“You’re using up those men pretty fast, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Not by choice,” Falkenberg told him. “The president has ordered me to break the enemy resistance. That squanders soldiers. I’d as soon use the fourth battalion as to blunt the fighting edge of the rest of the regiment.”
“But we’re not getting anywhere.”
“No. The opposition’s too good, and there are too many of them. We can’t get them concentrated for an all-out battle, they simply set fire to part of the city and retreat under cover of the flames.” He stopped, listened to reports from a runner, then spoke quietly into a communicator. “Fall back to the Palace.”
“You’re retreating?”
“I have to. I can’t hold this thin a perimeter. I’ve only two battalions—and what’s left of the fourth.”
“Where’s the third? The Progressive partisans? My people?”
“Out at the power plants and food centers,” Falkenberg answered. “We can’t get in without giving the techs time to wreck the place, but we can keep any of the rebels from getting in. The third isn’t as well trained as the rest of the regiment—and besides, the techs may trust them.”
They walked through burned-out streets, the sounds of fighting following them as the regiment retreated. Worried Presidential Guards let them into the Palace, swung heavy doors shut behind them.
President Budreau was in the ornate office with Lieutenant Banners. “I was going to send for you,” Budreau said. “We can’t win this, can we?”
“Not the way it’s going.”
“That’s what I thought. Pull your men back to barracks, Colonel. I’m going to surrender.”
“But you can’t,” George protested. “Everything we’ve dreamed of … You’ll doom Hadley. The Freedom Party can’t govern …”
“Precisely. You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? How much governing are we doing?
Before it came to an open break, perhaps we had a chance. Not now. Bring your men back to the Palace, Colonel Falkenberg. Or are you going to resist my commands?”
“No, sir. The men are retreating already. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” Budreau sighed loudly. “I told you the military answer wouldn’t work here, Falkenberg.”
“We might have accomplished something in the past months if we’d been given the chance.”
“You might. You might not, also. It doesn’t matter now. This isn’t three months ago. It’s not even yesterday. I might have bargained with them then. But it’s today, and we’ve lost. You’re not doing much besides burning down the city … at least I can spare Hadley that. Banners, go tell the Freedom Party people I can’t take anymore.” The Guard officer saluted and left, his face an unreadable mask.
“So you’re resigning,” Falkenberg said slowly.
Budreau nodded.
“Have you resigned, sir?” Falkenberg asked deliberately.
“Yes, blast it. Banners has promised to get me out of here. On a boat, I can sail up the coast, cut inland to the mines. There’ll be a starship come in there sometime, I can get out on it. You’d better come with me, George.” He put his face to his hands for a moment, then looked up. “What will you do, Colonel Falkenberg?”
“We’ll manage. There are plenty of boats in the harbor. For that matter, the new government will need soldiers.”
“The perfect mercenary,” Budreau said with contempt. He sighed, looked around the office. “It’s a relief. I don’t have to decide things anymore.” He stood suddenly, his shoulders no longer stooped. “I’ll get the family. You’d better be moving too, George.”
“I’ll be along, sir. Don’t wait for us—as the colonel says, there are plenty of boats.” He waited until Budreau had left the office. “All right, what now?” he asked Falkenberg.
“Now we do what we came here for,” Falkenberg snapped. “You haven’t been sworn in as president yet, and you won’t get the chance until I’ve finished. And there’s nobody to accept your resignation, either.”
Hamner looked at him carefully. “So you do have an idea. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re not president yet,” Falkenberg answered. “Under Budreau’s proclamation of martial law, I am to take whatever action I deem necessary to restore order in Refuge. That order is valid until a new president rescinds it. And at the moment there’s no president.”
“But—Budreau’s surrendered! The Freedom Party will elect one!”
“Under Hadley’s constitution only the Senate and Assembly in joint session can make a change in the order of succession. They’re scattered across the city, their meeting chambers have been burned … to play guardhouse lawyer, Mr. Hamner, Budreau doesn’t have the authority to appoint a new president. With Bradford dead, you’re in charge here—but not until you appear before a magistrate and take the oath of office.”
