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 announced, "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
