by Jake Elwood
He had the sidewalk to himself for a block and a half. When he met his first pedestrian it was a woman in a hooded jacket, the hood pulled up to cover a white kerchief over her hair. She gave Hammett a furtive look and circled wide around him, heading away from the heart of the city.
For the next block he passed more and more people, until the sidewalk became downright crowded. The crowd thickened and spilled onto the street, the last of the vehicle traffic turning off on one last cross street. Half a block later Hammett came to a barricade of crates, made irrelevant by the press of bodies.
Nearly everyone wore white. Some waved broad white flags over their heads. One flag had "EDF" scrawled on it, with a circle around it and a line through the circle. Holo signs added to the visual clutter. "Hang Acton", said one sign. "Free Carol White" said another. The name was faintly familiar. Hammett thought she was a journalist, a political commentator popular in the feeds.
The crowd was angry and excited, with more than a few people giving Hammett hostile, suspicious looks. The average civilian wouldn't know a prisoner's jumpsuit by sight. He didn't look like an authority figure exactly, but any sort of uniform would be suspect here.
Shouting voices filled the air, creating a tumult of sound that made everyone incomprehensible. He passed a knot of a dozen people or so, chanting some slogan in unison. A man three meters away was ranting into a microphone, his amplified voice drowning out the chanted slogan completely. Hammett couldn't understand that man either. All he got was an impression of static and rage.
It all struck him as senseless, and dangerous enough to be downright foolish. Somewhere on the far side of this mob there would be a line of cops or soldiers. These people were provoking a government that had shown itself capable of appalling violence. He thought of the deserting soldiers who'd intercepted his car. They'd been ordered to fire into a crowd just like this.
Not every company was going to desert when they got orders like that. All it needed was for one of these protestors—just one—to go a tiny bit too far. Some army recruit barely out of his teens, blood full of adrenalin and mind full of terror, would panic and start shooting.
This crowd would achieve nothing. They weren't here with an achievable goal in mind, he realized. They were venting. Speaking not to be heard, but to have spoken. Giving voice to a frustrated outrage they could no longer contain. If Acton had any sense, he'd let the mob exhaust itself. The people would scream themselves hoarse and go home tired, telling themselves they'd done something at last.
Restraint, though, wasn't Acton's style. He was the strong man, the man who took action and got things done. He had an image to uphold, and uphold it he would. The crowd was pushing him. He'd push back.
Hard.
This is going to get ugly. Bloody. And here I am, pushing my way deeper into the crowd. And why am I doing it? So I can get myself back under arrest, and stand trial for treason.
I must be brain-damaged.
This was just Hawking. What was happening in places like Nova Roma?
The crowd thickened until the press of bodies made it impossible to tell that Hammett wore an official-looking jumpsuit and nothing white. He caught a glimpse of his own face hovering above the crowd with the slogan "Free Hammett", and grinned. To think my training officer back at the Academy told me I'd never amount to anything.
At last he neared the front of the crowd. Banks of forcefield generators made a perimeter around a cluster of buildings that included the courthouse, Liberty Hall, and some government offices. The public library was inside the perimeter, and Hammett felt a flash of annoyance. Riots and the very real danger of a massacre were bad enough, but denying people access to the library offended him on a primal level.
When the wall of backs and shoulders in front of him became impenetrable he stopped. The layer of people ahead was only three or four deep, but a couple of tall men and a few flags were enough to keep him from seeing anything.
He turned back, looking for a vantage point. He found a giant ceramic pot, the edges waist-high, containing a vine-enshrouded tree. A couple of people already balanced on the lip of the pot, but there was room for one more. Hammett scrambled up, wrapped an arm around the trunk, and turned his gaze toward the courthouse.
Instead of soldiers on the far side of the forcefield he saw city police. That was a relief. Things could still go horribly wrong, but the mindset of a policeman was different from the mindset of a soldier. Cops didn't think in terms of killing enemies.
