War and Peace

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  The stadium had been built to hold 100,000 people. There were at least that many jammed inside, and an equal number swarmed about the market squares and streets adjacent to it. The full CoDominium marine garrison was on duty to keep order, but they weren’t needed. The celebration was boisterous but peaceful, with Freedom Party gangs as anxious to avoid an incident as the marines on this, the greatest day for Hadley since the planet’s discovery.

  Hamner and Falkenberg watched from the upper tiers of the stadium. Row after row of plastisteel seats like a giant staircase cascaded down from their perch to the central grassy field below. Across from them President Budreau and Governor Flaherty stood in the Presidential Box surrounded by the blue-uniformed President’s Guard. Vice-President Bradford, Freedom Party leaders, Progressive officials, officers of the retiring CoDominium government were also there, and George knew what some of them were thinking: Where did Hamner get off to? Bradford would particularly notice his absence, probably thought Hamner was out stirring up rebellion. Lately Bradford had accused George of every kind of disloyalty to the Progressive Party.

  The devil with the little man, George thought. He hated crowds, and the thought of having to stand there and listen to all those speeches, be polite to the party officials, was appalling. When he’d suggested watching from another vantage point, Falkenberg quickly agreed. As George suspected, the soldier disliked civilian ceremonies too.

  The ritual was almost over. The CD marine bands had marched through the field, the speeches had been made, presents delivered and accepted. A hundred thousand people had cheered, an awesome sound, frightening in its potential power. Hamner glanced at his watch, and as he did the marine band broke into a roar of drums. The massed drummers ceased their beat one by one until there was but a single drum roll that went on and on and on, until it too, stopped. The entire stadium waited.

  One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but triumphant, the final salute to the CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley’s crystal air like something tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down the flagpole as Hadley’s blazing gold and green arose.

  Across the city uniformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed marines with indifference. The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light-years and seventy worlds in this Year of Grace 2079; what difference would one minor planet make?

  Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet salute died away Hamner saw Falkenberg wipe his eyes. The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more to see.

  “That’s it, then,” Falkenberg snapped. His voice was crisp, gruff even. “I suppose we ought to join the party. Can’t keep His Nibs waiting.”

  Hamner nodded. The Presidential Box connected directly to the Palace, and the officials would arrive at the reception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire width of the stadium to traverse. People were streaming out to join festive crowds outside and it would be impossible to cross directly. “Let’s go this way,” George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the stadium and into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. “Tunnel system takes us right into the Palace, across and under the stadium,” he told Falkenberg. “Not exactly secret, but we don’t want the people generally to know about it because they’ll demand we open it to the public. Designed for maintenance crews, mostly.” He locked the door behind him, looked around at the wide interior corridor. “Building was designed pretty well, actually.”

  The grudging tone of admiration wasn’t natural to him. If a thing was well done, it was well done … but lately he found himself talking more and more that way, especially when the CoDominium was discussed. He resented the whole CD administration, the men who’d dumped the job of government after creating problems that no one could solve.

  They wound down stairways, through more passages, up to another set of locked doors, finally emerged into the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already under way, and it would be a long night; and what after that? Tomorrow the last CD boat would rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her problems.

  “Tensh-hut!” Sergeant-Major Calvin’s crisp command cut through the babble.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen,” Falkenberg said. He took his place at the head of the long table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the CoDominium marines. Except for the uniforms and banners there were as yet few changes from what people already called the old days. The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimental staff meeting, maps displayed on the walls behind them, white-coated stewards brought coffee and discreetly retired past the sentries outside. The constabulary had occupied the marine headquarters barracks for two days, and the marines had been there twenty years.

  There was another difference from the usual protocol of a council of war. A civilian lounged in the seat usually taken by the regimental intelligence officer, his tunic a riot of colors. He was dressed in current Earth fashions, brilliant cravat and baggy sleeves, long sash in place of a belt. Hadley’s upper classes were only beginning to acquire such finery. When he spoke it was with the lazy drawl of the American South, not the more clipped accents of Hadley.

  “You all know why we’re here,” Falkenberg told the assembled group. “Those of you who served with me before know I don’t hold many staff councils, but they are customary among mercenaries. Sergeant Calvin will represent the enlisted men of the regiment.”

  There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for eighteen standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one could remember one. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing.

  Falkenberg’s frozen features relaxed slightly, as if he appreciated his own joke. He looked around the room at his officers. They were all men who had come with him, all former marines. The Progressives were on duty elsewhere—it had taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that.

  “Dr. Whitlock, you’ve been on Hadley sixty-seven days. That’s not very long to make a planetary study, but you had access to Fleet data as well. Have you reached any conclusions?”

  “Yeah. No different from Fleet evaluation, Colonel. Cain’t think why you went to the expense of bringin’ me out here. Your intelligence people know their jobs ’bout as well as any professor.” Whitlock leaned back in his seat, relaxed and casual in the midst of military formality, but there was no contempt in his manner. The military had one set of rules, he had another, both probably right for the jobs they did.

