can possibly imagine."

  "Carl . . ."

  "That man is probably telling the truth about a riot, but he's not Resolute. He just wants the workers to take the skid for whatever happens."

  Hawkes could see that something was upsetting the environmentalist, something he was having a great deal of difficulty getting into words. Taking a small step back, he tried to give the younger man the feeling of having more room. As he did, though, he asked, "Carl, how would you know these things?"

  Jarolic twitched, and then stood to face Hawkes. Staring unblinkingly at the ambassador, he took another deep breath, and then announced, "I know he's not a member of the Resolute, because I am." Not trying to read the looks on either Hawkes's or Martel's face, Jarolic plowed forward, saying, "And I know he's not the man they assigned to kill you . . . because . . . that was my job."

  26

  "WHAT?"

  "I posed as a wire-service man to get onto your ranch. I'm the one who planted the bomb in your truck."

  As much as he had expected the announcement about being a member of the Resolute, Hawkes had not been prepared for Jarolic's second bombshell. Grabbing tight hold of his will, he forced himself not to speak.

  First rule, his mind thundered. First—let the other guy do the talking. Keep it all in, no matter what you want to say or ask. Shut up and let him talk.

  "I was already in Lunar City when you arrived. You were moving too quickly, though—no opportunities there�
��so I booked passage on the Bulldog, figured I'd get you on the way home."

  Ignoring his mind's cautioning, Hawkes asked, "What stopped you?"

  "Listening to you. You might remember I went at you pretty good at the dinner table. But when I saw how you handled yourself, what you had to say . . . who you were— who you really were . . ." Jarolic twisted his head from side to side, biting at his lower lip. "I, I . . . I don't know. You weren't what we'd been told."

  "And what was that?" asked Martel, knowing Hawkes wanted to know, sparing him the trouble of asking.

  "The word was that you were just a stooge tool deep in the Earth League's pocket. That anything you did here would just be . . . for show, you know. To set us up for the clobber."

  Hawkes moved past the younger man, heading for the room's single chair. Sitting down, he put his head in his hands, burying his face in his fingers. As he sat, wordless, seemingly the picture of dejection, Jarolic moved closer to him, pleading his case.

  "I swear to you, the Resolute were only behind the bomb." Facing Hawkes, eyes steady, his voice rose as he insisted, "I know the rumors say the men who invaded your ranch were Martian, but they were not Resolute. We couldn't raise the money for something like that even if the colony went on another thirty years. It was all we could do just to get me to Earth."

  "Oh, well," said Martel with sarcasm. "Good to hear you're too poor for any all-out violence."

  "You're missing the point," Jarolic told her. "I'm trying to warn you about something. I just confessed to a crime you could have me executed for. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

  "There's a man in custody here who apparently has pretty much the same story," she snapped back. "You both claim there are going to be riots soon, both claim to be part of the Resolute, both claim to be assassins sent to kill the ambassador."

  "Well, yes," said Hawkes, lifting his head. "But I've actually caught the other guy making his attempts." Shaking off his mock depression, the ambassador faced Jarolic.