War and Peace

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Budreau protested. There was a roar from the stadium. The Palace seemed to vibrate to the shouts of the constitutional convention. Wearily, Budreau rose to his feet. The others remained sitting, something they wouldn’t have done even a month earlier. “We will adjourn for half an hour to allow tempers to cool,” Budreau insisted. “And I want no more accusations when we convene again.”

  Bradford left the room with a handful of his close supporters. Other ministers followed him, afraid not to be seen with the first vice-president. It could be dangerous to oppose him.

  Outside in the hall he was joined by Lieutenant Colonel Cordova, commander of the fourth battalion of constabulary, a fanatic Bradford supporter. They whispered together until they were out of Hamner’s sight.

  “Buy you some coffee?” The voice behind him startled George. He turned to see Falkenberg.

  “Sure. Not that it’s going to do any good … we’re in trouble, Colonel.”

  “Anything decided?” Falkenberg asked. “It’s been a long wait.”

  “And a useless one. They ought to invite you into the cabinet meetings or let you go; there’s certainly no reason to make you wait in the anteroom while we yell at each other. I’ve tried to change the policy, but I’m not too popular right now …” There was another shout from the stadium.

  “Whole government’s not too popular,” Falkenberg observed. “And when that convention gets through …”

  “Another thing I tried to stop last week,” George told him. “But Budreau didn’t have the guts to stand up to them. So now we’ve got fifty thousand drifters with nothing better to do sitting as an assembly of the people. That ought to produce quite a constitution.”

  Falkenberg shrugged. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind. They reached the executive dining room, took seats near one wall. Bradford’s group had a table across the room from them. All of Bradford’s people looked at them suspiciously.

  “You’ll get tagged as a traitor for sitting with me, Colonel.” Hamner laughed, then grew serious. “I think I meant that, you know. Bradford’s blaming me for our problems with the techs, and between us he’s also insisting that you aren’t doing enough to restore order in the city.”

  Falkenberg ordered coffee, waited until the waitress had left the table. “Do I need to explain to you why we haven’t?”

  “No.” George shook his head slowly. “God knows you’ve been given almost no support the last two months. Impossible orders, never allowed to do anything decisive … I see you’ve stopped the raids on rebel headquarters.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “We weren’t catching anyone. Too many leaks in the Palace, too often the fourth battalion had already muddied the waters. If they’d let us do our job instead of having to ask permission through channels for each operation we undertake, maybe the enemy wouldn’t know as much about what we’re going to do. I’ve quit asking.”

  “You’ve done pretty well with the railroad.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “That’s one success, anyway. Things are pretty calm out in the country where we’re on our own. Odd, isn’t it, that the closer we are to theexpert supervision of the government, the less effective my men seem to be?”

  “But can’t you control Cordova’s men? They’re causing more people to join the Freedom Party than you can count. I can’t believe unrestrained brutality is useful.”

  “Mr. Bradford has removed all command over the fourth from me,” Falkenberg answered. “Expanded it pretty well, too. That battalion’s nearly as big as the rest of the regiment.”

  “He’s accused me of being a traitor,” Hamner said carefully. “With his own army, he might have something planned …”

  Falkenberg smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

  “You wouldn’t. Well, I’m scared, Colonel. And I’ve got my family to think about. I’m plenty scared.”

  “Would you feel safer if your family were in our regimental barracks?” Falkenberg looked at Hamner critically. “It could be arranged.”

  “It’s about time we had something out,” George said. “Yes, I’d feel safer with my wife and children under your protection. But I want you to level with me. Those marines of yours—those aren’t penal battalion men. I’ve watched them. And those battle banners they’ve got on the regimental standard … they didn’t win those in any peanut actions in three months on this planet! Just who are those troops, Colonel?” John smiled thinly. “Wondering when you’d ask. Why haven’t you brought this up with Budreau?”