“I see … and there aren’t any magistrates around. How long do you think you can stay in control here?”
“As long as I have to.” Falkenberg turned to his aides. “Corporal, I want Mr. Hamner to stay with me. You’re to treat him with respect but he goes nowhere and sees no one without my permission. Understood?”
“Sir!”
“And now what?” Hamner asked.
“And now we wait,” John said softly. “But not too long …”
Hamner and Falkenberg sat in the council chambers. When Captain Fast came in periodically to give reports on the combat situation, Falkenberg didn’t seem interested; but when Dr. Whitlock’s agents came in from time to time, the soldier was attentive. After a long wait the regiment was assembled in the Palace courtyard, while the Presidential Guard still held the Palace entrances, refused to admit the rioters. The rebels were obviously instructed to leave the Guardsmen alone so long as they took no action against them, giving an uneasy truce.
After Banners reported the president’s surrender, the crowd began to flow into the stadium, shouting with triumph. Still they waited, Falkenberg with outward calm, Hamner with growing tension.
An hour later Dr. Whitlock came into the council room. He looked at Falkenberg and Hamner, then sat easily in the president’s chair. “Don’t reckon I’ll get another chance to sit in the seat of the mighty,” he grinned. “It’s ’bout like you figured, Colonel. Mob’s moved right into the stadium. Nobody wants to be left out now they think they’ve won. Got some senators out there on the field, fixin’ to elect themselves a brand-new president.”
“The election won’t be valid,” Hamner said.
“Naw, suh, but that don’t seem to stop ’em none. They figure they’ve won the right, it seems. And the Guard has already said they’re goin’ to honor the people’s choice.” Whitlock smiled ironically.
“How many of my technicians are out there in that mob?” Hamner asked. “They’d listen to me, I know they would.”
“Not so many as there used to be,” Whitlock replied. “Most of ’em couldn’t stomach the burnin’ and looting. Still, there’s a fair number.”
“Can you get them out?” Falkenberg asked.
“Doin’ that right now.” Whitlock grinned. “Got some of my people goin’ round tellin’ them they already got Mister Hamner as president, why would they want somebody else? Seems to be working, too. Should have all that’s goin’ out of there in a half hour or so.”
Falkenberg nodded. “Let’s speed them on their way, shall we?” He strode to the control wall of the council chamber, opened a panel. “Mister Hamner, I can’t give you orders, but I suggest you make a speech. Say you’re going to be president and things are going to be different. Then order them to go home or face charges as rebels.”
Hamner nodded. It wasn’t much of a speech, and from the roar outside the crowd didn’t hear much of it anyway. He promised amnesty for anyone who left the stadium, tried to appeal to the Progressives who were caught up in the rebellion. When he put the microphone down, Falkenberg nodded. “Half an hour, Dr. Whitlock?” he asked.
“About that,” the historian agree
d.
“Let’s go, Mister President.” Falkenberg was insistent.
“Where?” Hamner asked.
“To see the end of this. You want to watch, or would you like to join yourfamily? You can go anywhere you like except to a magistrate or to someone who might accept your resignation.”
“Colonel, this is ridiculous. You can’t force me to be president! And I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Falkenberg’s smile was grim. “Nor do I want you to. Yet. You’ll have enough trouble living with yourself anyway. Let’s go.”
The first and second battalions were assembled in the Palace courtyard. The men stood in ranks, synthileather battle dress stained with dirt from training and the recent street fighting. Their armor bulged under the uniforms of the impassive men. Hamner thought they might have been carved from stone.
Falkenberg led the way to the stadium entrance. Lieutenant Banners stood in the doorway. “Halt,” he commanded.
“Really, Lieutenant? Would you fight my troops?” Falkenberg indicated the grim lines behind him.
“No, sir,” Banners protested. “But we have barred the doors. The emergency meeting of the Senate is electing a new president out there. When he’s sworn in, the Guard will be under his command—until then, we can’t permit your mercenaries to interfere.”