  “Your conclusions are similar to Fleet’s, then?” Falkenberg prompted.

  “Within the limits of analysis, yes, suh. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet’s headed for barbarism within a generation.” Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket, inspected it carefully. “You want the analysis or just the conclusion?”

  There was no sound from the assembled officers, but Falkenberg knew that some of them were startled. Good training kept them from showing it. He examined each face in turn. Major Savage knew. Captain Fast was too concerned with regimental affairs to care . . . Calvin knew, of course. Who else? “If you could summarize your efforts briefly, Dr. Whitlock?”

  “Simple enough. There’s no self-sustaining technology for a population half this size. Without imports the standard of Ilyin’s going to fall, and when that happens, ’stead of working, the people here in Refuge will demand that the Guv’mint do something about it. Guv’mint’s in no position to refuse. Not strong enough. Have to divert investment resources into consumption goods. Be a decrease in technological efficiency, fewer goods, more demands, lead to a new cycle of the same. Hard to predict just what comes
after that, but it can’t be good. Afore long they won’t have the technological resources even if they get better organized. Not a new pattern, Colonel. Surprised you didn’t just take Fleet’s word for it.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “I did. But with something this important I thought I better get an expert. You’ve met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance they could, ah, save civilization here?”

  Whitlock laughed. It was a long, drawn-out laugh, relaxed, totally out of place in a military council. “’Bout as much chance as for a ’gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even did they want to, what are they goin’ to do? Suppose they get a vision, try to change their policies? Somebody’ll start a new party ’long the lines of the one they got now. You never going to convince all them people that there’s things the Guv’mint just cain’t do, Colonel. They don’t want to believe that, and there’s always going to be slick talkers willing to say it’s a plot. Now if the Progressive Party was able to set up along the lines of the Communists, they might keep something going for a while longer.”

  “Do you think they can?” Major Savage asked.

  “Nope. They might have fun tryin’,” Whitlock answered. “Problem is the countryside’s pretty independent. Not enough support for that kind of thing in the city, either. Eventually it’ll happen, but the revolution that gives this planet a real powerful government’s going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. And a long, drawn-out, bloody mess at that.”

  Whitlock sighed. “No matter where you look, you see problems, gentlemen. City’s vulnerable to any sabotage that stops the food plants … and you know them fusion generators ain’t exactly eternal; I don’t give them a lot of time before they slow down the way they’re runnin”em. This place is operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon that’s going to be gone.” Whitlock sat up, stretched elaborately. “I can give you a dozen more reasons, but they always come out the same. This place ain’t about to be self-sufficient without a lot of blood spilled.”

  “Could they ask for help from American Express?” The question was from a junior officer near the foot of the table.

  “Sure they could,” Whitlock drawled. “Wouldn’t get it, but they could ask. Son, the Russians ain’t going to let a U.S. company get hold of a planet and add it to the U.S. sphere, same as the States won’t let the Commies come in and set up shop.

  Grand Senate would order a quarantine on this system like that.” The historian snapped his fingers. “Whole purpose of the CoDominium.”

  “One thing bothers me,” Captain Fast said. “You’ve been assuming that the CD will simply let Hadley revert to barbarism. Won’t BuRelock and the Colonial Office come back if things get that desperate?”

  “Might, if they was around to do it,” Whitlock answered. This time there was a startled gasp from several junior officers. “Haven’t told them about that, Colonel? Sorry.”

  “Sir, what does he mean?” the lieutenant asked. “What could happen to the Bureau of Relocation?”

  “No budget,” Falkenberg answered. “Gentlemen, you’ve seen the tensions back on Earth. Kaslov’s people are gaining influence in the Presidium, Harmon’s gang have won minor elections in the States, and both want to abolish the CD. They’ve had enough influence to get appropriations cut to the bone—I shouldn’t have to tell you that, you’ve seen what’s happening to the Navy and the civilian agencies get the same. Population control has to ship people to worlds closer to Earth whether they can hold them or not. Marginal exploitation ventures like Hadley’s mines are to be shut down. This isn’t the only planet the CD’s abandoning this year—excuse me, granting independence,” he added ironically. “No, Hadley can’t rely on CoDominium help. If this world’s to reach takeoff, it’s going to have to do it on its own.”

  “Which Dr. Whitlock says is impossible,” Major Savage observed. “John, we’ve got ourselves into a cleft stick, haven’t we?”

  “Ah said it wasn’t likely, not that it was impossible,” Whitlock reminded them. “It’ll take a guv’mint stronger than anything Hadley’s liable to get, and some pretty smart people making the right moves. Or maybe there’ll be some luck. Like a good, selective plague. Now that’d do it. Plague to kill off about a hundred thousand, leave just the right ones … course if it killed a lot more’n that, probably wouldn’t be enough left to take advantage of the technology. Reckon a plague’s not the answer at that.”

