Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  "Thank you, Melody," she said quietly, then to the savant's attendant, "and thank you, Sofi. You may not fully appreciate it, but without teams like you two, humankind would have no hope in this war. None at all."

  She paused. "I have a personal question for you. I presume your briefing on Melody was much more thorough than my own, and there's something in her file that sparked my curiosity. Either she has a long compound middle name, or several middle names. Can you clarify that for me?"

  Even as she asked, it seemed to her a pointless question.

  "Yes, Admiral, I do know. I'm her cousin."

  The comment startled Apraxin. Sofi's complexion was a rich brown. Hmh. And why not? Any racial stock can have albinos.

  Sofi had paused, as if waiting for Apraxin's attention again. When she had it, she continued. "She was named Melody when she was born. But our community is quite traditional. It retains many of the old customs, including giving another name later on. One that tells something about the person."

  Sofi's gaze had slid aside and downward. After a moment though, it met the admiral's again, briefly.

  "It is not customary to tell it outside the community, but I will tell you. You may find it-significant to our needs."

  Apraxin's eyebrows rose slightly.

  "Melody didn't speak sentences until she was four. Some of her first clear sentences were about things that hadn't happened yet. But later they would. Most of the family thought they were coincidences, but her aunt-my mother-and also her father, thought they were prophecies. Because when she said them, she spoke better than usual. So Melody was given another name: Naan' voh ti' ta ka. Because she has knowledge of the future.

  "It is how she came to be here. She has an uncle who teaches mineralogy at the University of Northern Arizona, and he told the chairman of the parapsychology faculty about her. So she was sent there for study, and I was sent to be with her. To take care of her. And then the war started."

  Apraxin exhaled through pursed lips, and nodded slowly. "I am glad you told me, Sofi. If you ask her questions about the future, does she tell you things?"

  "I have tried a few times. She never answered. When she predicted in the past, it was always-whatever it was. Not something asked about."

  The admiral frowned thoughtfully. "Will you work on it with her, Sofi?"

  "Yes, Admiral. You know, sir, most people think of Melody as something empty, with very little mind. But she is-in there, sir. She listens. Hears. She hears what we hear, and she hears things we don't hear. I don't think of her as mentally deficient. I think of her as Naan' voh ti' ta ka."

  The admiral stepped back. "Thank you, Sofi. This could be quite important." She started to turn away.

  "Admiral?"

  "Yes?"

  "You said that teams like Melody and myself are all that give humankind hope in this war. But without people like you, there could be no hope at all. It is the people like yourself-the fighting people-who are primary in this time."

  ***

  When Apraxin left the savant's suite, she headed for the wardroom, and a snack. While thinking about Melody's supposed talent for predictions, and whether they grew out of something like Charley Gordon's vectors.

  She'd wait a bit, she decided, let Melody rest, then visit her again. Meanwhile saying nothing about it to War House. Let Sofi work with her, and define the possibilities.

  ***

  Smoke from Kunming's many fires hung in the air. Stinking smoke, of half-burned, retardant-soaked fabrics, charred wood, melted synthetics. And perhaps burned bodies, though that could have been the product of their poisoned moods.

  An hour earlier, when it was still dark, fires could still be seen from the prime minister's balcony. Chang and Peixoto had watched together. They'd been watching, on the telly or from the balcony, since the previous day, when the first fires were reported. Had seen them grow, while the overextended fire department did its best. Sirens had ululated in every part of the city. There had even been fires within the government complex-one in the Palace of Worlds itself-despite the surrounding force shield.

  The word was, most had been set in warehouses and retail stores, at least some by small teams of arsonists protected by gunmen, all masked.

  Just now the two leaders were closer to arguing than they'd ever been. "We have no choice!" Chang said. "Tirades on the talk channels, demonstrations in the squares, slander and libel of ourselves and others-those could be borne. But arson and murder? They have gone too far now! Martial law is the only answer we have, for the short term!"

  Peixoto's bleak eyes scanned the half of the city visible from his balcony. He thought what such a campaign of destruction could have done a thousand years earlier, when so much more was flammable. When every vehicle carried within itself a large quantity of explosively flammable liquid.

  And at last report, what had happened here had happened in 137 other cities, to some degree or other. And worse, 183 assassinations and a number of assaults had been reported, mostly on military personnel.

  A leak had triggered it, and when he discovered who… Peixoto shook his head. You'd have released it yourself, if the victory had been greater. Big enough to blunt the Wyzhnyny advance.

  He'd never imagined the Peace Front would do something like this. What was left of the Peace Front. Probably not more than one percent of the population remained members. But of Kunming's 2.7 million, that came to 27,000. Of which perhaps a thousand had been actively involved in this night of shame.

  He looked down at the much shorter president. He'd almost forgotten Chang's demand. Now he shook his head again. "I cannot agree to it. Not yet."

  He sensed the almost voiced response: Then I will resign. Unvoiced because Chang Lung-Chi would never abandon him in a dilemma. Never. Instead what the president said was, "When, then?"

  "I'm not sure, good friend. But it's what their council wants us to do. We both know that. And we both know why."

