Picking Up The Pieces (Martial Law)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Thank you,” Muna said. I’d been worried about having her out of bed so quickly, but she’d insisted and the medics hadn’t been able to keep her down. She looked tired and wan, but most of the bruises had faded back into her pitch-black skin. It bothered me that her captors had been killed in the fighting; I wanted to cut their throats myself and hear their screams. Indecent it might be, unhealthy it was not. “Our logistics position is not good.”

  Everyone sat up straighter as she continued to speak. “We expended considerable amounts of ammunition and supplies in the recent…ah, unpleasantness,” she explained. “The basic assault rifle ammunition, grenades and even mortar shells can be replaced here. The problem is two-fold; we lack the ability to replenish our supplies at such a rate of expenditure. We have enough stored ammunition for several weeks of fighting, but after that we will suffer considerable shortages. We need time to rebuild our supply deports.

  “Furthermore, we’re unable to replace certain items completely,” she continued. “It will take months, maybe as much as a year, to rebuild some of the more vital factories from Pitea. Specifically, we are unable to replace tanks, helicopters and various other heavy equipment until those factories are rebuilt…and we are unable to replace artillery shells completely. The UN always shipped them in from Earth and never gave consent to a local arms industry. What they have was built after the occupation ended and…well, it’s not that good.”

  “True,” I agreed. There had been so much abandoned on the planet that it seemed unthinkable that we would ever run out, but I’d never seen a military operation that used less ammunition than predicted. We’d expended ammunition like it was water, but there had been no choice. Lives were much harder to replace when we didn’t have access to Earth’s bottomless supply of flesh. “How much can we replenish before the next set of elections are held?”

  “Not much,” Muna admitted. “Let me put it this way; we’d be well advised not to fight another such war for a year.”

  “A shame most wars can’t be timed,” I commented, dryly. Back in the dim past, human tribes had engaged in ritual warfare rather than real warfare, all according to a script. We didn’t have that luxury, if luxury it was. I looked over at TechnoMage. “Is there anyone else considering trouble?”

  “We have most of the Communist ringleaders and their upper levels in custody,” TechnoMage said. “As far as I can tell, those who were on the fringes of the Communist movement have disowned their fellows and are currently sucking up as much as they can to the legitimate government. The smaller small fry, the ones we missed, seem to have vanished underground completely; I don’t think we can expect much more from them than the occasional terrorist attack, if they don’t disband completely.

  “The other parties seem to be spending most of their time considering the ramifications. With the President out of the political scene for at least six months, power is shifting firmly into the Progressive camp, which leaves some of the other parties wondering just when the other shoe is about to drop. They don’t trust Councillor Frida Holmqvist very much, sir, and they think that she’s going to use the state of emergency to cement her grip on power. We may see more violence in the very near future.”

  I remembered Daniel’s claim and went cold. “Do you think they might launch an uprising of their own?”

  “I doubt it,” he admitted. “I think we might be looking at a repeat of our original scenario; a three-way civil war spread out over the main continent. They don’t have the…fanatical nature of the Communists and, in a way, they have access to more firepower. They may provide a conventional threat if the Independence Party gets their way, but…”

  He shrugged. “At the moment, it’s too close to call,” he admitted. I scowled, but took his point. A lot of intelligence work involves seeing through murky glass. “A lot depends on what happens in the next few months. That said, there is a new and disturbing trend. A number of personages are attacking us…for not handing over the molester to the local courts for judgement.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ed protested. I couldn’t help, but agree. “We hung the bastard! What more do they want? Him staked out on an ant hill covered in honey?”

  “They seem to feel that there is a question of jurisdiction involved,” TechnoMage admitted. “I’m not sure who’s behind this, although they’re using the girl’s parents as spokespeople, but I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t know if the Acting President is behind this, but she’s doing fuck all to piss on this particular fire.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The end of a war is always the most dangerous time for a nation – or a planet. The effort of actually fighting the war is no longer needed, but the balance of power will have shifted radically. The most important issue is to prevent a second war, but that may take a second place to rebuilding the torn nation.

  -Army Manual, Heinlein

  “You’re looking well, sir,” Suki said, as she drove me into New Copenhagen. “The fresh air in the countryside must agree with you.”

  I snorted. The spaceport smelled better now that we had a proper regime operating the base, but it still smelt of hydrocarbons and the indescribable stench of thousands of people in close proximity. We’d been teaching the new recruits about hygiene as quickly as possible – unlike some worlds, including people from Earth, the locals generally knew already – but even so, there was a stink. There might be fresh air somewhere out in the countryside, but I hadn’t smelt it.