  Falkenberg nodded grimly. “Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. Now, gentlemen, I want battalion commanders and the headquarters officers to read Dr. Whitlock’s report carefully. Meanwhile, we have other actions. Major Savage will shortly make a report to the Cabinet. I want you to pay attention to that report. Jerry?”

  Savage stood, strode briskly to the wall chartboard, uncovered briefing charts. “Gentlemen. The regiment consists of approximately two thousand officers and men. Of these, five hundred are former marines. Another five hundred, approximately, are Progressive partisans, who are organized under officers appointed by Mr. Bradford. The other thousand are general recruits including youngsters who want to play soldier. All locals have received basic training comparable to CD marine ground basic without assault, fleet, or jump schooling. Their performance has been somewhat better than we might expect from a comparable number of marine recruits in CD service.

  “This morning, Mr. Bradford ordered the colonel to remove the last of our officers and noncoms from the fourth battalion. As of retreat this P.M. the fourth will be totally under the control of the first vice-president, for what purpose he has not informed us.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “In your estimate, Major, are the troops ready for combat duties?” John sipped his coffee, listened idly. The briefing was rehearsed, and he knew what Savage would answer. The men were trained but not yet a combat unit. He waited until Savage had completed that part of the presentation. “Recommendations?”

  “Recommend that the second battalion be integrated with the first, sir. Normal practice is to have one recruit, three privates, and a monitor to each maniple. With equal numbers of new men and veterans we’ll have a much higher proportion of recruits, of course, but this will give us two battalions of men under our veteran marines, with marine privates for leavening. We will thus break up the provisional training organization and set up the regiment with a new permanent structure: first and second battalions for combat duties, third composed of locals with former marine officers and some noncoms to be held in reserve. The fourth will not be under our command.”

  “Your reasons for this organization?” Falkenberg asked.

  “Morale, sir. The new troops feel discriminated against. They’re under harsher discipline than the former marines, and they resent it. Putting them in the same maniples with the marines will stop that.”

  “You have the new organization plan there, Major?”

  “Yes, sir.” Savage turned the charts from their wall recess. The administrative structure was a compromise between the permanent garrison organization of CD marines and the national army of Churchill, so arranged that all of the key positions had to be held by Falkenberg’s mercenaries. The best officers of the Progressive forces were in either the third or fourth battalions, and there were no locals with the proper experience . . .

  John looked at it carefully, listened to Savage’s explanation. It ought to work. It looked very good, and there was no sound military reason to question the structure . . . He didn’t think the president could object. Bradford would be pleased about the fourth, hardly interested in the other battalions now, although give him time.

  When Savage was finished, Falkenberg thanked him and stood again at the head of the table. “All right. You’ve heard Major Savage give the briefing. If you have critiques, let’s hear them now. We want this smooth, without problems from the civilians. Another thing. Sergeant-Major!”

  “Sir!”

  “As of reveille tomorrow, this entire regiment is under normal discipline. Tell the 42nd the act’s over, we want them back on
behavior. From here on the recruits and the old hands will be treated the same, and the next man who gives me trouble will wish he hadn’t been born.”

  “Sir!” Calvin smiled happily. The last months had been a strain for everyone. Now the old man was taking over again, thank God. The men had lost some of the edge, but he’d soon put it back again. It was time to take off the masks, and Calvin forone was glad of it.

  III

  The sound of fifty thousand people shouting in unison can be terrifying. It raises fears at a level below thought, a panic older than the fear of nuclear weapons and the whole panoply of technology, raw naked power, a cauldron of sound. Everyone in the Palace listened to the chanting crowd, and if most of the government officials were able to appear calm, they were afraid nonetheless.

  The cabinet meeting started at dawn, went on until late in the morning, on and on without settling anything. It was growing close to noon when Vice-President Bradford stood at his place at the council table, the thin smile gone, his lips tight with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at Hamner.

  “It’s your fault!” Bradford shouted. “Now the technicians have joined in the demand for a new constitution, and you control them! I’ve always said you were a traitor to the Progressive Party!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” President Budreau insisted tiredly. “Come now, that sort of language …”

  “ ‘Traitor’?” Hamner demanded. “If your blasted officials would pay a little attention to the technicians this wouldn’t have happened. In three months you’ve managed to convert the techs from the staunchest supporters of this Party into allies of the rebels, despite everything I could do.” George made a conscious effort to control his own anger. “You’ve herded them around the city like cattle, worked them overtime for no increase in pay, and set those damned soldiers of yours on them when they protested. It’s worth a man’s life to have your constabulary mad at him, I know of cases where your troops have beaten my people to death! And you’ve got the nerve to call me a traitor! I ought to wring your goddam neck.”