“I have orders from Vice-President Hamner to arrest the leaders of the rebellion, and a valid proclamation of martial law,” Falkenberg insisted.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Banners seemed to mean it. “Our council of officers has decided that President Budreau’s surrender is valid. We intend to honor it.”
“I see.” Falkenberg withdrew. “Hadn’t expected this. It would take a week to fight through those guardrooms . . he thought for a moment. “Give me your keys!” he snapped at Hamner.
Bewildered, George took them out. Falkenberg examined them, grinned. “There’s another way into there, you know … Major Savage! Take G and H companies of second battalion to secure the stadium exits. Place anyone who comes out under arrest.
And you’d better dig the men in pretty good, they’ll be coming out fighting. But I don’t expect them to be well-organized.”
“Yes, sir. Do we fire on armed men?”
“Without warning, Major. Without warning.” Falkenberg turned to the assembled soldiers. “Follow me.”
He led them to the tunnel entrance, unlocked the doors. Hamner trailed behind him as they wound down stairways, across under the field. He could hear the long column of armed men tramp behind them. They moved up the stairways on the other side, marching briskly until Hamner was panting, but the men didn’t seem to notice. Gravity difference, Hamner thought. And training.
They reached the top, moved along the passageways. Falkenberg stationed men at each exit, came back to the center doors. “MOVE OUT!” he commanded.
The doors burst open. The armed troopers moved quickly across the top of the stadium. Most of the mob was below, and a few unarmed men were struck down when they tried to oppose the regiment. Rifle butts swung, then there was a moment of calm. Falkenberg took a portable speaker from a corporal attendant.
“ATTENTION. ATTENTION. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE MARTIAL LAW PROCLAMATION OF PRESIDENT BUDREAU. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE KILLED.”
Someone below fired at them. Hamner heard the flat snap of the bullet as it rushed past, then the crack of the rifle.
One of the leaders on the field had a speaker, shouted orders. “ATTACK THEM! THERE AREN’T MORE THAN A THOUSAND OF THEM, WE’RE THIRTY THOUSAND STRONG. ATTACK, KILL THEM!” There were more shots. Several of Falkenberg’s men fell.
“PREPARE FOR VOLLEY FIRE!” Falkenberg called. “MAKE READY! TAKE AIM. IN VOLLEY, FIRE!”
Seven hundred rifles crashed as one.
“FIRE!”
Someone screamed, a long drawn-out cry, a plea without words.
“FIRE!”
It was like one shot, very loud, lasting far longer than a rifle shot ought to, but impossible to hear individual weapons.
“THE FORTY-SECOND WILL ADVANCE. FIX BAYONETS. FORWARD, MOVE. FIRE! FIRE AT WILL.”
Now there was a continuous crackle of weapons. The leather-clad lines moved forward, down the stadium seats, inexorably toward the press below.
“SERGEANT-MAJOR!”
“SIR!”
“MARKSMEN AND EXPERTS. FIRE ON ALL ARMED MEN.”
“SIR!”
Calvin spoke into his communicator. Two sections fell out of the advancing line, took cover behind seats. They began to fire, carefully but rapidly. Anyone below who raised a weapon died.
Hamner was sick. The screams of wounded men could be heard everywhere.
“GRENADIERS, PREPARE TO THROW,” Falkenberg ordered. “THROW!” A hundred grenades arched out, down into the milling crowds below. Their muffled explosions were masked by the screams of terror. “IN VOLLEY, FIRE!”
The regiment advanced, made contact with the mob below. There was a brief struggle. Rifles fired, bayonets flashed red, the line halted momentarily. Then it moved on, leaving behind a ghastly trail.
Men were jammed at the stadium exits, trampling each other in a scramble to escape. There was a rattle of gunfire from outside.
“You won’t even let them out!” he screamed at Falkenberg.
“Not armed. And not to escape.” The colonel’s face was hard, cold, the eyes narrowed to slits as he peered down at the battle.
