And now he was on the ground, surrounded by people. His people! How could he not be energized when he felt the crackle in the air, the compressed tension of millions of people around him? He breathed their air and heard their rumbling voices, and he slowly started to feel like himself again.
He was in a long limousine, winding slowly through the city streets, and he did not feel a particular need to get anywhere quickly. The people were out doing their business, buying, selling, talking, arguing, and he could almost hear them through the thick windows of his vehicle. He thought about jumping out and buying a pelo fruit, a native delicacy that was not exported, but then decided it was not worth the frenzy he would cause in his security forces. He’d just order some fruit brought to the Stewart palace that would now bear the Marik name. Then he would feel reasonably content.
The car made a right. They were, by his estimate, only three kilometers away from the palace, and a right turn was taking them in exactly the wrong direction. He heard a faint sound of static and chatter—his driver was talking to someone.
He pressed the button on the car intercom. “What’s going on?”
“We have to take a slight detour, sir,” said Lydia Brigham, a security officer sitting with the driver. “Center Street is jammed, best for us to go around it.”
No matter, Anson thought. Just more time to watch the city.
The world outside was vivid but dim—Anson couldn’t see clearly out since no one was supposed to be able to see in. He could see enough, though, and watching people go about their ordinary business continued to have its calming effect.
He could not help but notice, though, that the path his vehicle was taking was a roundabout route to the palace. If all they needed to do was avoid Center Street, they were going a long distance out of their way.
He turned the intercom on again. “Just how big is this traffic jam?”
“Rather sizeable,” Brigham said. “Some of the advance vehicles are finding the best path. They will hold the streets open for us.”
This was nonsense. “What do you mean, finding the best path?” he barked. “I am the captain-general, and this is my motorcade! Clear a path and take us through it!”
“Yes, sir.”
The limousine continued to crawl through the streets. Anson pulled out a bottle of native Stewart scotch from a small cabinet in front of him and poured himself a shot. Two fingers—well, three, maybe four. The way things were going, he’d have plenty of time to collect himself before he reached the palace. And four fingers of scotch was well below his normal limit.
The scotch was smooth, warm—and did not go down right. The good feeling that had been building in him since his departure from the DropShip port faded some, and anger built. Anson had always been a belligerent drinker, which was not, of course, a surprise to him or anyone who knew him. For some reason, though, the anger building in him now was not as comfortable as it should be.
The limo had stopped. Cars were moving in front of it, but the limo was making no effort to close the gap. Other cars were backing up behind and alongside it, but since most of them were part of his motorcade, none of them were honking.
He looked forward, backward, forward, but didn’t see anything that made him feel any better. He bounced his right leg, which made the entire limo shake. Since when did traffic hold up a head of state?
“Brigham, damn it, why are we sitting on the side of the road? Have the lead cars shove the damn cars out of the road and get us to the palace!”
“They’re trying, sir.”
“Trying? Trying? What kind of trying do they need to do? Turn on a few sirens, yell through a few bullhorns and tell anyone who isn’t me to get the hell out of the way. I’m not asking them to reinvent the fusion engine, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, sir, but this is not a normal traffic jam.”
“Then what in the hell kind of traffic jam is it?”
There was a pause, like Brigham was measuring her words. Though Anson had no idea why anyone would have to be careful when speaking about traffic.
“It’s not a traffic jam per se,” Brigham said. “It’s more of a…disturbance.”
“What kind of disturbance?” Anson bellowed. “And if you use the words per se again, I will rip out your vocal cords with my bare hands.”
Through the tinted glass in front of him, Anson saw Brigham look at the driver, then at the other security officer riding in the front of the car. Then she spoke.
“It’s a demonstration, sir,” she said. “A mass demonstration. It looks like there’s more than a hundred thousand people on foot, blocking the roads. They’re not moving.”
“They’re on foot,” Anson said. “We’re in vehicles! Run into them fast enough, and they goddamned sure will move!”
There was a pause again before Brigham answered.
“That…that was already attempted, sir,” she said. “There have been some injuries. The crowd…did not react well once the people were hurt.”
“Goddamned bloody hell in a shit basket!” Anson yelled. He didn’t turn on the intercom, but he had no doubt he made himself heard. “What is wrong with these people? Why won’t they move?” He paused briefly. “What are they demonstrating about, anyway?”
“It’s…” Again Brigham hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It’s an antiwar protest.”
“Well then, what’s the problem? I’m just as against this war as anyone else! I’m going to have Archon Steiner’s head on a platter for starting it, but I can’t do anything about it if these people won’t let me through!”
“It’s not so much the archon they’re mad at as…as you, sir. I’m afraid the brunt of the protestors’ anger is directed at you. Your arrival has left them…displeased.”
Anson sat quietly. Could he hear it? There was a distant sound, trickling in through the insulated walls of the limousine, and it might have been the roar of a hundred thousand voices. Or it might just be traffic.