  “Perhaps,” I agreed, as we passed the marker warning us to reduce our speed. There was nothing else on the road – there were hardly any privately-owned vehicles on the planet, something that probably delighted the remains of the Communists – but Suki reduced her speed anyway, barely. “You’re looking well too.”

  Suki smiled. She did look stunning, even in a basic uniform rather than the outfit she’d worn for the inauguration. It was astonishing how much prettier a woman became after you’d slept with her; she almost seemed to be glowing. Her dark hair had been cut short, but she wore it in a style that was frankly provocative, while her uniform was just one size too small.

  “It’s because I’m doing something useful,” she said, waving a hand towards a group of beggars in the distance. “Are they doing anything useful?”

  I took her point. There were thousands of people on the streets, but many of them seemed to be doing nothing, but begging for charity. The devastation the Communists had inflicted had put thousands of people out of work and they were not happy. The Government had been organising work parties to help rebuild the city – both cities – but there was only so much that could be done with unskilled labour. Others were wandering around, looking for missing friends and relatives, a quest I suspected to be hopeless. We would probably never know how many people had been killed by the Communists, or had been caught up in the crossfire and slaughtered. The mass graves outside the city meant that the bodies would probably take their secrets to the next world.

  There was a long line outside the army recruiting office, I was pleased to see, even if most of the recruits wouldn’t make the first cut. The planet had had a massive upswing in patriotism after the Communist Insurrection and thousands wanted to join the army, if only to get laid. Ed had been right; an army uniform was a certain ticket to spending a night with a girl, although naturally I didn’t know anything about that myself. Here and there, there were a handful of soldiers on leave, spending time telling lies about their exploits and trying to impress the girls. Others were on patrol, watching for looters and criminals, even though we hadn’t trained any of them for police work. The police force was being rebuilt as quickly as possible, but it was a long slow process.

  “They’re not popular,” Suki explained, when I commented on that. “Everyone thinks that the policemen ran away when the firing started and hid in their houses until it was all over.”

  “But it was a very brave retreat,” I said, deadpan. The joke slipped past Suki, who ignored it. “And public mood toward
s the communists?”

  I had my answer as the car turned the corner and drove towards the makeshift courthouse. The original courthouse had been a surprisingly dignified building built by the UN, but the Communists had firebombed it in the opening stages of the insurrection – roasted seven judges, nine criminals and forty-nine others in the process – and Acting President Frida Holmqvist had moved operations to a local school. The kids were probably delighted at getting a few months off school – it didn’t help that parents were nervous about sending their kids into the city – and everyone else was delighted. The crowd outside the courthouse was baying for blood.

  “They want them dead,” Suki said, pointing to a group of grim-looking protestors, carrying banners that had a multitude of inspiring slogans. DEATH TO COMMIES, BURN THE BASTARDS and MAKE THEM PAY were among the milder ones, although there were also stranger ones; FARMERS NEED TO EAT, FEED THE WORLD and MAKE WAR NOT LOVE. I think they got the last one mixed up a little. The UN used to use the reversed version as a slogan. “I don’t think they’re going to get out of it alive.”

  I nodded as I passed my ID to a heavily armed soldier, who inspected it carefully. “It does look that way,” I agreed. I looked at the soldier’s insignia as he stood to attention. “Has there been any trouble here?”

  “A gang of armed vigilantes wanted to break in and kill the Communists quickly,” the soldier said, once he had verified my identity. “We deployed and warned them to leave, or we’d open fire, and they left. A handful of others came by to threaten us, but we arrested them at once and handed them over to the local police. Feelings are running high among the crowd though, sir; I think we’re going to need reinforcements once sentence is passed.”

  He nodded towards a wooden structure a carpenter was erecting on the other side of the street. It was a gallows, rather like the one we’d built ourselves, suggesting that the verdict of the court had already been decided. I shrugged, returned his salute, and led Suki into the building. The interior felt a little odd – I’ve never been comfortable with armed men in a school, no matter what Russell says about it being good for the kids – but it was easy enough to find the courtroom. The noise coming from it was deafening.

  Frida had decided to charge the Communists with High Treason, a charge that automatically kept the public out of the court. I wasn't sure if she’d done that deliberately or if it was a happy coincidence; happy, because the entire city wanted the Communists lynched. It was quite possible that the vigilantes would return and try to bully their way past the soldiers and if that happened there would be a massacre. The Communists weren’t the only faction that had guns; hell, we couldn’t even begin to disarm all of the militia groups. We’d just have to hope that they drew a lesson from what happened to the Communists and stayed out of armed violence. If not…

  I shook my head as I was shown into the courtroom. It was clearly in the school’s gym and lacked a certain something, although I didn’t know what. Dignity, perhaps. Frida herself was sitting at one end of a long table, joined by the seven surviving High Court Judges and several others I didn’t recognise. Svergie’s Supreme Court was supposed to rule on matters like High Treason and Constitutional Law, but only half of them had survived the insurrection. The Communists had targeted them personally, just because of the positions they held.