He saw about two dozen cops arrayed in front of the courthouse, and a dozen police androids. The man-sized robots were strong and practically indestructible, and programmed not to use lethal force. They would show more restraint than their human counterparts.
The cops were badly outnumbered by the protestors, which might be a good thing, Hammett supposed. It might keep the cops safely behind their barricade and prevent an escalation. Unfortunately it would also make them afraid, and frightened people with guns were never a good thing.
Maybe this will all end without bloodshed. Maybe Acton can be voted out of office without any more blood on his hands than he's already got. In the meantime, I'm clearly not getting into the courthouse through the front doors. Maybe if I circle around I can-
A distant rumble made the pot vibrate under his feet and told him he was too late. The sound was directionless, but a ripple in the crowd drew his attention to the left. The crowd churned, some people pressing forward, others trying to retreat.
And Hammett saw the first robot.
This was something entirely different from the police androids. This was a robot built for serious crowd control, a rolling behemoth the size of a garbage truck with a V-shaped prow and ugly metal protrusions jutting from the top edge of the roof. Hammett recognized those protrusions.
Shockers.
"Last chance," said an amplified voice that echoed from the buildings all around. "You had your fun. Now go home. This won't be gentle."
Plenty of people were taking the advice of the disembodied voice, streaming away from the advancing robot. Others hurried in to take their place, though, bellowing slogans as if the robot would listen.
As the robot reached the first press of protestors the shockers came to life, firing fat arcing sparks into the crowd. Hammett heard screams, saw people fall. Shockers were painful, and momentarily disabling. Some people would have minor burns. Some would have damaged implants, though likely no one would lose all functionality like Hammett. Anyone with a heart condition, anyone elderly, was in real danger of dying.
Still the angry crowd pressed forward, and the robot ground to a halt, unwilling to run anyone down. But another robot was rolling up beside it. The shockers flashed on both machines and the crowd broke, people stumbling away.
Cops in insulated riot gear advanced between the machines. Two cops would grab a fallen protestor and drag the person back behind the robots. Immediately two more cops would dart forward. One protester after another vanished behind the robots, which began to advance again.
A hail of missiles sailed out of the crowd, rocks or bricks or bottles, Hammett couldn’t tell. It wasn't like the bad old days when gasoline had been readily available. Nothing burned, nothing exploded. The cops drew back and let the robots take the brunt of the assault. All the while, the shockers flashed and protesters fell.
Another robot joined the line, and then another. Protesters poured down the streets in droves, fleeing the riot. Die-hard troublemakers gathered in clusters, waving flags and hurtling bottles, until the robots were almost within shocker range. Then the rioters fell back, dashing past Hammett's tree. A man paused almost close enough for Hammett to touch him, taking a lump of broken brick from a satchel across his back. The man drew his arm back to throw, then dropped limp on the sidewalk as a stun shot from some police sniper took him in the chest.
"Whoa," said a man clinging to the tree beside Hammett. "That's enough for me." He hopped down from the pot and joined the crowd fleeing down the boulevard. That left
Hammett and a young woman atop the pot. She cupped her free hand around her mouth, screamed, "Fascists," glanced at Hammett, and shrugged. Then she dropped to the sidewalk and jogged away.
Hammett stayed where he was.
A couple of cops moved out ahead of the robots, heading for the stunned man beside Hammett's pot. A band of fifteen or twenty protesters charged at the two cops, who simply fell back to the line of robots. The protesters in front tried to stop out of range of the shockers, but their friends behind them pushed them forward. Only when half a dozen of the would-be attackers were on their knees writhing and screaming did the rest give up. They dragged some of their friends back, left three of them on the ground in front of the robots, and fled.
Hammett looked around in time to see a section of forcefield drop. Cops from the front of the courthouse moved forward, grabbing protesters who'd been disabled by the shockers. There was no more resistance. One woman circled around the advancing police, shouted a few insults, then threw down her flag and ran. No one bothered pursuing her.
"Hey, buddy."
