"But he's not dead," Hawkes answered vainly.
"He's close enough."
As the pair got behind the bar, they heard the marine's weapon discharge again. Screams came from the invaders' ranks. With that one shot Wagner had taken out a third of the pirates in the room. Unfortunately he had had to deplete half his weapon's energy to do it.
"Go! Go on, gooooo!!" he screamed.
Martel could hear the marine's voice urging them into further retreat as she got the ambassador to the back door leading to the galley. Pushing him through to the other side, she worked feverishly to get the doors blocked. The desperate aide had managed to get only two of the eight batten locks in place when she heard another massive discharge from Wagner's staff. The sound was muffled by the closed doors. So was the marine's dying scream that followed.
"Shit."
Throwing herself to the floor, Martel got to the other doors, slamming their base locks into place. Then she stood quickly, slapping the remaining two lock bolts upward into their ceiling plugs even as the first of the pirates slammed against the other side of the doors. Martel jumped back, startled, even as Hawkes moved forward to get her.
"Come on," he growled.
His voice was thin, tired, but he was able to move and think again. It was all he needed. As quickly as he could, the ambassador slid his sword back into its scabbard. Then, still carrying the dead pirate's energy staff, he pulled his aide through the kitchen. Pointing to anything holding liquids throughout the galley, he yelled, "Break all the magnetic connections. Spill everything you can."
Martel watched as Hawkes shut down all the safety magnets he could, deliberately emptying all the cooking pots, storage bins, and sinks within his reach onto the floor. His aide helped him as best she could, not knowing what else to do. Behind them, an ugly noise tore at the doors.
"Sir," she cried, "they're going to be through any minute."
"Then let's get finished, shall we?"
His dress uniform covered in a dozen layers of slop, the ambassador splashed through the messy ruin he had made of the floor. Martel saw him heading for the drop hatch and hurried to follow him. As she joined him at the crew emergency exit, she found him working with a dinner knife on the controls of the pirate staff.
"Drop through," he ordered. "I'll be right behind you."
"But, sir . . ."
Hawkes pried open a panel in the weapon, immediately digging into the wiring below.
"Don't argue with me, woman. Jump!"
The aide's eyes darted across the littered room, now a dripping mess. She could see that the doors at the far end were going to give any second. She could see also that the ambassador was bracing for his own jump. Before he could order her a second time, she stepped into the escape slide.
At the same moment, two of the doors at the other end of the kitchen burst open. Shouts and curses flooded the room. Hawkes probed farther into the staff's circuitry. He could hear the invaders' heavy, armored boots splashing through the galley. Then, suddenly, he heard a hissing click inside the staff.
A split second later, the weapon went into overload, burning the ambassador's hands. Hawkes hurled the staff as far as he could, stepping into the drop exit. The sparking weapon hit the floor, sinking into wet slop just as the ambassador's foot left the floor.
Electricity shot across the deck, through the spilled soup and drinks and dishwater, up into the metal tables, and of course, into the pirates as well. Hawkes dropped down below eye level just as the room began to fill with smoke and the smell of burning flesh.
* * *
"MR. AMBASSADOR," SHOUTED THE CAPTAIN OVER THE overwhelming noise filling the area, "I really don't think you should be down here!"
"With all due respect, sir," answered Hawkes, "if we don't get that ship out there, it's not going to matter much where I am. I won?t be alive to appreciate it."
"Your opinion is noted, sir," answered the captain. "You two can join the rubble line. That's our top priority."
The ambassador and his aide moved over to join the ranks of crew and passengers working to clear the debris clogging the main fighter debarking tunnel. The massive bay area was a noisily echoing nightmare—one filled with blowing steam, flashing lights, and the smell of escaping hydraulic fluid. As Hawkes and Martel joined the work force, they saw Jarolic in the same lineup, but no one else from dinner.