His heart was racing. He was breathing faster and faster, like a man running uphill, even though he was sitting completely still. There was not a coherent thought in his mind, just a dark cloud. He strained to hear the distant roar, and as he listened, he thought he could even make out individual voices, and what they were saying was quite unflattering.
His hand reached for the car door before he knew what he was doing. His legs were moving before he knew where he was going. He was out of the car without a thought of whether it was a good idea to be leaving.
“Captain-General!” Brigham’s voice came from behind him, sharp and alarmed. “Sir, get back in the car!”
He didn’t turn. He strode ahead, taking firm, heavy steps. There were no cars on the street besides his motorcade. Everyone in the city had gone some place else.
He heard footsteps behind him, so he started jogging. Now that he was out in the clear air—and it was quite pleasant, warm air, a distant part of his brain noted—he could hear the roar more clearly, and he knew it was voices. Angry voices, a sound he knew very well.
“Sir, you must return to your vehicle! This is not safe!”
He didn’t know how far away they were, and he didn’t know what he would do when he saw them, but he was going to make them listen, damn it, and he was going to make them pay. This was not the welcome he deserved! This was not the way to greet the man that would defend them!
Suddenly Brigham was in front of him. She was quick, he had to give her that.
“Sir, you have to get back in the car. We can’t allow you to get any closer to the demonstration.”
“You are not captain-general!” Anson yelled, and he brought his left arm around in a heavy, looping swing.
Brigham blocked it with ease. He made a solid impact on her arms, but it didn’t seem to affect her.
“Sir, we are on your side,” she said. “That’s why I will do whatever it takes to keep you from going farther.”
Anson let his hands fall. He glared at Brigham for a few moments, then
turned to walk back to the car.
Then he turned again, shoulder lowered, and charged into Brigham.
She couldn’t do anything to deflect him now. She bumped off him like a Ping-Pong ball off a bullet train.
He was running at a good clip now. Maybe he’d run all the way through the crowd, knocking over protestors like bowling pins. That would shut up at least a few of them.
Afterward, he was never able to recall the sensation of the two electrodes hitting his back, or the five hundred thousand volts of current that froze his legs and brought him twitching to the ferrocrete. When he was told about it, though, he briefly hoped the security people had had to struggle to get his bulk back into the limo.
* * *
He was not in a good mood when he came to. He was in the back of his limousine, which was finally moving, albeit slowly. He reached for the door handle but his arm didn’t feel right. Come to think of it, his legs didn’t exactly feel right either.
Brigham’s voice came from the front. “Captain-General, I apologize for the action I had to take, but you have to understand I could not let you run into a crowd of hostile demonstrators.”
“You can let me do anything I damn well please.”
“Sir, with all due respect, my job is to protect you, and I can’t very well do that when you are running into a crowd that is burning you in effigy.”
Anson’s head fell a little bit to his right. “Burning me in effigy?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“I didn’t start this damned war. What the hell is wrong with these people? Tell them to burn goddamned Melissa Steiner in effigy!”
“Yes, sir.”
Anson opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked out the window. City blocks were passing slowly.
Burning him in effigy. Idiots. Blaming the wrong person. Angry because life’s gotten hard, so they get mad at the leader who happens to be closest to them. Stupid bloody ignorant sheep.
They didn’t understand war. Citizens never did. All they could do was count the dead—the bigger picture, the elements of power, the maneuvering kept escaping them.
He’d had this conversation before. With Daniella Briggs. Some members of Parliament had been pissing and moaning, right before he defanged that whole damned body, and Anson told Daniella about it. She’d said something. Something about how people count the lives because they’re the ones paying them, and how wars can’t be won if you throw too many people into the meat grinder, because they’ll eventually turn on you.
“But I’m not the one throwing them into the grinder, Daniella!” he said, before he remembered she wasn’t really there. Damn stun gun, he thought.
He’d waged war before, of course. Power demanded it. But this war, the one that was making people mad right now, wasn’t his war. It was someone else’s grab for power, not his!
If Daniella was here, he’d explain it right. But she wasn’t, so instead she just kept taunting him in his head.
The limousine accelerated, not much but a bit. Then some more; then it was almost going a normal speed.
“We have a path, sir,” Brigham said. “We’ll be in soon.”
Good, Anson thought. Get me out of the damned city.
* * *
Daggert was waiting for him outside the executive office, standing like a stalagmite that had grown from the floor of the reception area. Anson walked past him without a word, sat at his massive desk and buried his head in his hands. He’d felt pretty good when he landed, but now his head was a complete swamp. The stun gun had probably messed him up.
A buzzer sounded near his head. It was followed by a voice.
“Cole Daggert is here for your briefing,” Carol, his appointment secretary, said.
“Really?” Anson said. “I didn’t see him when I came in.”
Carol offered no reply.
“Okay, send him in,” Anson said. The day he let a pushy security guard with a few electrodes shape his life was the day he’d step down and hand all his planets over to a Steiner.
