by David Drake
"Is this what you want to give to them?" she cried. Her eyes were blind, even before she shut them in a vain attempt to hold back the tears."Give the, the mob? I won't go! I won't leave Eunice even if you are all cowards? "
"Anne," Desoix pleaded. "President Delcorio—the front row in the cathedral was the best people in the State. Some of them were here with you this morning. Colonel Drescher isn't going to—"
"How do you know until you ask him?" Eunice demanded in a voice like a rapier. Her arm was around Anne McGill now, drawing the dark cloak over the naked breast. Tyl couldn't say whether the gesture was motherly or simply proprietary.
This hasn't got anything t' do with . . . his surface mind started to tell him; but deeper down, he knew it did. Like as not it always did, one way or another; who was screwing who and how everybody felt about it.
"All right!" Desoix shouted. "We'll go ask him!"
"I'll go myself," said President Delcorio, sucking in his belly and adding a centimeter to his height by straightening up.
"That's not safe, Uncle John," said Pedro Delcorio unexpectedly. "I'll go with the men."
"Well . . ." Tyl said as the President's nephew gestured him toward the elevator. Desoix, his face set in furious determination, was already inside.
It was going to be cramped with three of them. "Via, why not?" Tyl said. It was easier to go along than to refuse to, right now. Nothing would come of it. He'd seen too many parade-ground units to expect this one to find guts all of a sudden.
But if just maybe it did work . . .Via,nobody liked to run with their tail between their legs, did they?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Koopman's idiotic grin was just one more irritation to Charles Desoix as the elevator dropped.
"Bit of a chance you're taking, isn't it?" the Slammers officer asked. "Going against your major's orders and all?"
Desoix felt himself become calm and was glad of it.None of this made any sense. If Tyl decided to laugh—well, that was a saner response than Desoix's own.
"Only if something comes of it,"he said,wishing that he didn't sound so tired. Wrung out.
He was wrung out. "And if I'm alive afterward, of course."
Pedro's eyes were darting between the mercenaries. His bulky body—soft but not flabby—would have given him presence under some circumstances. In these tight quarters he was overwhelmed by the men in armor—and by the way they considered the future in the light of similar pasts.
The car settled so gently that only the door opening announced the rotunda. Desoix swung out to the left side, noticing that identical reflex had moved Koopman to the right—as if they were about to clear a defended position.
Half a dozen powerguns were leveled at the opening door,though the Slammers here on guard jerked their muzzles away when they saw who had arrived.
The rotunda was empty except for Hammer's men.
"Where's the guards?" Koopman demanded in amazement.
One of his men shrugged. "A few minutes back, they all moved out."
He pointed down the corridor that led toward the Guard billets. "I called the sar'ent major, but he said hold what we got, he and the rest a' the company'd be with us any time now."
"Let's go, then!" said Pedro Delcorio, trotting in the direction of the gesture.
Desoix followed, because that was what he'd set out to do. He hunched himself to settle his armor again. When he felt cold, as now, he seemed to shrink within the ceramic shell.
"Carry on,"Koopman said to his guard squad.As the Slammers officer strode along behind the other two men, Desoix heard him speaking into his commo helmet in a low voice.
The barracks of the Executive Guard occupied the back corridor of the Palace's south wing. It had its own double gate of scissor-hinged brass bars over a panel of imported hardwood, both portions polished daily by servants.
The bars were open,the panel—steel-cored,Desoix now noticed—ajar. Captain Sanchez and the squad he'd commanded in the rotunda stood in the opening, arguing with other Guardsmen in the corridor beyond. When they heard the sound of boots approaching, they whirled. Several of them aimed their rifles.
Charles Desoix froze, raising his hands and moving them out from his sides. He had been close to death a number of times already this night.
But never closer than now.
"What do you men think you're doing?"Pedro demanded in a voice tremulous with rage. "Don't you recognize me? I'm—"
"No!" Sanchez snapped to the man at his side. The leveled assault rifle wavered but did not fire—as both Desoix and the Guards captain had expected.