The ambassador and his aide had found their way to the fighter bays without too much trouble. Hawkes's first assumption had been that if the pirates had indeed come aboard looking for him, his best bet was to go where they were not. His second was that most of them would head for the passenger areas and the lifeboats. So far, both assumptions had panned out.
Finding places in line, the two diplomats immediately got down to work, hefting their share of the clogging rubble. They helped pass it all along—large pieces of form plastic, burned lengths of wire and cable, chunks of steel and glass, and anything else handed to them.
Taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes, Hawkes analyzed the problem there in the launch bay. Not only had the exit door been blocked by debris from the pirate's opening shots, but the aiming track had been filled as well. As one group of workers toiled to clear the exit door, another small band crawled along the track running from the first fighter, working to pry loose the smaller pieces wedged within it.
"So," asked Martel, shouting over the increasing din, blowing a wayward strand of hair away from her eyes at the same time, "is your life always this exciting, sir?"
"What do you mean?" asked Hawkes in return, turning his head from left to right in mock confusion. "This little tiff?"
The woman frowned for a moment, then suddenly snorted a stream of air through her nostrils. A short burst of appreciative laughter followed.
"Oh, yes," she said, dropping a forty-pound hunk of twisted metal in his outstretched hands. "You're good."
The ambassador passed the hulk to the next person in line, then told his aide, "I'm the best."
In the distance, Hawkes could see one of the ship's crew making an inspection run down the fighter bay. The ambassador's aide figured her job was nearly completed, considering all the time she was making. In another half minute, the woman stood up and signaled the captain. He signaled her back, waving her and the rest of the workers away from the area.
"All right," he bellowed, "That's it. We've done all we can afford to do. Clear this area."
As marines and crew started ushering the passengers in the bay to the exits, Hawkes crossed to the captain's side of the launch chamber. He got there just as an officer he took to be the previously mentioned Mr. Dordman said, "The track's clean enough to make a drag, Captain. That blister still piled around the door—the fighter'll blast through that easy enough."
"I hear a tone in your voice, mister."
"Yes, sir. It was my thought that as soon as we start to raise the hangar door, our playmates are likely to take another shot at us."
"My opinion exactly," answered the captain, reaching for a voice-link. Taking a deep breath, he indexed for the bridge, then shouted, "Mr. Swelver!"
"Yes, sir."
"We're about to engage the fighter bay. Can I assume our friends have been keeping an eye to that area of the ship?"
"Yes, sir. As per your back call, I've spun us three times since you got below. Just drift kicks to make it look like a tidal effect—nothing suspicious. But they've rounded to keep a forward aim each time. They've got you under trigger lock—no doubting it, sir."
"Can't you get a shot at them?" asked Hawkes.
"No good. By the time we could turn for a good shot they could cut us in half. That's why we need to launch a couple of buzzers. With a wing or two out there to give them trouble, we might have what we need. But . . ."
The captain made a shrugging gesture. As Jarolic came up behind them all, Martel shouted, "Isn't there some way you could distract them, even for a minute?"
"We wouldn't even need a minute," roared t
he captain as the noise in the bay suddenly increased. "A few seconds is all it would take. But what . . ."
"Where's the water supply on this ship?" As everyone stared at Jarolic, he explained, "If there's a place where we could blow a large enough stream of water out into space . . . it would become visible instantly as it froze, even at a distance. Wouldn't something like that distract . . ."
The captain cut the environmentalist off with a wagging finger. Grabbing Dordman by the shoulder, he shouted, "That doesn't sound half bad. What do you think, mister?"
"Aft section eighty-five," answered the officer. "Just opening the intake valves would do it. Suction would probably rip that whole section of hull away."
The captain bent over a subspace screen showing the positions of the Bulldog and its attacker. As he did, Dordman added,
"Of course, we wouldn't have much water left for the rest of the trip."