  “I don’t know. Trust you more than I do Bradford, maybe … if the president dismissed you, there’d be nobody able to oppose Ernie. Hadley’s going downhill so fast another conspirator more or less can’t make any difference . . . You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “The battle banners are from the 42nd CD Marine Regiment,” Falkenberg answered slowly. “Decommissioned as part of the budget cuts.”

  “Forty-second.” Hamner thought for a second, remembering the files he’d seen on Falkenberg. “Your regiment.”

  “A battalion of it,” John agreed. “Their women are waiting to join them when we get settled. When the 42nd was decommissioned, the men decided to stay together if they could.”

  “So you brought not only the officers, but the men as well . . . What’s your game, Colonel? You want something more than just pay for your troops. What is it? I wonder if I shouldn’t be more afraid of you than of Bradford.”

  Falkenberg shrugged. “Decision you have to make, Mr. Hamner. I could give you my word that we mean you no harm, but what would that be worth? I will pledge to take care of your family. If you want us to.”

  There was another shout from the stadium. Bradford and Lieutenant Colonel Cordova left their table, still talking in low tones. The conversation was animated, with violent gestures, as if Cordova were trying to talk Bradford into something. As they left, Bradford agreed.

  George watched them leave the room, then nodded thoughtfully to Falkenberg. “I’ll send Laura and the kids over to your headquarters this afternoon. There isn’t much time, is there? Whatever you’ve got planned, it’s going to have to be quick.”

  John shook his head slowly. “You seem to think I have some kind of master plan, Mister Vice-President. I’m only a soldier in a political situation.”

  “With Professor Whitlock to advise you,” Hamner reminded him. “That comball stuff of his doesn’t fool me, I looked him up. He’s another part of the puzzle I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he come to the president instead of moving around the city like a ghost? He must have fifty political agents out there.” Hamner watched Falkenberg’s face closely. “Surprised you with that one, didn’t I? I’m not quite so stupid as I look … but I can’t fit the pieces together. Maybe I ought to use whatever influence I have left to get you out of the picture entirely.”

  “Go ahead.” Falkenberg’s smile was cold. “Who watches your wife for you after that? The chief of police? Listen.” The stadium roared again, an angry sound that swelled in volume.

  “You win.” Hamner left the table, walked slowly back toward the council room, his head swirling with doubts. One thing stood out clearly: John Christian Falkenberg controlled the only military force on Hadley that could oppose both Bradford’s people and the Freedom Party gangsters. He kept that firmly in mind as he turned, went downstairs to the apartment he’d been assigned. The sooner Laura was in the marine barracks, the safer he’d feel … Was he sending her to another enemy? But what could Falkenberg use her for? Mercenary or not, the man was honorable. Boris Karantov had been emphatic about that. And he hadn’t any reason to hate George Hamner. Keep remembering that, he told himself. Keep remembering that and try not to remember the rest of it. The crowd screamed again. “Power to the people!” George heard it, and walked faster.

  Bradford’s grin was back. It was the first thing Hamner noticed as he came into the council chamber. The little man stood at the table with an amus
ed smile.

  “Ah, here is our minister of technology,” Bradford grinned. “Just in time. Mister President, that gang outside is threatening the city. I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to know that I’ve taken steps to end the situation. At this moment, Colonel Cordova is arresting the leaders of the opposition. Including, Mister President, the Engineers’ and Technicians’ Association leaders who have joined them. This rebellion will be over within the hour.”

  Hamner stared at the man. “You fool! You’ll have every technician in the city joining the FP! And they control the power plants, our last influence over the crowd! You bloody damn fool!”

  Bradford’s smirk widened, as he spoke with exaggerated surprise. “I thought you’d be pleased, George. And naturally I’ve sent men to the power plants as well. Ah, listen.”

  The crowd outside wasn’t chanting any more. There was a confused babble, a welling of sound that turned ugly, but nothing coherent. Then a rapid fusillade of shots.

