Winners!

by Poul Anderson

  The mess bawled forth the chorus, not noticing when the colonel knocked out his pipe and rose.

  “The guns go boom! Hey, tiddley boom!

  The rockets vroom, the arrows zoom.

  From slug to slug is damn small room.

  Get me out of here and back to the good old womb!

  (Hey, doodle dee day!)”

  All right-thinking Catamounts maintained that they could operate better with the booze sloshing up to their eardrums than any other outfit cold sober. Mackenzie ignored the tingle in his veins; forgot it. He walked a straight line to the door, automatically taking his sidearm off the rack as he passed by. The song pursued him into the hall.

  “For maggots in the rations, we hardly ever lack.

  You bite into a sandwich and the sandwich bites right back.

  The coffee is the finest grade of Sacramento mud.

  The ketchup’s good in combat, though, for simulating blood.

  (Cho-orus!)

  The drums go bump! Ah-tumpty-tump!

  The bugles make like Gabri’ls trump—”

  Lanterns were far apart in the passage. Portraits of former commanders watched the colonel and the sergeant from eyes that were hidden in grotesque darknesses. Footfalls clattered too loudly here.

  “I’ve got an arrow in my rump.

  Right about and rearward, heroes, on the jump!

  (Hey, doodle dee day!)”

  Mackenzie went between a pair of fieldpieces flanking a stairway—they had been captured at Rock Springs during the Wyoming War, a generation ago—and upward. There was more distance between places in this keep than his legs liked at their present age. But it was old, had been added to decade by decade; and it needed to be massive, chiseled and mortared from Sierra granite, for it guarded a key to the nation. More than one army had broken against its revetments, before the Nevada marches were pacified, and more young men than Mackenzie wished to think about had gone from this base to die among angry strangers.

  But she’s never been attacked from the west. God, or whatever you are, you can spare her that, can’t you?

  The command office was lonesome at this hour. The room where Sergeant Irwin had his desk lay so silent: no clerks pushing pens, no messengers going in or out, no wives making a splash of color with their dresses as they waited to see the colonel about some problem down in the Village, When he opened the door to the inner room, though, Mackenzie heard the wind shriek around the angle of the wall. Rain slashed at the black windowpane and ran down in streams which the lanterns turned molten.

  “Here the colonel is, sir,” Irwin said in an uneven voice. He gulped and closed the door behind Mackenzie.

  Speyer stood by the commander’s desk. It was a beat-up old object with little upon it: an inkwell, a letter basket, an interphone, a photograph of Nora, faded in these dozen years since her death. The major was a tall and gaunt man, hooknosed, going bald on top. His uniform always looked unpressed, somehow. But he had the sharpest brain in the Cats, Mackenzie thought; and Christ, how could any man read as many books as Phil did! Officially he was the adjutant, in practice the chief adviser.

  “Well?” Mackenzie said. The alcohol did not seem to numb him, rather make him too acutely aware of things: how the lanterns smelled hot (when would they get a big enough generator to run electric lights?), and the floor was hard under his feet, and a crack went through the plaster of the north wall, and the stove wasn’t driving out much of the chill. He forced bravado, stuck thumbs in belt and rocked back on his heels. “Well, Phil, what’s wrong now?”

  “Wire from Frisco,” Speyer said. He had been folding and unfolding a piece of paper, which he handed over.

  “Huh? Why not a radio call?”

  “Telegram’s less likely to be intercepted. This one’s in code, at that. Irwin decoded it for me.”

  “What the hell kind of nonsense is this?”

  “Have a look, Jimbo, and you’ll find out. It’s for you, anyway. Direct from GHQ.”

  Mackenzie focused on Irwin’s scrawl. The usual formalities of an order; then:

  You are hereby notified that the Pacific States Senate has passed a bill of impeachment against Owen Brodsky, formerly Judge of the Pacific States of America, and deprived him of office. As of 2000 hours this date, former Vice Humphrey Fallon is Judge of the PSA in accordance with the Law of Succession. The existence of dissident elements constituting a public danger has made it necessary for Judge Fallon to put the entire nation under martial law, effective at 2100 hours this date. You are therefore issued the following instructions:

  1. The above intelligence is to be held strictly confidential until an official proclamation is made. No person who has received knowledge in the course of transmitting this message shall divulge same to any other person whatsoever. Violators of this section and anyone thereby receiving information shall be placed immediately in solitary confinement to await court-martial.

