Picking Up The Pieces (Martial Law)

by Christopher Nuttall

  The tanks revolved and seemed to explode as they opened fire with all of their machine guns at once. The slums couldn’t take that weight of fire; they'd been constructed from cardboard to stolen bricks, wood taken from the nearby forests to the remains of burned-out UN vehicles. The shells cascaded through the slums and sent many of the ramshackle buildings crashing to the ground, crushing their occupants below the weight. The tankers showed little mercy to the handful of survivors crawling from the wreckage and mowed them down without hesitation.

  I scowled and keyed my earpiece. “Robert, move your infantry company up in support and try and take prisoners,” I ordered, promising the lead tanker a hard time afterwards. I couldn’t fault his decision, but I needed prisoners, if only to learn what the interior of the city looked like. “Let the tankers go ahead and…”

  A massive explosion blew up right in front of one of the tanks and sent the entire vehicle flying through the air, spinning until it crashed down on the ground, upside down. The hatches burst open and the men came pouring out; I silently blessed the unknown genius who had designed the Landshark. It might have been crude and ugly, but it took care of its drivers. It might even be salvageable in the near future, once we’d cleared the city. It wasn't as if we were short of spare parts.

  “Or maybe not,” I added, without skipping a beat. The shockwaves from the explosion would have killed any potential prisoners in the area. Flames were already spreading through the remains of the slums. It made me wonder if the Communists had intended to do just that. The slums were burning down, providing a barrier to further advancement, while allowing the inhabitants to decide that we were to blame. They’d probably done it to encourage the inhabitants to fight harder. They’d probably succeeded.

  Another round of mortar fire echoed overhead as I rekeyed my earpiece. “Robert, advance at your own discretion,” I ordered, knowing that I was passing the buck. The UN commanders would have always looked over his shoulder, but I trusted the man on the spot to make his own decisions. “Keep a careful eye out for more booby traps.”

  “We’re going to have to go slow,” Robert said, in reply. “Those flames aren’t going to abate quickly.”

  I nodded as the wind shifted slightly, blowing the smoke towards us…along with the stink of burning human flesh. I forced myself not to recoil through sheer strength of will, remembering just how many people were packed into the city. The fools who called war glorious had never seen this side of the fighting; the dead and dying people who had only gotten in the way. They saw the pageantry and the baubles with which men are led, not the bloody truth. There were seven million people in the city. How many of them would be dead before the day ended?

  “Understood,” I said, looking down at the display. The live feed from the UAVs showed Communist fighters rushing towards their back-up fortifications. The cruise missiles hadn’t wiped them all out, just the ones that were large enough to be worth expending a missile taking them out. “Your call.”

  My earpiece buzzed again. “Boss, I may have a lead on the prisoners,” Jock said, in my ear. “I request permission to leave my post and follow up on it.”

  “Do so,” I ordered, tightly. “Good luck.”

  Ed looked over at me. “Advance patrols just picked up a mass of civilians who fled when their guards were distracted,” he said. I looked over at the live feed from one of the other UAVs. The civilians were being treated gently, but firmly. We couldn’t take risks with them, but they'd already been through hell and didn’t need more suffering. The hanging I’d supervised would ensure that none of them were molested, I hoped. “The Communists are losing their grip.”

  “Here, yes,” I agreed. The fires were still burning brightly. There were probably water-dropping aircraft for fires somewhere on the planet, but the Communists would probably shoot them down if we tried to use them. “What happens when we advance our way into the heart of the city and hit their inner defences?”

  Ed considered it. “Sucks to be you, I guess,” he said, with a wink. “Perhaps the dumb bastards will see reason and give up.”

  “And maybe the horse will learn to sing,” I countered. Another waves of explosions echoed out in the distance. “Or maybe they won’t give up until everyone is dead.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It is a core of our society that all elected persons in leadership positions are men and women who have had military experience. This requirement exists so that the elected politicians have a clear idea of what a military operation requires. Other planets, which lack this system, encounter problems because their leaders do not understand military realities. Their interference is sometimes disastrous.

  -Army Manual, Heinlein

  New Copenhagen looked better than I remembered, I decided, even after a full week. The city still had hundreds of blackened and burned-out buildings, but the bodies had been removed to storage somewhere outside the city – I’d recommended burying them all in a mass grave, but the local government had balked – and work crews of prisoners, emergency servicemen and volunteers were struggling to clear up the mess. I spied a number of soldiers on patrol and allowed myself a smile. No matter what the UN says, you can’t beat local troops for local security. They knew the area and everyone trusted them, at least at first. The city felt, despite the damage, optimistic again.