  ***

  A rumor passed through the city later that morning: a counterdemonstration would be held that evening at Wellesley Square, to defend humanity's right to defend itself. By noon the story was on the newscasts, the talk shows; and everywhere in the city you could feel the energy growing, swelling.

  It shook the Peace Front's ruling council. They'd expected a public backlash, but this…? Paddy Davies made a call, and Gunther Genovesi's luxurious limo picked them up from the roof of their building.

  By nightfall, demonstrators were packed into Wellesley Square and the streets feeding into it, far outnumbering anything the Peace Front had mustered. Among them, carrying a child on his shoulders, was a very tall, strongly built man with the lantern jaw and strong cheekbones common among the Goloks of Tibet. Carrying the child had not been entirely a good idea. The boy's short legs had rubbed off some of the Golok brownness from the man's jaw and ears. But it was night, a man carrying a child was surely benign, and as long as the child remained on his shoulders, the break in his camouflage was unlikely to be noticed. Besides, the crowd's attention was on the top of Martyr's Hill, where a large bonfire lit the night. It would damage the concrete slab on top, but that could be repaired.

  There was no orator, nor any martyr. Instead, at the brow of the hill stood a cheerleader, capering like a court jester. It was no longer possible to hear him, even with his hand-held bullhorn. Once he'd begun shouting, the crowd-more than half a million-had picked up his chant and drowned him out: "MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW!"

  A mile away, Foster Peixoto stood on his balcony, watching and listening. From so far away it was simply an immense roar, but he knew the words. A minute earlier, before the crowd joined in, he'd been watching on the telly, on a closed police channel, and had heard the chant begin.

  Rumor and security reports had prepared the president and himself, and they'd perceived both opportunity and danger. But now, facing the reality alone, Peixoto feared, truly feared, a mob psychosis. He'd never imagined this volcanic potential in the people. What
might happen next? An explosion of violence? A stampede, killing scores? Hundreds…? Lynchings? The beating to death of anyone pointed out as a Fronter, whether accurately or not? And however moderate?

  As usual, the response was to be Chang's. A response prepared late and hurriedly, and based on faulty assumptions. They'd expected self-appointed spokesmen to make speeches or pep talks, not this primal chant. Chang will have to rethink his speech as he gives it, Peixoto told himself. Otherwise the crowd might start to move, to act. Fists clenched, he gestured. "Now!" He spoke his urgency aloud. "Now!"

  ***

  The Golok wasn't aware he'd joined in the chant. Also he'd forgotten the child on his shoulders. His body knew it was there, and subliminally allowed for its presence, but his conscious awareness had been swallowed by the flames, the man cavorting so near them, the crowd consciousness, and above all, "MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW!"

  The spell had no power of its own. It was a manifestation of the half million human beings in the crowd. Overhead, police floaters kept the hovering news floaters outside the "eighty-up, eighty-out limit." But one floater moved inside the limits unmolested, and began to circle the mound not greatly above it, at about the diameter of its base. On a spar projecting beneath, a powerful light now strobed. Not painfully, but the chant began to unravel, weakening, as more and more eyes followed the light. Then the cheerleader stopped; the chant staggered and died; and a great stillness spread through the crowd.

  As if suddenly aware of the heat, the cheerleader moved partway down the grassy slope, farther from the flames. And from the floater, a voice issued. Boomed! After the great chant, it did not seem so loud, but in fact it was very loud. The entire crowd could hear it. The voice was one they all knew, from numerous public addresses over the years by Chang Lung-Chi as candidate, senator, cabinet minister, and eventually president. The most trusted and admired public figure of recent decades, at least.

  With the death of their chant, the crowd's minds focused on the president's words.

  "Citizens and friends," he said. "We have come together here to rescue our species and our commonwealth from a dual threat. A dual threat! A powerful, ruthless invader… and our own hard-won hatred of war and violence."

  For several seconds the voice stopped, but the floater continued circling, the light still strobing.

  "A hatred of war, a hatred that turned into a war against ourselves. A war by the Peace Front against its own species.

  "But I have not come to you to declare war against the Peace Front. My hands-all our hands-are fully occupied with saving the human species from the invader. We will capture and prosecute the criminals who set the fires and committed the murders, also those who helped them, and those who directed them. But we must not-we must not kill the spirit of peace, the spirit of pacifism within us! If it were not for human pacifism, we'd have destroyed our civilization centuries ago, with nuclear war, or biological war, or some other depravity. Centuries ago! With the survivors, if any, driven back to the caves and hovels, to the fear, and ignorance, and superstition, and famine, and brutality from which our ancestors struggled."

  The circling continued, but the strobing had stopped.

  "The prime minister and I have not been open with you. There are matters we've kept from you, hoping to avoid the kind of violence that happened yesterday. But tonight you have opened our eyes and our minds to your awareness. Your readiness.