  2. You will sequestrate all arms and ammunition except for ten percent of available stock, and keep same under heavy guard.

  3. You will keep all men in the Fort Nakamura area until you are relieved. Your relief is Colonel Simon Hollis, who will start from San Francisco tomorrow morning with one battalion. They are expected to arrive at Fort Nakamura in five days, at which time you will surrender your command to him. Colonel Hollis will designate those officers and enlisted men who are to be replaced by members of his battalion, which will be integrated into the regiment. You will lead the men replaced back to San Francisco and report to Brigadier General Mendoza at New Fort Baker. To avoid provocations, these men will be disarmed except for officers’ sidearms.

  4. For your private information, Captain Thomas Danielis has been appointed senior aide to Colonel Hollis.

  5. You are again reminded that the Pacific States of America are under martial law because of a national emergency. Complete loyalty to the legal government is required. Any mutinous talk must be severely punished. Anyone giving aid or comfort to the Brodsky faction is guilty of treason and will be dealt with accordingly.

  Gerald O’Donnell, Gen. APSA, CINC

  Thunder went off in the mountains like artillery. It was a while before Mackenzie stirred, and then merely to lay the paper on his desk. He could only summon feeling slowly, up into a hollowness that filled his skin.

  “They dared,” Speyer said without tone. “They really did.”

  “Huh?” Mackenzie swiveled eyes around to the major’s face. Speyer didn’t meet that stare. He was concentrating his own gaze on his hands, which were now rolling a cigarette. But the words jerked from him, harsh and quick:

  “I can guess what happened. The warhawks have been hollering for impeachment ever since Brodsky compromised the border dispute with West Canada. And Fallon, yeah, he’s got ambitions of his own. But his partisans are a minority and he knows it. Electing him Vice helped soothe the warhawks some, but he’d never make Judge the regular way, because Brodsky isn’t going to die of old age before Fallon does, and anyhow more than fifty percent of the Senate are sober, satisfied bossmen who don’t agree that the PSA has a divine mandate to reunify the continent. I don’t see how an impeachment could get through an honestly convened Senate. More likely they’d vote out Fallon.”

  “But a Senate had been called,” Mackenzie said. The words sounded to him like someone else talking. “The newscasts told us.”

  “Sure. Called for yesterday ‘to debate ratification of the treaty with West Canada.’ But the bossmen are scattered up and down the country, each at his own Station. They have to get to San Francisco. A couple of arranged delays—hell, if a bridge just happened to be blown on the Boise railroad, a round dozen of Brodsky’s staunchest supporters wouldn’t arrive on time—so the Senate has a quorum, all right, but every one of Fallon’s supporters are there, and so many of the rest are missing that the warhawks have a clear majority. Then they meet on a holiday, when no cityman is paying attention. Presto, impeachment and a new Judge!” Speyer finished his c
igarette and stuck it between his lips while he fumbled for a match. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “You sure?” Mackenzie mumbled. He thought dimly that this moment was like one time he’d visited Puget City and been invited for a sail on the Guardian’s yacht, and a fog had closed in. Everything was cold and blind, with nothing you could catch in your hands.

  “Of course I’m not sure!” Speyer snarled. “Nobody will be sure till it’s too late.” The matchbox shook in his grasp. “They, uh, they got a new Cine too, I noticed.”

  “Uh-huh. They’d want to replace everybody they can’t trust, as fast as possible, and De Barros was a Brodsky appointee.” The match flared with a hellish scrit. Speyer inhaled till his cheeks collapsed. “You and me included, naturally. The regiment reduced to minimum armament so that nobody will get ideas about resistance when the new colonel arrives. You’ll note he’s coming with a battalion at his heels just the same, just in case. Otherwise he could take a plane and be here tomorrow.”