"Wha . . .?" Delcorio said in bewilderment.
"Rene, it's me," Desoix called in an easy voice. He sidled a step so that Sanchez could see him clearly past the President's nephew. Walking forward was possible suicide. "Charles, you know? We came to discuss the present situation with Colonel Drescher."
The words rolled off Desoix's tongue, amazing him with their blandness and fluency. Whatever else that scene upstairs with Anne had done, it had burned the capacity to be shocked out of him for a time.
Drescher stepped forward when his name was spoken. He had been the other half of the argument in the gateway. The lower ranking Guardsmen grounded their weapons as if embarrassed to be touching real hardware in the presence of their commander.
"Master Desoix," said Drescher, "we're very busy just now. I have nothing to discuss with you or any of John Delcorio's by-blows."
"What?" Pedro Delcorio shouted, able this time to get the full syllable out in his rage.
Koopman put a hand,his left hand,on the young civilian's shoulder and shifted him back a step without being too obvious about the force required.
Desoix walked forward, turning his spread arms into gestures as he said, "Sir, it's become possible to quell the rioting without further bloodshed or the need for additional troops. We'd like to discuss the matter with you for a moment."
As if Drescher's deliberate ignorance of his military rank didn't bother him, Desoix added with an ingratiating smile, "It will make you the hero of the day, sir. Of the century."
"And who's that?" Drescher said, waving his swagger stick in the direction of the Slammers officer. "Your trained dog, Desoix?"
Recent events had shocked the Guard Commandant into denial so deep that he was being more insulting than usual to prove that civilization and the rule of law still maintained in his presence. Charles Desoix knew that, but Tyl Koopman with a submachine-gun under his arm—
"Nosir,"said the Slammers officer."I'm Captain Koopmanof Hammer'sRegiment. My unit's part of the defense team."
"Sir," Desoix said in the pause that followed Koopman's response and sudden awareness of what the mercenary's response could have been."The mob will have gathered in the plaza by dawn. By sealing the three exits, we can bring their, ah, leaders, to a reasonable accommodation with the government."
"The government of the State," said Drescher icily, cutting through Desoix's planned next phrase, "is what God and the people choose it to be. The Executive Guard would not presume to interfere with that choice."
"Colonel," Desoix said. He could feel his eyes widening, but he didn't see the Guardsmen in front of him. In his mind, a dozen men were raping Anne McGill while shrill-voiced women urged them on. "If they attack the Palace, there'll be a bloodbath."
"Then it's necessary to evacuate the Palace, isn't it?" Drescher replied. "Now, if you gentle—"
"Don't you boys take oaths?" Koopman asked curiously. There wasn't any apparent emotion in his tone. "Don't they matter to you?"
Colonel Drescher went white. "You foreign mercenaries have a vision of Bamberg politics,"he said,"that a native can only describe as bizarre."His voice sounded as though he would have been screaming if his lungs held enough air. "Now get away from here!"
Charles Desoix bowed low."Gentlemen,"he murmured to his companions as he turned. "We have no further business here."
They didn't look behind them as they marched to w
here the corridor jogged and the wall gave them cover against a burst of shots into their backs. Pedro Delcorio was shaking.
So was Koopman, but it showed itself as a lilt in his voice as he said, "Well, they're frightened. Can't blame 'em, can we, Charles? And they'd not have been much use, just stand there and nobody who'd seen 'em in their prettiness was going to be much scared, eh?"
Adrenalin was babbling through the lips of the Slammers officer. His right hand was working in front of him where the Guardsmen couldn't see it, clenching and unclenching, because if it didn't move, it was going to find its home on the grip of his submachine-gun . . . .
Anne was waiting around the comer. She looked at the faces of the three men and closed her eyes.
"Anne, we can't—" Desoix began. He was sure there had to be something he could say that would keep her from the suicide she'd threatened, at the hands of the mob or more abruptly here with a rope or the gun he knew she kept in her bedroom.
