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.