  “Why not a train?” Mackenzie caught a whiff of smoke and felt for his pipe. The bowl was hot in his tunic pocket.

  “Probably all rolling stock has to head north. Get troops among the bossmen there to forestall a revolt. The valleys are safe enough, peaceful ranchers and Esper colonies. None of them’ll pot-shot Fallonite soldiers marching to garrison Echo and Donner outposts.” A dreadful scorn weighted Speyer’s words.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I assume Fallon’s take-over followed legal forms; that there was a quorum,” Speyer said. “Nobody will ever agree whether it was really Constitutional . . . . I’ve been reading this damned message over and over since Irwin decoded it. There’s a lot between the lines. I think Brodsky’s at large, for instance. If he were under arrest this would’ve said as much, and there’d have been less worry about rebellion. Maybe some of his household troops smuggled him away in time. He’ll be hunted like a jackrabbit, of course.”

  Mackenzie took out his pipe but forgot he had done so. ‘Tom’s coming with our replacements,” he said thinly.

  “Yeah. Your son-in-law. That was a smart touch, wasn’t it? A kind of hostage for your good behavior, but also a backhand promise that you and yours won’t suffer if you report in as ordered. Tom’s a good kid. He’ll stand by his own.”

  “This is his regiment too,” Mackenzie said. He squared his shoulders. “He wanted to fight West Canada, sure. Young and . . . and a lot of Pacificans did get killed in the Idaho Panhandle during the skirmishes. Women and kids among ’em.”

  “Well,” Speyer said, “you’re the colonel, Jimbo. What should we do?”

  “Oh, Jesus, I don’t know. I’m nothing but a soldier.” The pipestem broke in Mackenzie’s fingers. “But we’re not some bossman’s personal militia here. We swore to support the Constitution.”

  “I can’t see where Brodsky’s yielding some of our claims in Idaho is grounds for impeachment. I think he was right.”

  “Well—”

  “A coup d’etat by any other name would stink as bad. You may not be much of a student of current events, Jimbo, but you know as well as I do what Fallon’s Judgeship will mean. War with West Canada is almost the least of it. Fallon also stands for a strong central government. He’ll find ways to grind down the old bossman families. A lot of their heads and scions will die in the front lines; that stunt goes back to David and Uriah. Others will be accused of collusion with the Brodsky people—not altogether falsely—and impoverished by fines. Esper communities will get nice big land grants, so their economic competition can bankrupt still other estates. Later wars will keep bossmen away for years at a time, unable to supervise their own affairs, which will therefore go to the devil. And thus we march toward the glorious goal of Reunification.”

  “If Esper Central favors him, what can we do? I’ve heard enough about psi blasts. I can’t ask my men to face them.”

  “You could ask your men to face the Hellbomb itself, Jimbo, and they would. A Mackenzie has commanded the Rolling Stones for over fifty years.”

  “Yes. I thought Tom, someday—”

  “We’ve watched this brewing for a long time. Remember the talk we had about it last week?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I might also remind you that the Constitution was written explicitly ‘to confirm the separate regions in their ancient liberties.’ ”

  “Let me alone!” Mackenzie shouted. “I don’t know what’s right or wrong, I tell you! Let me alone!”

  Speyer fell silent, watching him through a screen of foul smoke. Mackenzie walked back and forth a while, boots slamming the floor like, drumbeats. Finally he threw the broken pipe across the room so it shattered.

  “Okay.” He must ram each word past the tension in his throat. “Irwin’s a good man who can keep his lip buttoned. Send him out to cut the telegraph line a few miles downhill. Make it look as if the storm did it. The wire breaks often enough, heaven knows. Officially, then, we never got GHQ’s message. That gives us a few days to contact Sierra Command HQ. I won’t go against General Cruikshank . . . but I’m pretty sure which way he’ll go if he sees a chance. Tomorrow we prepare for action. It’ll be no trick to throw back Hollis’ battalion, and they’ll need a while to bring some real strength against us. Before then the first snow should be along, and we’ll be shut off for the winter. Only we can use skis and snowshoes, ourselves, to keep in touch with the other units and organize something. By spring—we’ll see what happens.”