"Sure we can," said Tyl Koopman. His voice had no emotion, and his eyes had an eerie, thousand-meter stare.
"You've got a calliope aimed at both side stairs, sure, they won't buck that, one burst and that's over. And me and the boys, sure, we'll take the main stairs, those lock gates, they're like vaults, no problem."
"Then it's all right?" Anne said in amazement.Her beautiful face was lighting as if she were watching a theophany. "You can still save us, Charles?"
She touched her fingertips to his chest, assuring herself of her lover's continuing humanity.
"I—" said Charles Desoix. He looked at the Slammers officer, then back into the eyes of Anne McGill.
They'd have to do something about Major Borodin—literally put the old man under restraint. Maybe Delcorio still had a few servants around who could handle that.
"I—" Desoix repeated.
Then he squared his shoulders and said, "Certainly, darling, Tyl and I can handle it without the help of those fools."
It amazed the UDB officer to realize how easily he had decided to ruin his life. The saving grace was the fact that there wouldn't be many hours of life remaining to him after this decision.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tyl watched the antenna of his laser communicator quest on the porch outside the Consistory Room, making a keening sound as it searched for its satellite. The link was still thirty seconds short of completion when his commo helmet said, "Four-six to Six, over."
Tyl jumped, ringing the muzzle of his submachine-gun against the rail as he spun.
"Go ahead, Four-six," he said to Sergeant Major Scratchard when he realized that the call was on the unit push, not the laser link he'd been setting up. He was a hair late in his response, but nobody else knew the unexpected call had scared him like that.
"Sir," said Scratchard, "the Palace troops, they're all marching out one a' the side doors right now. Over."
Good riddance, Tyl thought. "Let 'em go, Jack," he said. "Six out."
"Six?"
"Go ahead, Four-six."
"Sir, should we secure the doors after them? Over."
"Negative,Four-six,"Tyl snapped."Ignore this bloody building and carry out your orders! Six out."
It hadn't been that silly a question. Jack was nervous because he didn't know much, because Tyl hadn't told him very much. The noncom was trying to cross all possible tees because he couldn't guess which ones would turn out to be of critical importance.
Neither could his captain. Which was the real reason Tyl had jumped down the sergeant major's throat.
A dim red light pulsed on the antenna's tracking head, indicating that the unit had locked on. Tyl switched modes on his helmet, grimaced, and said, "Koopman to Central, over."
Seconds of flickering static, aural and visual, took his mind off the cross dominating the skyline toward which the laser pointed. It was only an hour before dawn. The streets were alive with bands of men and women, ant-small at this distance and moving like foraging ants toward the plaza.
"Hold one,"said the helmet. The screen surged into momentary crystal sharpness. Colonel Hammer glared from it.
He looked very tired. All but his eyes.
"Go ahead, Captain,"Hammer said, and the static fuzzing his voice blurred his image a moment later as well, as though a bead curtain had been drawn between Tyl and his commander.
Tyl found that a lot more comfortable. Funny the things you worry about instead of the really worrisome things . . . .
"Sir," he said, knowing that his voice sounded dull—it had to, he couldn't let emotion get out during this report because he hadn't any idea of what emotion he'd find himself displaying. "I've alerted my men for an operation at dawn to bottle up the rioters and demand the surrender of their leaders. We'll be operating in concert with elements of the UDB."
There was no need to say"over," since the speakers could see one another—albeit with a lag of a few seconds. Tyl keyed the thumb-sized unit on his sending head,a module loaded with the street plan, routes, and makeup of the units taking part in the operation. The pre-load burped out like an angry katydid.
Hammer's eyes, never at rest, paused briefly on a point to the left of the pickup feeding Tyl's screen. A separate holotank was displaying the schematic, while Tyl's face continued to fill the main unit.
Hammer's face wore no expression as it clicked to meet Tyl's eyes again."What are the numbers on the other side?" he asked emotionlessly.