Hammett turned. A couple of cops were putting cuffs on the stunned brick-thrower, who was just beginning to stir. Beside them, a tired-looking cop stared up at Hammett. "Why don't you beat it? Go on, get out of here."
"Thanks," said Hammett. "I'll stay."
The cop's gaze sharpened. He looked Hammett up and down, seeming to notice the jumpsuit for the first time.
"That's right," said Hammett. "I'm an escaped fugitive."
The cop looked startled but cautious. "What did you do?"
That made Hammett chuckle. "Depends on who you ask."
"Well, I'm not sure I care. Why don't you run along and be someone else's problem?"
"I'm Richard Hammett. Formerly of Spacecom."
The cop stared up at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Like I don't have enough bloody paperwork. All right, buddy, you win. You're under arrest. Why don't you hop down so I can cuff you."
CHAPTER 30 - BLOCH
It felt strange to be sitting outside the Statsminister's office, waiting to speak to the great man himself. Bloch caught himself touching the black sash across his chest, subconsciously reassuring himself of his rank, his right to be here. He made himself lower the hand to his lap.
Before the war he'd answered to the Spacecom Admiralty. Now, as a general in the EDF, he outranked those admirals. He supposed it was normal for someone of his new rank to confer directly with the Statsminister. Still, it seemed … odd. Not quite right, as if the usual checks and balances were being sidestepped.
I'm the checks and balances now. Instead of three or four admirals, it's me. It's the way things are now, so I'd better get used to it.
No fewer than six marines guarded the door to Acton's office. Considering the layers of security he'd gone through to get this far, Bloch couldn't help thinking the marines were excessive. Acton had stirred up quite a lot of animosity, though, so perhaps his paranoia was warranted.
A marine tilted his head, a sure sign he was receiving a message. He looked at Bloch and said, "You can go in, General."
Bloch stood, nodded his thanks, and stepped toward the door as the marines parted to give him room. He gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles, then pushed it open.
Acton was alone, sitting behind an enormous, cluttered desk. The man looked a decade older than he had during his brief campaign. He flapped a hand at a plush guest chair, then turned his attention to a pad in his hands.
Bloch sat, telling himself sternly not to fidget. The trip to Europe felt like an enormous waste of time. It had taken almost two hours, time he could ill afford to lose. He had a simple proposal for sending some ships to relieve several distant colonies. He'd submitted the plan to Acton, expecting a quick message telling him it was approved.
Instead, the Statsminister had summoned him for a personal meeting.
At last Acton lowered his pad. "General. You want to send some ships to Calypso."
"Calypso by way of Tanos, Aries, and Deirdre," Bloch said. "Those colonies have been out of touch since the beginning of the war. If there are survivors, they'll need-"
"Out of the question." Acton glared at Bloch as if he'd just spat on the rich carpet. "You've seen what's going on here on Earth." He waved a hand, encompassing the Parliament Building, the surrounding government buildings, and all of Nova Roma. "I can't spare a single ship."
Bloch suppressed a sigh. "Sir, the protests are a civilian matter. The police should handle it, and if the police aren't enough, you have the army. You don't need spaceships."
"I need every resource I can get!" Acton's hand slapped the table, making the data pad jump. "The very government is at risk! Now, when humanity needs to stand united!"
Bloch said, "The colonies-"
"Damn the colonies!" Acton panted, then composed himself. "No, General. Your ships will stay here, defending the Earth. Defending the government. Is that clear?"
Defending Jeff Acton personally, you mean. Bloch suppressed the treasonous thought. "Yes, Sir."
"Good. Now, I called you here because I have a new assignment for you. You're a hero. You're the man who won a great victory against the Hive. You captured Hammett. People respect you."
In most people's minds, the capture of Hammett wasn't a point in his favor. Bloch kept the thought to himself.
"I'm sending you on a speaking tour," Acton continued. "You're going to visit every major city in the world. I want you to talk about the alien threat. Make it clear that we only won a battle, not the war. I need people to understand that the Hive is still a serious threat."