  The same couldn’t be said for Pitea. There had been four days of heavy fighting as we’d pushed into the city and we were still far from having completed the liberation. Parts of the city had fallen almost at once as the locals rose up against the Communists, but other parts were holding out and forcing us to reduce them, one by one. We’d liberate the city – I had no doubt of that – but it was starting to look as if we were going to destroy Pitea in order to save it. Where would we put all the homeless refugees? They couldn’t go to any of the other cities. They were already overcrowded with immigrants and didn’t need more.

  I stopped outside the New Copenhagen Medical Centre and showed the guard my ID. They were definitely on alert, much to my relief, and double-checked the badge before waving me through, without my bodyguards. Peter fell in beside me and dared the guards to say anything, but the remainder of my guard had to wait outside. I couldn’t fault the logic – a Communist spy could wear a soldier’s uniform without being detected easily – but Peter’s snort suggested that he thought the guard was pushing it. The guards inside the hospital issued a series of warnings about not firing guns or smoking tobacco inside the hospital and then summoned an intern to take us to the President. There were so many guards in the building, I noted as she led us up the stairs, that normal business had to be quite disrupted. There were so many guards that sneaking inside would be easy, with just a little preparation. The more men there are involved in a mission, the easier it is for confusion and chaos to set in.

  “The President is sleeping at the moment,” the Doctor said, when we reached the heavily secured private room. The doctors had their own set of cots in the room where they could sleep in-between tending to their patient, but the President lay in his own private space. I peered in and saw him sleeping peacefully, but I could tell that he was seriously injured. He was barely moving at all. “I’d prefer you didn’t attempt to rouse him.”

  “I understand,” I said, closing the door – the nurse by his bedside winked at me just before the door closed, much to my private amusement – and turning to him. “How is he? No bullshit, just the facts.”

  The Doctor frowned, but decided to answer anyway. “He was badly wounded when he was shot, although a few inches to the right would have killed him before you could get him to hospital,” he said. I nodded. I didn’t know why the sniper hadn’t aimed for the head – UN snipers were taught to aim for the head to ensure a kill, which was remarkably efficient of them – but I wouldn’t complain about his mistake. “The level of care he received afterwards wasn't of the best either, although” – he hastened to explain – “I do understand that you didn’t have a choice. Overall, he s
uffered a great deal of trauma, which wasn't improved by the stress he was under as President. His official medical advisors actually advised him not to run this time.”

  He shook his head. “Worst of all,” he concluded, “his body is actually rejecting the regeneration therapies your medical staff tried to offer him. He was too old to take them unless he was in the peak of health, and, obviously, he wasn't. He may recover completely, but I think he’s always going to be in poor health and I would seriously recommend that he resigned from the Presidency when he recovered. At the moment, I wouldn’t permit him to do more than light duties when he awakes, if at all.”

  I nodded. It was another reminder of just how primitive Svergie actually was, compared to Heinlein or Williamson’s World. Treatments that could extend a person’s life or cure the worst injuries or diseases simply didn’t exist here. Earth had had regeneration treatments as well, but they’d been reserved for the elite; everyone else, no matter who they were, lived a normal human lifespan. The UN had blamed that on the Colonies and convinced far too many people to support the various invasions and occupations. Worse, the treatments had to begin when the person was in their late teens for maximum effect…and the President was in his sixties. The best we could do was freeze his age and it looked as if we wouldn’t even be that lucky.

  “Please inform me if his condition changes,” I said, finally. There was nothing else to say. “I’ll be on the military net and I’ll give you a priority code.”

  We walked out of the hospital and back towards the armoured car. “I hope he recovers, sir,” Peter said, seriously for once. “What happens if he dies?”

  “Frida Holmqvist ends up as the real President, not just the Acting President,” I said, remembering the Constitution. The Progressive Party would end up controlling both the Council and the Presidency; Frida, their leader, would be President. They’d have enough political power to ensure lasting change, both positive and negative. Frida had shown more backbone than I’d expected after the Communist Uprising had begun, but I wasn't sure if I trusted her. “Our duties might change…”

  The drive over to Government House was uneventful, although the building Frida had converted into a base of operations was surrounded by the one thing worse than an angry mob baying for blood – a mob of reporters, baying for news. The local reporters were less obnoxious than the UN’s tame attack dogs – they could be counted upon to write the story without doing anything as strange as actually checking the facts – but they were still irritating. I wanted to cover my eyes as flashbulbs started to go off in my face, but I swallowed the impulse. Instead, I walked to the armed guards in my best march, ignoring the reporters completely. They shouted silly questions anyway.

  “When will the war be over?”

  “Are you and the Acting President a couple?”

  “Are you going to release the prisoners?”