  “Thanks, Jimbo.” The wind almost drowned Speyer’s words.

  “I’d . . . I’d better go tell Laura.”

  “Yeah.” Speyer squeezed Mackenzie’s shoulder. There were tears in the major’s eyes.

  Mackenzie went out with parade-ground steps, ignoring Irwin: down the hall, down a stairway at its other end, past guarded doors where he returned salutes without really noticing, and so to his own quarters in the south wing.

  His daughter had gone to sleep already. He took a lantern off its hook in his bleak little parlor, arid entered her room. She had come back here while her husband was in San Francisco.

  For a moment Mackenzie couldn’t quite remember why he had sent Tom there. He passed a hand over his stubbly scalp, as if to squeeze something out . . . oh, yes, ostensibly to arrange for a new issue of uniforms; actually to get the boy out of the way until the political crisis had blown over. Tom was too honest for his own good, an admirer of Fallon and the Esper movement. His outspokenness had led to friction with his brother officers. They were mostly of bossman stock or from well-to-do protectee families. The existing social order had been good to them. But Tom Danielis began as a fisher lad in a poverty-stricken village on the Mendocino coast. In spare moments he’d learned the three R’s from a local Esper; once literate, he joined the Army and earned a commission by sheer guts and brains. He had never forgotten that the Espers helped the poor and that Fallon promised to help the Espers . . . . Then, too, battle, glory, Reunification, Federal Democracy, those were heady dreams when you were young.

  Laura’s room was little changed since she left it to get married last year. And she had only been seventeen then. Objects survived which had belonged to a small person with pigtails and starched frocks—a teddy bear loved to shapelessness, a doll house her father had built, her mother’s picture drawn by a corporal who stopped a bullet at Salt Lake. Oh, God, how much she had come to look like her mother.

  Dark hair streamed over a pillow turned gold by the light. Mackenzie shook her as gently as he was able. She awoke instantly, and he saw the terror within her.

  “Dad! Anything about Tom?”

  “He’s okay.” Mackenzie set the lantern on the floor and himself on the edge of the bed. Her fingers were cold where they caught at his hand.

  “He isn’t,” she said. “I know you too well.”

  “He’s not been hurt yet. I hope he won’t be.”

  Mackenzie braced himself. Because she was a soldier’s daughter, he told her the truth in a fe
w words; but he was not strong enough to look at her while he did. When he had finished, he sat dully listening to the rain.

  “You’re going to revolt,” she whispered.

  “I’m going to consult with SCHQ and follow my commanding officer’s orders,” Mackenzie said.

  “You know what they’ll be . . . once he knows you’ll back him.”

  Mackenzie shrugged. His head had begun to ache. Hangover started already? He’d need a good deal more booze before he could sleep tonight. No, no time for sleep—-yes, there would be. Tomorrow would do to assemble the regiment in the courtyard and address them from the breech of Black Hepzibah, as a Mackenzie of the Rolling Stones always addressed his men, and—.

  He found himself ludicrously recalling a day when he and Nora and this girl here had gone rowing on Lake Tahoe. The water was the color of Nora’s eyes, green and blue and with sunlight flimmering across the surface, but so clear you could see the rocks on the bottom; and Laura’s own little bottom had stuck straight in the air as she trailed her hands astern.

  She sat thinking for a space before saying flatly: “I suppose you can’t be talked out of it.” He shook his head. “Well, can I leave tomorrow early, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll get you a coach.”

  “T-t-to hell with that. I’m better in the saddle than you are.”

  “Okay. A couple of men to escort you, though.” Mackenzie drew a long breath. “Maybe you can persuade Tom—”

  “No. I can’t. Please don’t ask me to, Dad.”

  He gave her the last gift he could: “I wouldn’t want you to stay. That’d be shirking your own duty. Tell Tom I still think he’s the right man for you. Goodnight, duck.” It came out too fast, but he dared not delay. When she began to cry he must unfold her arms from his neck and depart the room.