"Anyone who doesn't like the taste of their own piss can take me up with the actions board," roared the captain. Wiping at his brow, he shouted, "Mr. Dordman, find me a pair of volunteers. We may have just found a way out of this hell."
And then, before anyone could move, a score of pirates poured into the bay area. Not worried about explosions in the heavily armored bay area, they came in with their sidearms drawn and extended.
The very first projectile explosion that went off killed both the captain and Dordman. Seconds later, the bay was in bloody chaos.
14
"SWELVER!" SCREAMED HAWKES INTO THE BRIDGE link. "Answer me, mister!"
"Who is this?" came the officer's voice.
"This is Ambassador Hawkes. The captain and Mr. Dordman are dead."
The ambassador ducked behind the console as the fighting in the bay intensified. Martel and Jarolic squeezed in beside him, along with several other noncombatants as another round of explosions blanketed all other sounds. Out in the bay yard beyond, the marines and crew tried desperately to hold the line against the invaders.
The pirates had gained a large advantage by leading with an explosive attack. Dangerous and unexpected, it had turned the tide of the interior battle in their favor. Smoke and the smell of burning plastic and metal filled the air. Grabbing the arm of the officer who had been standing nearest to him and the captain a moment before the attack, Hawkes shouted, "Listen, did you hear the plan the captain was outlining?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to implement it." Turning to Jarolic, he yelled over the intense noise in the bay. "Think you can find this section eighty-five?"
"Sure," answered the environmentalist with a determined grin. "It's aft, right?"
"That's what the captain said." Turning back to the officer, Hawkes grabbed a hand-link out of the console, shoved it into his sash, and then shouted, "We're going to try and release the water. We'll let you know when we're ready. It'll be up to you to get the rest done."
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the young lieutenant. Reaching under the console for a thick wrenching tool, he said, "We'll handle this scum."
Hawkes then turned to Martel. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he sucked in a deep breath, then reached out to push a strand of her dark hair away from her eyes. Giving her a smile, he squeezed her shoulder, then said, "Care to cover our escape, deadeye?"
"Certainly," she answered. Pulling the automatic she had used earlier to save the ambassador's life, she chambered a round and asked, "Would you say things have gotten past the tiff stage yet?"
Another explosion went off, sending three bodies flying through the air. Their wounds were so severe it was impossible to tell which side they had been on. His eyes following the grim sight, Hawkes answered grimly, "Yes. I think they have."
The ambassador turned to Jarolic, who only gave him a curt nod. Hawkes returned it. He looked from the environmentalist to his aide, then said, "Let's go."
All three stood up at the same time. The others who had been next to them on the floor immediately slid into their safer position behind the console. Hawkes and Jarolic ducked low, squinted through the rolling smoke, and then broke in the direction of the rear exit.
Martel held her automatic ready, sighting along the barrel, skipping from target to target, watching only for those of the enemy who might notice the ambassador. Then, after Hawkes and his companion had disappeared from sight, she started over again . . . this time pulling the trigger.
THE FIRST THING HAWKES NOTICED AS THE EXIT DOOR
sealed behind him and Jarolic was the silence. Since the attack had started, the noise in every part of the ship had escalated with every passing minute. The aft access passages seemed completely quiet, however.
Hawkes was grateful for the respite, but its totality made Jarolic suspicious. As the two men worked their way down the pipe-filled hall, the environmentalist whispered, "Ambassador, can you hear me?"
"What?" asked Hawkes, his voice slightly louder. Not quite able to understand what the ambassador had said, Jarolic repeated his question, speaking even louder than Hawkes. It took them another round before the environmentalist's fears became apparent to Hawkes.
"All the explosions—the fighting and shooting," Jarolic explained in a louder voice. "It's deafened us. We think it's quiet, but it's not. Not this quiet. If we're not careful we're liable to walk right into some of the enemy, or let them sneak up on us."
"Point taken," agreed the ambassador. "You keep an eye on where we're going. I'll watch where we've been."