“Daggert,” Anson said as his adviser walked in. “I’m sure you have news. Do you want to go from bad to worse or the other way around?”
“Our forces have achieved a stalemate on Helm,” Daggert said.
Anson sat up a little straighter. “Get the hell out of here.”
“It’s mostly due to the inexplicable tactics employed by the invaders,” Daggert said. “If they were better coordinated, they would be in Helmdown already. I expect they’ll be making a more significant push soon.”
“And how do we deal with their next offensive move?”
“I recommend moving as many of our troops off Helm as possible before it happens.”
Anson wanted to lie down. Instead, he pushed himself back and put his feet on his desk, where they landed with two heavy thuds. “Imagine my surprise.”
“They are not well positioned on Helm. If the Silver Hawk Irregulars are to make a stand, it should be somewhere with a better planetary militia, with more built-in defenses, with terrain we have mapped thoroughly and on which many of our troops have trained.”
Anson had the plan figured out halfway through Daggert’s speech. “Here. You want to take them on here.”
“Yes, sir. If we are going to make a firm stand against the invaders, I believe Stewart is the place for it. We will have some time before it happens—not much, but enough to bring in more troops to stand against the invaders.” He paused. “And if word gets out that you are here—and it will—that will make Stewart an attractive target.”
“Those people standing around the palace right now aren’t going to be happy that the war is coming to their front door.”
Daggert shrugged. “I think their approval is already out of your reach.”
“Just like yours, right?”
Daggert didn’t say anything, but his eyes had a cold spark.
Anson shoved aside some papers and a keyboard with his feet so he’d have enough room for his large boots. “All right. Get the planet ready. Make sure the militia’s in as good repair as they can be. Get as much ammunition here as you can. Get us ready.”
“Of course. And the people?”
“What about them?”
“Perhaps you’d like to start moving some of them off-world. Establishing an evacuation plan.”
“I’m not running a cruise line!” Anson barked. “They want to leave, they can leave, but I’m not making their damned plans! I’ve got more to worry about!”
“Sir, the planet is going to be invaded.”
Anson waved his hands, and he suddenly realized how tired he was. It had been a long trip—and that damn stun gun didn’t help. “I know, I know, I know. Bloody protestors…anyway, we have plans in place. We’ll get some people off before the Elsies get here.”
Daggert nodded, then turned to leave.
“Just…” Anson started, and Daggert looked at him over his shoulder. “Make sure none of them bloody pus-brained protestors get off the planet. You can relocate them to the Elsies’ landing site for all I care.”
Daggert didn’t even nod this time. He just left.
Damn Daggert. The lack of respect was getting to Anson, even though he was the one who’d talked him into staying. Insolent underlings were one of the great annoyances of power.
As if summoned, Daggert walked back in.
“Damn it, what now?”
“I just received some news that…news I thought you’d want to hear.”
“What?”
“They’ve found Daniella Briggs,” he said.
Anson felt a brief moment of elation before he understood what Daggert was saying. “So she’s gone from MIA to KIA,” he said.
“Yes. Her remains will be sent to Atreus.”
“Fine. You’re dismissed.” This time he managed to say it before Daggert started to leave.
Anson leaned back in his chair after Daggert left. Another weapon in his arsenal was lost. She was a fighter. Irritating as hell, but
a fighter.
She would certainly have something to say about this mess—the protestors, the losses so far, the inevitable invasion. It wouldn’t be flattering, it wouldn’t be optimistic, but it would be direct and most likely accurate.
He tried to imagine what she would say. He tried to hear her voice in his head. But he couldn’t.
10
Helmdown, Helm
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
19 April 3138
Klaus Wehner walked carefully. He was in uniform, since at this point in time it was better for people to know who you were than be forced to guess. The uniform was an aid and a hindrance—it clearly showed his rank of colonel, which immediately set him apart from the enlisted men, who often lowered their heads when he passed to hide a sneer. But the diplomatic markings on the uniform showed who he was, and most people knew he was there as an aide and liaison to Trillian Steiner. He wasn’t a decision maker, which garnered him the sympathy with the vast numbers of other soldiers who weren’t decision makers either. These middle officers, the soldiers not quite on the top but well elevated from the bottom, were drawn to Klaus, seeing a sympathetic soul. And Klaus was practiced enough to let them come.
It was from these officers that he first heard the rumblings that became more and more common as the days went along.
A lot of these conversations took place in makeshift officers’ clubs, which were often little more than stripped-down field kitchens with appliances removed and foldable tables and chairs brought in. The lights were kept dim so no one saw much besides their glass and the end of their own nose. The accommodations were sparse but they were theirs, and in the field every part of the army relishes having a space of its own.
It had gotten late one night, and most of the officers had let the pressures of responsibility take them to other places. Klaus had glanced at his watch a few times and thought about the possibilities of a good night’s sleep, but there were still a few officers in the club, and they were talking. Klaus stayed and listened.
The Last Charge Page 8