"Sir, upwards of twenty kay. Maybe fifty, the plaza'd hold that much and more."
Tyl paused. "Sir," he added, "we can't fight 'em, we know that. But maybe we can face them down, the leaders."
People were moving in the courtyard beneath him, four cloaked figures sopping out of the Palace on their missions. Desoix and his two clerks to the warehouse and the calliope they'd set up only hours before. And . . . .
"How are you timing your assault?"the colonel asked calmly."If the ringleaders aren't present, you've gained nothing. And if you wait too long? . . ."
"Sir, one of the women from the Palace," Tyl explained. "She's, ah, getting in position right now in the south gallery of the cathedral. There's a view to the altar on the seafront, that's where the big ones'll be. She'll cue us when she spots the ones we need."
He thought he was done speaking,but his tongue went on unexpectedly, "Sir, we thought of using a man, but a woman going to pray now—it's not going to upset anything. She'll be all right."
The colonel frowned as if trying to understand why a line captain was apologizing for using a female lookout. It didn't make a lot of sense to Tyl either, after he heard his own words—but he'd been away for a long time.
And anyway, the only similarity between Anne McGill and the dozen females in Tyl's present command was that their plumbing was the same.
"What happens if they don't back down?" Hammer said in a voice like a whetstone, apparently smooth but certain to wear away whatever it rubs against, given time and will.
"We bug out,"Tyl answered frankly. "The mall at the main stairs,that's where we'll be,it's got gates like bank vaults on all four sides. Things don't work out, Trimer ducks instead of putting his hands up and his buddies start shooting—well, we slam the plaza side doors and we're gone."
"And your supports?"Hammer asked. His mouth wavered in what might have been either static or an incipient grin.
"Desoix's men, they're mounted," Tyl said. It was an open question whether or not you could really load a double crew on a calliope and drive away with it, but that was one for the UDB to answer. "Worst case, there's going to be too much confusion for organized pursuit. Unless . . ."
"Unless the streets are already blocked behind you,"said Colonel Hammer,who must have begun speaking before Tyl's voice trailed off on the same awareness. "Unless there's a large enough group of rioters between your unit and safety to hold you for their fifty thousand friends to arrive."
"Yes sir," said Tyl.
He swallowed. "Sir,"he said, "I can't promise it'll work. If it does,it'll give you t
he time you wanted for things to hot up over there. But I can't promise."
"Son," said Colonel Hammer. He was grinning like a skull. "When you start making promises on chances like this, I'll remove you from command so fast your ears'll ring."
His face straightened into neutral lines again."For the record," Hammer said, "you're operating without orders. Not in violation of orders, just on your own initiative."
"Yes sir," Tyl said.
Hammer hadn't paused for agreement. He was saying, "I expect you to withdraw as soon as you determine that there is no longer a realistic chance of success. Nobody's being paid to be heroes, and—"
He leaned closer to the pickup. His face was grim and his eyes glared like gun muzzles. "Captain, if you throw my men away because you want to be a hero, I'll shoot you with my own hand. If you survive."
"Yes sir," Tyl said through a swallow. This time his commander had waited for an acknowledgment.
Hammer softened. "Then good luck to you, son," he said. "Oh—and son?"
"Yes sir?"
The colonel grinned with the same death's-head humor as before. "Bishop Trimer decided Hammer's Slammers weren't worth their price," Hammer said. "It wouldn't bother me if by the end of today, His Eminence had decided he was wrong on that."
Hammer touched a hidden switch and static flooded the screen.
"Four-six to Six," came Scratchard's voice, delayed until the laser link was broken. "We're ready, sir. Over."
"Four-six," Tyl said as he shrugged his armor loose over his sweating torso. "I'm on my way."
He left the laser communicator set up where it was. He'd need it again after the operation was over.
In the event that he survived.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"—gathered together at the dawn of a new age for our nation, our planet, and our God," said the voice.