  “Andrew,” Frida said, waving me over. “I’m so glad you could make it. Please, take a seat.”

  I frowned. “I was under the impression that I was here to observe only,” I said, puzzled. She seemed to be offering me a seat on the court. “I’m not actually…”

  “You may be called upon to testify,” Frida explained. I smiled in relief. That made a great deal more sense, although I wasn't particularly comfortable in the courtroom. Give me a good honest battle any day. “The Judges may want to put questions to you, or…”

  “The Court will rise,” the usher bellowed. “The 3rd Supreme Court Judgement Session will now come to order.”

  I sat down as the remainder of the court settled. “Bring in the prisoners,” the usher ordered. The side door opened and the nine Communist leaders – the ones who had survived the insurrection – were escorted into the room. They wore heavy chains, rather than light handcuffs or other restraints; I guessed that someone wanted to make a point. They looked relieved to be in private session; they might not have been able to play to the audience, but they wouldn’t be facing a lynch mob. They didn’t look confident or self-assured now; they just looked…terrified. I couldn’t really blame them for being scared. They knew they’d failed and were now looking at a short trip to the gallows.

  “Daniel Singh will represent the prisoners,” the usher said. I reminded myself about the old saying – a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client – before realising that it was quite possible that no uninvolved lawyer had wanted to take part in the proceedings, or at least on their side. “The charges are as follows; High Treason, Conspiracy to Seize Power Unlawfully, Wilful Mass Murder – at least three thousand separate counts – and Mass Property Damage. Does the defending lawyer wish to make a statement before proceedings begin?”

  “Yes, Your Honour,” Daniel Singh said. His voice was flat, but very composed. “I protest in the strongest possible terms this court and its claim to jurisdiction. I also protest our treatment. We have been denied access to friends and relatives, potential witnesses and those who might speak in our defence. We have been forbidden to stand before a bail court or even give testimony in our own defence. This court is illegal and a disgrace to our world.”

  “You have been charged with High Treason, among other crimes,” the usher said, in response. “You would not be granted bail under any circumstances, but if we had done so you would have been lynched in the streets. You were not denied access to anyone; they chose not to come see you. And, as to our right to try you, you are in the dock. You may believe that this court is unconstitutional, but it was summoned in accordance with the Constitution, under the supervision of the surviving High Court Judges. We believe that we have the right to try you and if you are found guilty, we will sentence you and carry out your punishment.”

  There was a pause. “The Prosecutor may speak now.”

  The Prosecutor was a tall man, with dark hair that was shading towards grey. I listened as he outlined everything, from the early stages of the Communist Party’s plans for a coup to the final preparation and the assault on the stadium, killing hundreds in the opening blows alone. He brought videoed testimony from the survivors of Pitea, recounting their suffering and how they had barely survived under two weeks of Communist rule. Shopkeepers spoke of losing their stock to the Communists, women told of seeing their husbands dragged off and murdered, factory crews talked about losing their foremen and supervisors to the murderous mobs, collectively painting a picture of horror and suffering.

  “I protest this,” Daniel said, at one point. “These witnesses have not been summoned to court. Their testimony is therefore unacceptable.”

  “The case of Gustav V. Robeson would indicate otherwise,” the Prosecutor countered. “It was established in that case, and subsequently confirmed by the High Court, that videoed testimony was acceptable provided that it was properly recorded and notarized by a qualified court official. In this case, the dispositions were recorded under the watching eyes of no less than three officials from the court. There was little point in having the witnesses forced to endure your form of questioning.”

  The Prosecutor continued his attack, noting that all of the allegations of fraud in the voting districts had been carefully disproved before the insurrection began – and, indeed, even some of the Communists had agreed with the final outcome. Those Communists, of course, were dead now, killed by their own kind. It didn’t take much imagination to guess why; they’d been honest and had paid the price for it. The Communist Leadership would probably have been happier with a lie claiming that the elections had been rigged.

  “You claim that you were for
ced into insurrection,” the Prosecutor continued. “You have presented no reason to justify your claim. You merely want us to take it on faith that you had a good reason for your crimes, yet you refuse to accept some of our statements on faith. Your own people have testified as to your crimes against innocent civilians and those who merely belonged to the wrong political party. You cannot claim that you set out to kill people in order to save them.”