Bloch stared at the Statsminister, speechless. Bloch had read every report from the forces that had gone through the new Gate, and he was certain the Hive was no threat at all. The few aliens that remained were a pathetic remnant hiding in the shadows. Acton knew it, too.
"People trust you," Acton said. He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Make them see the danger. Make them realize the aliens could come back at any moment."
Arguing would achieve nothing. Bloch just nodded, numb.
"Now, I'm going to want ships deployed above every major city that holds United Worlds government offices. We can't let these protests gain momentum. We need to crush them as quickly as they form. The safety of the world is at stake!"
Bloch kept nodding, letting the words roll over him. It wasn't an entirely bad plan. If Spacecom's ships were distributed around the planet, they'd be ready to react if a swarm of Hive ships suddenly dropped out of a wormhole. Acton seemed to have no comprehension of orbital physics—he seemed to think that ships could hover over cities indefinitely—but that was just details. Bloch would distribute his ships so that every major city could be reached in a matter of minutes. He would obey the spirit of his orders, and Acton would never know the difference.
Acton stood, and Bloch stood with him. "Let your people handle the details," Acton said. "I want you to focus on your speaking tour. That's the important thing."
Bloch nodded, mumbled, "Yes, Sir," one last time, and walked out of the office in a fog.
He trudged through the new security station set up in what had once been a reception area, then followed a curved hallway that circled the rotunda. To his left he saw open lawns dappled by late-afternoon sunshine. Before the war—before Acton—the lawn would have held escorted tour groups and children on school visits. Now, he saw a handful of marines on patrol, and that was it.
One level down from the main entrance he found a com lounge with encrypted connections. He took a seat and punched in a request for a link to Captain Hakka of the supply ship Condor. He had four ships standing by, the Condor, two corvettes, and a Jumper. Hakka was the only one busily laying in supplies, though. She needed to know immediately that she could stop. In fact, she faced a tiresome chore of returning delivered supplies to their warehouses. It would be a major headache. She deserved to hear the order—and his apology—in a live call.
"This is Lieutenant
Chalmers," said a brisk voice. "The captain's pretty busy sorting supplies. She should be here in a minute or so."
"That’s fine, Lieutenant. It's not an emergency."
He broke the connection and waited, considering what he would say. The wasted effort wasn't a big deal. This was the military, where every waste of time was really a drill in disguise. She'd probably prefer to be busy anyway.
She'd be disappointed to be denied a mission in deep space. Not that she'd complain.
But she might ask why. He didn't have to answer a subordinate's questions, of course. But the question stood.
Why, when tens of thousands of colonists might be in desperate need of aid, was Spacecom doing nothing?
Acton's answers were thin at best. The safety of the Earth would not be compromised by the absence of these four ships. No, the fleet had to stay here because the corvettes might be needed to protect the Statsminister from his electorate. And the Jumper and the supply ship had to stay as well, because the presence of more ships was reassuring to a desperate, self-centered man who was obsessed with personal power.
"It's not my fault," he whispered. "Not my decision. There's a chain of command. I must follow my orders."
The voice of his conscience told him he was taking a coward's way out. He faced that voice squarely, as he always faced challenges, threats, and sources of discomfort.
"I obey my orders," he murmured, then double-checked there were no live connections. The last thing he needed was to broadcast his soul-searching to Captain Hakka. "It's not a whim. It's not following the path of least resistance. It's duty. It's keeping my vows."
And it was true, too. The military served a vital function. The military maintained stability. It protected civilian populations. It made the world safe. But the military didn't function without a strong chain of command. You couldn't simply hand lethal weapons to thousands of people and say, each of you follow your own conscience.
The rigidity of the command structure could be vexing at times, but it was absolutely essential. He believed in freedom and democracy, in the right of every citizen to wield a vote as he saw fit. The right to wield a rail gun, though, or a warship with a bay full of missiles, was another matter entirely. When you put on the uniform you agreed to be part of the machine. You subverted your will because otherwise the machine couldn’t function, could even become a menace to the very people it was intended to protect.
