Mike tensed. The enemy was coming right towards them, as planned. He checked his weapon again, wishing - desperately - that there had been more time to practice. They simply hadn't been able to go through all the reasonable scenarios, let alone come up with new ones that might otherwise have been missed. He had no idea how long it took to train a soldier, but he was fairly sure it was longer than two weeks.
He keyed his radio. “This is Fire Team One,” he said. “We're ready.”
***
The streets were as cold and silent as the grave.
John walked in front, Joel holding his arm in a vice-like grip. He wasn't sure precisely when they were going to walk into a trap, but he knew it would be somewhere along the way to the hospital. It was all he could do to keep himself from shaking, even though he suspected Joel would have taken a perverse pleasure in watching him cower in fear. Joel certainly didn't see any reason to pretend to like John any longer.
“You say she’s in Ward Four,” Joel said. “Is she with other men?”
“The doctors are men,” John said. He knew it would anger his stepbrother. “And some of the nurses are men too.”
Colin snorted, rudely. Nursing was a feminine profession, as far as the Forsakers were concerned, although few men would willingly allow their wives and daughters to serve as nurses. Why ... it might bring them into contact with strange men! Even midwives were in short supply in the commune. John had a feeling that Hannah would have won a great many friends and allies if she’d become a midwife, if only because there weren't enough to go around. Even Konrad would have had to bow to pressure if half the commune wanted Hannah to remain unattached.
“The patients are mixed too,” he added. “We have to get her out of there!”
Joel’s grip tightened. He was angry. John knew that was a good thing, but perhaps not when Joel might turn on him at any moment. And the police were out there somewhere ... they turned the corner, heading down a long road lined with trees. Someone had gone out of their way to make the stone buildings attractive, rather than merely functional. He hadn’t seen anything like it on Tarsus.
“We will,” Joel said. “And then we will be married.”
***
Mike braced himself as the Forsakers came into view. They were striding down the middle of the road as if they didn't have a care in the world, as if they thought their guns make them invincible. He'd seen that sort of mindset before, normally in city-slickers who never handled guns until they visited the countryside. Normally, that sort of attitude was battered out of them before it was too late, but no one seemed to have tried to warn the Forsakers ...
“They’ll be lucky if they don’t blow their own heads off,” Smith muttered.
“Yeah,” Mike agreed.
He rolled his eyes. There were four rules on firearms safety that had been hammered into his head, years ago. He’d been forced to memorise them before he’d been allowed to touch a firearm. The Forsakers had either never heard of the rules or had chosen to ignore them, even though they were for their own safety. Several of the insurgents were pointing their weapons at their fellows, while at least two had their fingers on the triggers. It was mildly surprising they hadn't had a negligent discharge.
We should be grateful, he thought, as he took aim. The orders were clear. They were to fire the first bursts over their heads, hopefully convincing them to surrender. If the insurgents returned fire, they were to be wiped out. They don't really know what they’re doing.
“Fire when they are within the kill-zone,” the Incident Coordinator ordered.
Mike nodded, silently cursing their sheer lack of experience under his breath. The plan had seemed perfect, on paper. But now, with the enemy walking forward, there was a growing likelihood that they’d spot the ambush and open fire. The entire area had been evacuated, but the last thing anyone wanted was bullets going everywhere. And giving the bastards a chance to surrender ...
He sighed. As a policeman, he wanted to capture criminals instead of killing them; as a ... whatever he was now, he wanted to kill his targets as quickly as possible.
“Here they come,” Smith said. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Mike confirmed. The enemy were walking forward, right into the kill-zone. “I am ...”
“Fire,” the incident coordinator snapped.
***
Joel had been fuming for the entire walk, silently promising Hannah a lesson she would never forget when he finally dragged her back home. She had to learn to comport herself properly, if she was going to be his wife. Going to the hospital was tolerable - marginally - but staying in a ward with male doctors and patients? It was impossible! And the mere thought of her marrying another man, an Outsider ... he heard John grunt in pain as he squeezed his arm tighter. The idiot should have asserted his rights over his sister from the start ...
... And then a hail of gunshots echoed out, bullets snapping through the air over their heads and pinging off nearby buildings. John threw himself forward, yanking Joel down as the remainder of the Forsakers opened fire, spraying bullets in all directions. Joel hit the ground hard enough to hurt, the pain clearing his mind just long enough to realise that he’d been led right into a trap. He’d wanted Hannah so badly that his mind had been addled.
A boot kicked him in the face. He looked up and saw John, drawing back his leg for another kick. John had betrayed him! He’d betrayed them all! His followers were falling to the ground, their bodies ripped and torn by countless bullets ... he’d led them all into a trap! And there was no way he could escape. Growling, he crawled forward, intent on killing John before it was too late. He would have his revenge before they both died.