“Are you going to kill them all?”
“All who resist.”
“But they don’t deserve this!” Hamner insisted.
“No one does, George. Sergeant-Major!”
“Sir!”
“Half the marksmen may concentrate on the leaders now.”
“Sir!” Calvin spoke quietly into his command set. As Hamner watched, the snipers began concentrating their fire on the Presidential Box across from them. Centurions ran up and down the line of hidden troops, pointing out targets. The marksmen kept up a steady fire.
The leather lines of armored men advanced inexorably, almost reached the lower tiers of seats. There was less firing now, but the scarlet painted bayonets could be seen everywhere. A section fell out of the line, moved to guard a tiny number of prisoners at one end of the stadium. The rest of the line moved on.
When the regiment reached ground level, their progress was slower. There was not much opposition, but the sheer mass of people in front of them held the troopers. In some places there were pockets of armed fighting, which held for long moments until flying squads rushed up to reinforce the line. Falkenberg watched the battle calmly, spoke into his communicator. Below, more men died.
A company of troopers formed, rushed up a stairway on the opposite side of the stadium, fanned out across the top. Their rifles leveled, crashed in another terrible volley.
Suddenly it was over. There was no opposition, only screaming crowds, men throwing away weapons to run with their hands in the air, falling to their knees to beg for quarter. A final volley crashed out, then a deathly quiet fell over the stadium.
But it wasn’t quiet, Hamner discovered. The guns were silent, men no longer shouted, but there was sound. Screams of wounded men.
Falkenberg nodded grimly. “Now we can find a magistrate, Mister President. Now.”
“I—oh my God!” Hamner stood at the top of the stadium, held a column to steady his weakened legs. The scene below was unreal. There was too much of it, too much blood, rivers of blood, blood cascading down the steps, pouring down stairwells, soaking the grassy field below.
“It’s over,” Falkenberg said gently. “For all of us. The regiment will be leaving as soon as you’re properly in command. You shouldn’t have any trouble with the power plants, your technicians will trust you now that Bradford’s gone. And without their leaders, the city people won’t resist. You can ship as many as you have to out to the interior, disperse them among the loyalists where they won�
��t do you any harm. That amnesty of yours—it’s only a suggestion, but I’d keep it.”
Hamner turned dazed eyes toward Falkenberg. “Yes. There’s been too much slaughter today . . . Who are you, Falkenberg?”
“A mercenary soldier, Mister President. Nothing more.”
“But—who are you working for?”
“That’s the question nobody asked before. Grand Admiral Lermontov.”
“Lermontov—but you’ve been dismissed from the CoDominium! You mean that—you were hired by the admiral? As a mercenary?”
Falkenberg nodded coldly. “More or less. The Fleet’s a little sick of being used to mess up people’s lives without having a chance to—to leave things in working order.”
“And now you’re leaving?”
“Yes. We couldn’t stay here, George. Nobody is going to forget this. You couldn’t keep us on and build a government that worked. I’ll take first and second battalions, there’s more work for us. The third will stay here to help you. We put all the married locals, the solid people in third and sent it off to the power plants where they wouldn’t have to fight.” He looked across the stadium, turned back to Hamner. “Blame it all on us, George. You weren’t in command. You can say Bradford ordered the slaughter, killed himself in remorse … people will want to believe that. They’ll want to think somebody was punished for—for this.” He waved expressively. A child was sobbing out there somewhere.
“It had to be done,” Falkenberg insisted. “Didn’t it? There was no way out, nothing you could do to keep civilization … Dr. Whitlock estimated a third of the population would die when things collapsed. Fleet intelligence put it higher than that. Now you have a chance.” Falkenberg was speaking rapidly, and George wondered who he was trying to convince. “Move them out while they’re still dazed … you won’t need much help for that. We’ve got the railroad running again, use it fast and ship them to the farms. It’ll be rough with no preparation, but it’s a long time until winter …”
War and Peace Page 32