  “My God!” Budreau stared wildly in confusion. “Who are they shooting at? You’ve started open civil war!”

  “It takes stem measures, Mister President,” Bradford said calmly. “Perhaps too stem for you?” He shook his head slightly. “The time is come for harsh measures, Mister President. Hadley cannot be governed by weak-willed men. Our future belongs to those who have the will to grasp it!”

  Hamner stood, went to the door. Before he reached it, Bradford called to him. “Please, George,” he said pleasantly. “I’m afraid you can’t leave just yet. It wouldn’t be safe for you. I took the liberty of ordering Colonel Cordova’s men to, uh, guard this room while my troops restore order.”

  An uneasy quiet had settled on the stadium, and they waited for long minutes. Then there were screams, more shots, and the sounds were moving closer, as if they were outside the stadium. Bradford frowned slightly, but no one said anything. They waited for what seemed a lifetime as the firing continued, guns, shouts, screams, sirens and alarms.

  The door burst open. Cordova, now wearing the insignia of a full colonel, came into the room, glanced about wildly. “Mister Bradford—could you come outside, please?”

  “You will make your report to the cabinet,” Budreau ordered. “Now, sir.” Cordova glanced at Bradford, who nodded. “Yes, sir,” the young officer said. “As directed by Vice-President Bradford, elements of the fourth battalion proceeded to the stadium and arrested some forty leaders of the so-called constitutional convention. Our plan was to enter quickly and take the men out through the Presidential Box into the Palace. However, when we attempted to make the arrests we were opposed by armed men, many of them in the uniforms of household guards. There were not supposed to be any weapons in the stadium, but this was in error. The crowd overpowered my officers and released their prisoners. When we attempted to recover them, we were attacked by the mob and forced to fight our way out of the stadium.”

  “Good Lord,” Budreau sighed.

  “The power plants! Did you secure them?” Hamner demanded.

  Cordova looked miserable. “No, sir. My men were not admitted. A council of technicians holds the power plants and threatens to destroy them if we attempt forcible entry. We will try to seal them off from outside support, but I don’t think that will be possible with only my battalion. In my judgment, we will require the full complement of constabulary to restore order.”

  Hamner sat heavily, tried to think. Council of technicians. He’d know most of them, they’d be his friends … but did they trust him now? Was this good or bad? At least Bradford didn’t control the plants.

  “What is the current status outside?” Budreau demanded. They could still hear firing in the streets.

  “Uh, there’s a mob barricaded in the market, another in the theater across from the Palace, sir. My troops are trying to dislodge them.”

  “Trying. I take it they weren’t able to succeed.” Budreau struck his hands together, suddenly rose and went to the anteroom door. “Colonel Falkenberg?” he called.

  “Yes, sir?” John entered the room as the president beckoned.

  “Colonel, are you familiar with the situation outside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn it, man, can you do something?”

  “What does the president suggest that I do?” Falkenberg looked at the Cabinet. “For three months we have attempted to restore order in this city. Even with the cooperation of the technicians we have been unable to do so for reasons which ought to be obvious. Now there is open rebellion and you have alienated one of the most powerful blocs within your party. We no longer control either the power plants or the food processing centers. I repeat, what does the president suggest I do now?”

  Budreau nodded. “A fair enough criticism.”

  He was interrupted by Bradford. “Disperse that mob! Use those precious troops of yours to fight!”

  “Will the president draw up a proclamation of martial law?” Falkenberg asked.

  Budreau nodded. “I have to.”

  “Very well,” John continued. “But I want something made clear. If I am to enforce martial law, I must have command of all government forces, including the fourth battalion. I will not attempt to restore order when some of the troops are not responsive to my policies.”

  “No!” Bradford stared wildly at Falkenberg. “I see what you’re trying to do! You’re against me too. You always have been. That’s why it was never time to make me president, you’re planning to take over this planet yourself! You want to be dictator. Well, you won’t get away with it. Cordova, arrest that man!”

