Man O' War, стр. 71
Seven pressure suits exploded in the first barrage. Five men and two women were dead before they had a chance to fire a shot, before they knew the war had even started. Desperately the troopers scattered for the sparse cover the valley floor had to offer. Shedding their packs, grabbing their weapons, they returned fire as best they could.
Their first return barrage was a waste of ammunition. All the shots they managed to fire went wild—too high, too low, everywhere but at their target. Their foes were so well placed, so certain of their trap, that the pitiful salvo coming up at them could not make most of them even flinch.
Completely undeterred, the renegades continued their attack. Five more of the troopers went down in the next volley. Mortal wounds were not required; any break in the suit seal would be enough to let external pressure do the rest.
Cries of agony could be heard through the interlinked helmet corns. Each new set of screams was brief, followed by a thin hiss and then a wet explosion. It had been less than a minute since the renegade flare had lit the valley. Forty-eight seconds, and eighteen of Scully's people were dead.
Listening to the slaughter all around him, the old security man growled, "Enough of this shit."
Digging into the heavy pack he had insisted on carrying, he pulled out the vac-unit he had struggled to bring with him. Three more of his people died as he got it placed in the thick dust of the valley. Another as he indexed its power source. Another as he indexed it into operation.
The draw unit hummed into life, sucking pounds of dust in through its intake. With no hose or container at the other end of its feed, it simply threw the dust into the air. In seconds it filled the base of the valley with a masking cloud of dust twenty feet deep.
Looking down into the growing billow, Peste's second-in-command chuckled to himself. Shaking his head sadly, almost with pity, he cued his mike, then ordered, "Somebody down there thinks this is the nineteenth century, people. Time to teach them a little different." Clicking a small switch on his helmet's visor, the commander finished his death sentence. "Switch to heat scan, everyone. Sight targets and fire at will. Let's get this over with."
"AND JUST IN CASE I HAVE TO SAY IT . . . NOBODY scream."
Peste took a step forward toward Hawkes. He held his wicked-looking needier steady, keeping it pointed at theambassador's face. Hawkes stared into the man's eyes, plumbing the depths of the hatred showing within them, trying to find anything he could reason with.
"Come, come, Ambassador, no speeches in mind? Nothing noble or uplifting or clever just hanging off the end of your brilliant tongue? Something high sounding that will force me to renounce my evil ways?"
"I must admit," answered Hawkes, his voice steady, almost disinterested,, "nothing's coming to mind."
Keep it casual, his mind whispered. This guy wants to see us sweat. The longer we blow him off, the longer we live. The longer Dina lives.
"I'm almost disappointed," said Peste. "I stayed behind just for the simple pleasure of being the one that killed you. Not so much because I wanted to be the one that pulled the trigger . . . although I admit that is part of it, but more because I've always wondered how people like you die."
When Hawkes made no reply, Peste said, "Oh, it's all right. Go ahead, flatter yourself a little. You know what I meant. A hero. How often do people get to see heroes die? We read about it, we watch ridiculously silly vid presentations—put together by people without the slightest notion of what heroism is all about—but real heroes, actual people with convictions . . ."
The renegade stopped talking then. Taking two steps backward, away from Hawkes, he pulled his weapon up, pointing it toward the ceiling, but still to the ready. Martel dragged herself to the edge of her bed. Peste noted her movements from the corner of his eye—studied the desperation, the deep, fearful concern etched into her face— then dismissed her. Turning his full attention back to the ambassador, he said, "By rights, I suppose I just should have shot you both down in the hallway. But I waited foryou to enter, and then made my grand little entrance. Do you know why?"
"To see how a hero dies?" asked Hawkes with a glib tone. Then, before Peste could respond, he shifted gears, adding, "Or maybe just to see if you had the nerve to kill one. Face-to-face, that is."
The renegade cocked his head to the side. Smiling as the ambassador warmed to the game, he remained silent, giving Hawkes the floor.
"You want to know why you didn't just shoot us in the back? That's easy. You wanted to show what a big man you were by at least looking your unarmed victim in the eye before you murdered him. Then, of course, I'm the only one you want dead." Turning to point at Martel, he said, "Kill her, and there's no one to tell anyone who killed me. No one to get your name into the history books."
Hawkes took a step toward the connecting wall. Peste took a compensating step, turning his back on the woman in the bed to be able to keep his line of sight sharply on the ambassador. He started to order Hawkes not to try for the door, but the ambassador ran over his words.
"As for killing me, you haven't pulled the trigger yet because even a worthless bucket of sewage like you can't feel much like a big man gunning down someone as old as me. It's your sense of the ridiculous. Half my age and hiding behind a gun."
Hawkes took a breath, drawing out