  "A few weeks ago our new warfleet, under Admiral Soong, fought its first real battle with the Wyzhnyny armada. The Front was correct about that, though they got the details all wrong. Our fleet was greatly outnumbered, and the fight was brief and costly-a test of ships, weapons and tactics. But the Wyzhnyny losses were much greater than ours. And our losses have been more than made up in the weeks since the battle.

  "And just days ago, a small fleet under Admiral Apraxin-DaCosta arrived in the New Jerusalem System. There it destroyed a smaller Wyzhnyny fleet." Again the president paused. "Then the New Jerusalem Liberation Corps was landed on its home world, and fought-and won!-the first human ground battle against the Wyzhnyny invaders.

  "These victories were far from decisive. Overall, our forces are still severely outnumbered. But they are growing, and we can now say that things look hopeful. Not favorable yet, but hopeful."

  Another pause. "You came here this evening and demanded martial law. Something our species came to hate and fear centuries ago, for good reason. But now you've decided it's necessary for the survival of humankind. So under the extraordinary powers granted by parliament for the pursuit of this war, and with the agreement-the pained, grieved agreement-of Prime Minister Foster Peixoto, I herewith proclaim-martial law!"

  Remarkably there were no cheers.

  "We avoided it as long as we could, and will continue it no longer than necessary. If we should continue it too long, we'll depend on you to let us know. But I do not imagine it will come to that."

  Again a pause. Loosely the spell still held the crowd, the spell that had grown out of their mutual, deeply felt need, but quiet now.

  "And now I have a request to make of you. I want you to do something further, for yourselves, your government, and your species. Do it as honestly as you know how." Again he paused, and when he spoke once more, it was slowly, deliberately, and less loudly. "If you believe you know someone who may have been involved in the terrorism of yesterday and last night, do not undertake to punish them. Instead, notify CLUES/TERRORISM on the Ether. Someone will investigate as soon as possible.

  "Now I am going home to bed. You may want to do the same."

  ***

  Most of the crowd left quietly. Others hung around talking, also quietly. The tall Golok left with the child, who slept now, draped over one broad shoulder. The man said nothing to anyone, but his long face looked thoughtful.

  Chapter 51

  Killing and Dying

  Four days had passed, three of them on patrol, since the Battle of the First Days. APFs took platoons to designated map coordinates, and picked them up six or eight hours later, somewhere else. The patrols were to watch for any sign of Wyzhnyny activities, but mainly they were keeping sharp, and getting a better sense of the wilderness fringe that was their stronghold. Meanwhile their platoon leaders checked out uncertainties on the detailed, large-scale maps Division had brought from Terra. Maps from high altitude photographs, made years earlier by Terra's foreign ministry, which on worlds like New Jerusalem had little to do, and cooked up unobtrusive, hopefully useful projects to pass the time.

  Patrolling also served to integrate the replacements. There could be no replacements from offworld, of course. So the platoons with the heaviest losses had been deactivated, and their remaining personnel distributed to others to fill the holes. 2nd Platoon's replacements had come from 3rd Platoon, A Company, which had also been airborne qualified.

  They were all Jerries, of course, had been trained alike, and their limited combat experience had been similar. But their unit folklores had different characters and stories. Still, a couple of days was all it took to become brothers. The many casualties had made them more conscious of their mortality and brotherhood.

  After breakfast on the morning of the fifth day, Ensign Berg mustered 2nd Platoon in a light rain. "Men," he said, "today we're going to do something different. The surveillance buoys report what seem to be four small groups of fugitives hiding out from the Wyzhnyny. You may possibly know some of them. The general's sending us out in four armored personnel floaters, each with a squad, to pick up the fugitives and bring them in." He looked at his men expectantly. "How does that sound?"

  Their response was not the enthusiasm he'd anticipated. It was Esau who finally answered. "Sounds fine to me, sir." This brought a circle of nods. "But we may hear some things that won't exactly warm our hearts. A lot of folks that stayed weren't kindly disposed to those of us that decided to leave. Called us deserters; said we lacked faith in God. It turned out they spurned God's offer of escape, instea
d. Some of them'll hate us for that, too. Hate us for being right."

  Berg nodded slowly. "I expect some may at that," he said, then briefed them on policies and procedures.

  ***

  By the time they took off, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out; steam rose from the forest roof. Esau knelt beside the copilot. He'd called up the regional orientation map in his map book. An X marked the reported location of the group he was to pick up, while the floater's location was a tiny moving icon. But mostly it was the ground he watched, the Milk River Hills. The only good orientation feature was the Milk River, named for its milky tinge. These hills were not rich in streams. Except for the Milk, they tended to be short, appearing from springs as full-grown creeks, then disappearing into the ground. All of them were a milky green.

  The forest was heavy. Some of the species he could recognize from the air. Scattered whitewood, with large pale leaves, its wood light in weight, favored for sawing or splitting out boards; dense groves of "cedar," narrow-crowned and with lanceolate leaves, the best of all for building logs; here and there steelwood, some of them towering, its hard and heavy wood slow to decay; and "redwood," with roseate wood and red-tinged leaves, a favorite for cabinets and other dressy things. Jael had had a redwood hutch, crafted by her grampa as a wedding gift.