  Cordova licked his lips, glanced at Falkenberg. “Lieutenant Hargreave!” he called. The door to the anteroom opened fully, but no one came in. “Hargreave!” Cordova shouted again. He put his hand to his pistol.

  “You’re under arrest, Colonel Falkenberg.”

  “This is absurd,” Budreau shouted. “Colonel Cordova, take your hand off that weapon! I will not have my cabinet meeting turned into a farce.”

  Bradford stared intently at the president. “You too, huh? Arrest Budreau, Colonel Cordova. As for you, Mister Traitor George Hamner, you’ll get what’s coming to you. I’ve got men all through this Palace; I knew I might have to do this.”

  “What is this, Earnest?” Budreau asked. He seemed bewildered. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, shut up, old man,” Bradford snarled. “I suppose you’ll have to be shot as well.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” Falkenberg said carefully. His voice rang through the room, although he hadn’t shouted. “And I refuse to be arrested.”

  “Kill him!” Bradford shouted. He reached under his tunic.

  Cordova put his hand back on his pistol. There were shots from the doorway, impossibly loud, filling the room. Hamner’s ears rang from the muzzle blast. Bradford spun toward the door, a surprised look on his face, then his eyes glazed and he slid to the floor, the half-smile still on his lips. More shots, a crash of automatic weapons, and Cordova was flung against the wall of the council chamber, held there for an incredibly long moment. Bright red blotches spurted across his uniform. Sergeant-Major Calvin came into the room with three marines in battle dress, leather over bulging body armor, their helmets dull in the bright blue sunlight streaming from the chamber’s windows.

  Falkenberg nodded, holstered his pistol. “All secure, Sergeant-Major?”

  “Sir!”

  Falkenberg nodded again. “To quote Mister Bradford, I took the liberty of securing the corridors, Mister President. Now, if you’ll issue that proclamation, I’ll see to the situation in the streets outside. I believe Captain Fast has already drawn it up for your signature.”

  “But—” Budreau’s tone was hopeless. “All right. Not that there’s much chance.” The president sat at the head of the table, still bewildered by the rapid events. Too much had happened, too much to do. The battle sounds outside were louder, and the room was filled with the sharp copper odor of blood.

  “You’d better speak to the P
resident’s Guard,” Falkenberg told Hamner. “They won’t know what to do.”

  “Aren’t you going to use them in the street fight?”

  Falkenberg shook his head. “I doubt if they’d fight. They live here in the city, too many friends on both sides. They’ll protect the Palace, but they won’t be reliable for anything else.”

  “Have we got a chance?”

  “Depends on how good the people we’re fighting are. If they’ve got a commander half as good as I think, we won’t win this battle.”

  Two hours proved him right. Fierce attacks drove the rioters away from the immediate area of the Palace, but Falkenberg’s regiment paid for every yard they gained. Whenever they took a building, the enemy left it blazing. When the regiment trapped one large group of rebels, Falkenberg was forced to abandon the assault to aid in evacuating a hospital that the enemy torched. In three hours, fires were raging all around the Palace.

  There was no one in the council chamber with Budreau and Hamner when Falkenberg came back to report.

  “They’ve got good leaders,” John told them. “When they left the stadium, immediately after Cordova’s assault, they stormed the police barracks. Took the weapons, distributed them to their allies, and butchered the police. And we’re not fighting just the mob out there. We’ve repeatedly run up against well-armed men in household forces uniform. I’ll try again in the morning, but for now, Mister President, we don’t hold much more than half a kilometer around the Palace.”

  The fires burned all night, but there was little fighting. In the morning the regiment sallied out again, moved northward toward the concentration points of the rioters. Within an hour they were heavily engaged against rooftop snipers, barricaded streets, and everywhere burning buildings.

  The fourth regiment, Bradford’s former troops, were decimated in repeated assaults against the barricades. Hamner accompanied the soldiers to Falkenberg’s field headquarters, watched the combat operations.