John was screaming something at him, but it was impossible to make out the words over the gunshots. Joel fixed his eyes on his target, pushing himself forward even as a slash of pain lanced across his back. John glared back at him, then kicked again. This time, Joel caught his foot and yanked it forward. John screamed in pain as Joel twisted his leg, then lunged forward, his hands reaching for John’s neck. He’d crush the bastard before he died.
“Die,” he said. “You ...”
Someone slammed into him. Joel rolled over and over, barely aware of what had happened before something crashed into his arm. He felt it break, the pain so great that he couldn't help screaming. A man loomed over him, one fist drawn back ...
... And then there was nothing.
***
John rubbed his ears as the shooting finally came to an end. They hurt, hurt so badly that he honestly wondered if he’d ever hear normally again. Modern medical technology could work miracles, he’d been told, but could it repair his ears? His leg hurt too, making him wonder if Joel had dislocated or broken it before he’d been pushed away. But there were other wounded ...
He forced himself to sit up. Most of Joel’s supporters were dead, their bodies so badly damaged that they were beyond salvation. Two were alive, but wounded; the policemen were hastily moving them onto stretchers, clearly hoping they’d survive long enough to reach hospital. And Joel ... he was lying on the ground, one arm clearly broken. A policeman was standing over him, holding a truncheon against his throat. John honestly couldn't tell if he was alive or dead.
“Stay still,” a voice advised. He looked up. A policeman was standing over him, his face grim. “You’ve been through hell.”
John ignored him and stumbled to his feet. His legs felt wobbly, so unstable that he couldn't help wondering if they were made of jelly ... but somehow, he managed to stand upright. Joel was alive, he realised numbly. Twelve of his most loyal followers were dead or wounded, so badly wounded that they might not survive long enough to reach hospital, yet Joel was alive?
“Kill him,” he managed.
The policeman shook his head. “We’ll put him on trial,” he said, grimly. “And then he will be punished ...”
“It won’t be enough,” John said. He tried to stumble towards the body, but his legs betrayed him. The policeman caught
him before he hit the ground. “Kill him.”
He cursed savagely, using words he’d never dared use in the commune. They’d never be safe as long as Joel was alive. He had his loyalists, he had his friends, he had his admirers ... even now, with twelve of his closest allies dead or wounded, he was still dangerous. He would still want to get his hands on Hannah, he would still want to kill John, he would still want to stamp his will on the entire commune ... he had to die. And yet, the policeman wouldn't let John end it ...
Really, his thoughts mocked him. They sounded like Joel. And do you have the nerve to end it?
“He won’t harm anyone, ever again,” the policeman said. “I promise.”
John snorted. He knew how much that promise was worth.
***
“Ten dead, two badly wounded, one prisoner,” the Chief Constable said. His voice sounded tinny over the radio. “We captured Joel.”
“Very good,” Troutman said. He sounded pleased. William hoped he had reason to be delighted. Joel was the head of the snake, but would capturing him be enough to end the conflict before it got any worse? “Hold him in secure detention, then push the barricades up against the estate. Keep them trapped.”
“Yes, Premier,” the Chief Constable said. “Over and out.”
“Very good indeed,” Troutman said. He looked at William. “Do you want to be the one who talks to them?”
William blinked. “Me?”
“They need someone to lay down the law,” Troutman said. “Someone who can make it clear that they have a choice between unconditional surrender and complete annihilation. The commune either surrenders or dies. No middle ground.”
“I see,” William said. “And what do you intend to do with them after they surrender?”
“I’ll think of something,” Troutman said. “But - right now - they’re leaderless, running out of everything from food to ammunition ... there won’t be a better chance to bring the refugees to heel without killing them in vast numbers. Or would you rather I sent someone more likely to take a very hard line to handle the negotiations?”
William didn't bother to hide his displeasure. Troutman was making a political point. If William helped him, for whatever reason, William wouldn't have any future in politics. But then, that was probably true already. His party’s leaders had already announced a conference to choose his replacement. Hell, giving them - yet another - reason to remove him was probably the best thing he could do.
And besides, he thought. Whoever Troutman sends if I refuse is likely to be a great deal worse,
“I’ll go,” he said.
“I never doubted it,” Troutman smiled.
***
Konrad, Son of Elijah, had never doubted his son’s loyalty. He'd worried about his temper, he’d worried about his pride, but he’d never worried about his loyalty. And yet, Joel had knocked him out and imprisoned him, along with the rest of the Elders. Worse, he’d beaten Hannah so badly that the photographs he’d seen of the wounds had shocked Konrad to the core. He was no stranger to the need to discipline people, but there were limits ...