  I kept my face blank and ignored them. I didn’t know when the war would be over myself, the disposition of the prisoners was an affair for the planetary government and Frida and I were definitely not a couple. I didn’t understand why they came up with such questions, let alone had the nerve to ask. At least they weren’t casting aspirations on my sex life. The UN had been fond of using reporters to spread rumours and cast doubt on a person’s honesty, integrity and fitness for office. It was a wonder anyone believed them these days.

  “Why did you hang one of your own men?” A reporter called, slightly louder than the others. “Why didn’t you hand him over to the Police?”

  It was something I should answer, but I ignored the reporter anyway. I could have explained the truth, or made up a comforting lie, but the reporter would have misinterpreted and misrepresented everything I said for sensational effect. I could have told them all exactly why – I couldn’t tolerate indiscipline within the Legion – but they would never have understood. Their career insisted that they lie, cheat and steal; mine insisted on a certain personal integrity, if nothing else. Soldiers may fight for their countries, but they’ll die for their comrades in arms.

  “You can’t take your pistol into the President’s presence,” the guard said, nervously. He wasn't one of the soldiers I’d trained; my guess was that he was from the militia, just before the uprising. He should have been retrained at the spaceport under Russell, but the locals had been reluctant to pass all their fighting men through the camp. They probably thought that they had a good reason for it.

  “Of course,” I said, removing the pistol from the holster and laying it flat on the table. It wasn't as if I couldn’t get another one if that one were stolen. I would have liked one of the weapons that only worked for one person, but the UN had been experimenting for years and had never managed to get all the bugs out of the system. “Peter, wait here; I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Peter looked rebellious, but nodded reluctantly as I stepped into the office. Frida had taken over an executive boardroom for her personal office – at least until she moved again – and I examined it appreciatively. The previous owner had had good taste in paintings, although I was fairly sure that most of them were copies; the UN would never have let go of some of the classical paintings from centuries ago, even if they were banned to the general public. It wouldn’t do to have people wondering at the mystery of the smiling girl, would it?

  “Reporting as ordered,” I said, formally. Frida looked up at me and smiled tiredly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Stand at ease,” Frida said. Her lips twitched. “That is how you say it, isn’t it?”

  “Close enough,” I said. “You could have roared like a Drill Sergeant or been fussy and precise like a Captain, but definitely close enough.”

  Frida snorted as I sat down in a chair that was really too comfortable for my tastes. I dislike luxury when in the field, just because it can put me to sleep, or even relax too far. There probably wasn't any danger of assassins within the building, but the discussion was too important to deal with while I was half asleep. Whatever Frida had called me from the besieged city to discuss, it had to be important.

  “My small career in the politics has not been wasted,” she said, dryly. It had to be something uncomfortable, then. She didn’t normally waste time with small talk. “I’ve been trying to rebuild most of the government from scratch. The President handled more than I ever understood before finding myself in his shoes.”

  I smiled. “If you wanted the job,” I asked, “shouldn’t you have found out what it entailed?”

  “There’s normally a period when the outgoing President tutors the incoming President,” Frida explained. “Or at least there should be one; it’s easy to forget that the last few Presidents – apart from the incumbent – were really UN pawns. They only used the Constitution for toilet paper. They did everything the UN wanted and nothing for the people.”

  She shrugged. “But you didn’t come here to hear a political speech,” she said. “Why did you hang the rapist from your men?”

  I paused for a moment to think. “Because he abused his position,” I explained, finally. “Because he acted in a manner forbidden by regulations, regulations that were read out to him every day during his training and then every week while onboard ship. Because he allowed himself to get distracted in a very dangerous situation. Because he was a disgrace to the Legion. Because…take any or all of those answers.”

  “The parents of the girl he…molested are demanding to know why he didn’t face the local courts,” Frida said, in the same dispassionate tone. “Why didn’t you hand him over to the Police for trial and sentencing?”

  “The Police had largely broken under the impact of the Communist offensive,” I reminded her. There had only been a few policemen left when order had been returned to New Copenhagen. The Communists had wrecked havoc among the Police and had forced army units into a de facto policing role. It wasn't something I was comfortable with them doing. “I didn’t have anyone to hand him over to, even if I had wanted to hand him over.”

 
Frida’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you want to hand him over?”

  I took a moment to compose myself. “When I formed the Legion, I agreed to certain…conditions of leadership,” I explained, carefully. “One of them was that soldiers would not be abandoned to the tender mercies of local governments. That kind of betrayal would do nothing, but spark bad feeling among the men, no matter the original cause. The UN regularly betrayed its men to the point where entire units mutinied fairly frequently. In this case, everyone knew that the sentence for abusing locals was death. He was put to death legally, by us.”