Jarolic smiled and nodded sharply. Exercising greater caution, the pair returned to making their way to their destination. Each tried to keep moving as fast as possible. Both men were aware that every minute they wasted brought more death to the rest of their shipmates.
How many have died already? wondered Hawkes. He had already seen the captain die, and his aide Dordman— both good men.
Just like Wagner.
The ambassador thought of his last sight of the big marine, holding the invaders back so that he and Martel would have time to escape. Another loyal innocent killed by an unknown enemy.
Just like Dizzy.
Hawkes could feel himself going cold inside. Too much suffering. Too many dead.
For what? For whom? What the hell is at stake here that people are willing to go to these lengths—to spend this kind of money?
The ambassador rolled it all over in his head. Buying off Stine, sending in the mercenaries who had attacked his ranch . . . now a full ship-to-ship battle in deep space. And those were only the things he was aware of.
Someone is pouring money out by the truckload. Why? What are they after? And what in hell do I have to do with it?
"We're here."
Hawkes turned at the sound of Jarolic's voice. He noted the large 85 painted on the metal wall ahead of him and nodded. The ambassador was struck by the large black number. He remembered his days in the service, when the "innovators" had tried to replace such things with digital readouts, voice boxes, and a hundred and one other technological enhancements. It had not taken long to prove to everyone involved that spending money as an end in itself was not a good thing, and that gimmicks did not necessarily mean progress.
Jarolic led the way inside the water-containment area. The ambassador asked him, "Does this type of system look familiar to you?"
"It will if I can find a dump release," answered the environmentalist as he eyed the machinery before him. "Or at least a semblance of a feeder-rejection series."
"Well, then," said Hawkes, slumping back against a wall, "I'd keep looking."
The ambassador let Jarolic move off into the room. His line of work gave him a chance to find what they needed and get their job done. Hawkes's plan at that point was simply to stay out of his way and try to catch his breath.
The pair had been lucky not to run into any more pirates on the way. Both men were tired and more than a little nervous. Both would have been willing to admit that armed combat was not their preferred line of work. They were out of their league and they knew it. The ambas
sador shut his eyes and mopped at his brow as he thought, We've been awfully lucky so far.
He felt the throbbing in his sword arm. It had been a long time since the British Pattern hanging at his side had been used as anything but an ornament.
Awfully lucky.
"Ambassador. . .?"
"Yes?" croaked Hawkes, opening his eyes again. He listened to the harsh sound of his voice—realized he was more tired than he thought. "What?"
"Better get ready to signal the bridge. I think I've found what we need."
Hawkes pulled the hand-link from where he had stuffed it inside his sash. Unwrapping the length of fabric, he used it to wipe the drying sweat away from his face and neck. As he did, Jarolic called out again, "These old ships, they have conduits for taking on and discharging liquids from the big station globes. I'm betting we can flush a big enough drop at one time to get the effect we're hoping for."
"How is it you know about this kind of thing?"
"In my line of work, you pick up a lot of facts about moving water around."
Hawkes opened a line of communication to the bridge. Swelver answered immediately, letting him know that the fighter bay had taken heavy casualties, but that they were ready to follow through. "Just tell us when, sir."
The ambassador called out to Jarolic, asking, "How much longer?"
Up above, trying to familiarize himself with the dump controls, the environmentalist continued working as he shouted back, "One minute . . . five, maybe. I know that's not very precise, but I can't be sure. . . ."
And then Hawkes heard the scuffling out in the hall. Instantly he reached for his blade. His arm moved slowly. It was stiff—sore. Tired. Closing his fingers loosely around the hilt, he withdrew the weapon, pulling it to the ready. His sash and hand-link in his other hand, he told Swelver, "It could be any time—keep watch. We've got com—"
Hawkes jumped backward as three pirates entered the room. Each of them was armed and ready. His sword came up just in time to knock back the charged staff of the closest one.
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