He looked around the meeting room, feeling utterly out of place. Yale had freed him and the others, but they’d emerged into a very different world. Joel was dead, his people were starving for lack of food ... and the police were drawing the noose tight. Tarsus had been bad, but this was worse. The locals had a very good reason to hate them now. And the Elders, the wise men, had been thoroughly discredited. The entire commune was on the verge of fragmenting.
“Speaker,” the Premier - the former Premier - said. William, Konrad recalled. A good name for a good man. “I’m afraid this isn't a negotiation. I have orders, strict orders, to make it clear that this is an ultimatum. You can accept it or you can die. There will be no further discussions.”
Konrad swallowed. He’d always feared that Tarsus would find an excuse to exterminate the Forsakers. The only thing keeping them from doing just that was their desperate need for scapegoats. But now ... Arthur’s Seat had an excellent reason to commit genocide, to slaughter the entire commune. Joel - whatever he’d been thinking - had started a conflict that could only have one end.
“First, we want your unconditional surrender,” William said. “You will hand over all weapons, up to and including combat knives and non-lethal devices. The police will patrol the estate in force - they are not to be molested in any way. Any attempt to interfere with their duties will be met with harsh reprisals.
“Second, the hostages are to be returned at once, unharmed,” he added. “Any members of your commune who wish to leave may also do so, if we see fit to accept them. You will not attempt to shun them, exclude them or in any other way punish them for their choice.
“Third, the members of your community who have committed atrocities against our population - or yours - are to be handed over without a fight. They will stand trial in our courts and be punished for their crimes.”
He paused. “As you are aware, a more permanent solution is required,” William concluded, grimly. “Accordingly, if you comply with our surrender demands, you and your people will be transported to Bellwether Island. It is a fairly large island with good climate - you should have no trouble eking out a living there. You have enough farming tools, according to the manifests, to survive. We will assist you, if necessary, and we will provide enough ration bars to keep your people alive until the farms start to produce crops.”
“That sounds ideal,” Konrad said.
“We will maintain an airport on the island,” William added. “You may live as you see fit, with the sole condition that anyone who wishes to leave is to be permitted to do so. As long as they obey our laws, they will be welcome. Any of our people who wish to join you may do so, if you accept them.”
Konrad sighed. The terms weren't going to go down well, particularly amongst the more hot-headed members of the community. Luckily, Joel had discredited their claims for the next few years, while the more level-headed ones knew they were on the brink of being exterminated. Going to a large island sounded ideal. If they actually managed to set up farms and start producing their own crops ...
He nodded. “That would be acceptable,” he said. “But I would have to consult with the other Elders ...”
“Very good,” William said. He paused. “A word of advice? Don't mistake forbearance for weakness. Premier Troutman got the job because he promised he’d solve the problem you and your people presented. He’ll be happy to look for a more permanent solution if you refuse this one.”
Konrad bowed his head. Joel ... he’d kill his son, if he ever saw him again. What had he been thinking? Damn the fool.
“I understand,” he said. “And we thank you. It’s more than we deserve.”
“That’s what Troutman thinks,” William said. “And really ... he’s being more generous than I expected. Don’t let this chance for peace go.”
Chapter Forty
In the end, like so many other problems, immigration and ethnic conflict was a nail in the Empire’s coffin. A mute testament to the simple disconnect between the rulers and the ruled, between the protected and the unprotected, between the idealism of the sheltered and the reality of the vulnerable. And, in the end, it helped bring down the mightiest civilisation mankind had ever known.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.
“Apparently, our dear friend Coombs is taking early retirement,” Captain Stewart said. “But you’ll be pleased to know that his replacement cleared you of all charges.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mike said. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. “However, I’m afraid my mind is made up.”
Captain Stewart gave him a long look. “You’re resigning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Mike sighed. “Six months ago, I believed that my superiors would have my back, if I ran into trouble,” he said. “Five months ago, I learned that that wasn't true. Coombs and the PC
A started on the assumption I was guilty of a set of vague charges, charges that would have been dismissed in any other circumstances. They didn't even have the guts to admit they were wrong ...”
“That was political,” Captain Stewart said.
“It should not have been, sir,” Mike told him, bluntly. “Politics should not have anything to do with policing. Whatever the previous government thought, it was a deadly mistake to make it clear that investigations would be driven by politics, rather than facts. I no longer have any faith in my superiors.”
“Including me,” Captain Stewart commented.
“Yes, sir.”
Mike cocked his head. “I put on this uniform” - he gestured - “and go out on the streets, putting my life at risk every day. I don’t need a second set of enemies amongst my superiors, ready to stick a knife in my back at the slightest excuse. The PCA ... is more interested in looking good than actually doing good. And officers like you roll over for them rather than telling them to get fucked.”
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