Gordon R Dickson, page 13
“The troops at the encampment are being paraded in one hour,” he said. “Charley will be going out to brief them on what’s happened. I’d like you to go with him and be on the stand with him during the briefing.”
I looked back at him, up at him. I had not gone along with Pel’s ice-and-water assessement of the man. But now for the first time I began to doubt myself and begin to believe Pel. If ever there had been two brothers who had seemed to be opposite halves of a single egg, Kensie and Ian had been those two. But here was Ian with Kensie dead—perhaps the only living person on the eleven human-inhabited worlds among the stars who had loved or understood him—and Ian had so far shown no more emotion at his brother’s death than he might have on discovering an incorrect Order of the Day.
It occurred to me then that perhaps he was in emotional shock—and this was the cause of his unnatural calmness. But the man I looked at now had none of the signs of a person in shock. I found myself wondering if any man’s love for his brother could be hidden so deep that not even that brother’s violent death could cause a crack in the frozen surface of the one who went on living.
If Ian was repressing emotion that was due to explode sometime soon, then we were all in trouble. My Blauvain police and the planetary militia together were toy soldiers compared to these professionals. Without the Exotic control to govern them, the whole planet was at their mercy. But there was no point in admitting that—even to ourselves—while even the shadow of independence was left to us.
“Commander,” I said. “General Pel Sinjin’s planetary militia were closely involved with your brother’s forces. He would like to be at any such briefing. Also, Moro Spence, Blauvain’s Mayor and pro-tem President of the St. Marie Planetary Government, would want to be there. Both these men, Commander, have as deep a stake in this situation as your troops.”
Ian looked at me.
“General Sinjin,” he said, after a moment. “Of course. But we don’t need mayors.”
“St. Marie needs them,” I said. “That’s all our St. Marie World Council is, actually—a collection of mayors from our largest cities. Show that Moro and the rest mean nothing, and what little authority they have will be gone in ten minutes. Does St. Marie deserve that from you?”
He could have answered that St. Marie had been the death of his brother—and it deserved anything he wished to give it. But he did not. I would have felt safer with him if he had. Instead, he looked at me as if from a long, long distance for several seconds, then over at Padma.
“You’d favor that?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Padma. Ian looked back at me.
“Both Moro and General Sinjin can go with you, then,” he said. “Charley will be leaving from here by air in about forty minutes. I’ll let you get back to your own responsibilities until then. You’d better appoint someone as liaison from your police, to stand by here in this office.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”
I turned and went out. As I left, I heard Ian behind me, dictating.
“…All travel by the inhabitants of the City of Blauvain will be restricted to that which is absolutely essential. Military passes must be obtained for such travel. Inhabitants are to stay off the streets. Anyone involved in any gathering will be subject to investigation and arrest. The City of Blauvain is to recognize the fact that it is now under martial, not civil, law…”
The door closed behind me. I saw Pel and Moro waiting in the corridor.
“It’s all right,” I told them, “you haven’t been shut out of things—yet.”
We took off from the top of that building, forty minutes later, Charley and myself up in the control seats of a military eight-man liaison craft with Pel and Moro sitting back among the passenger seats.
“Charley,” I asked him, in the privacy of our isolation together up front in the craft, once we were airborne. “What’s going to happen?”
He was looking ahead through the forward vision screen and he did not answer for a moment. When he did, it was without turning his head.
“Kensie and I,” he said softly, almost absently, “grew up together. Most of our lives we’ve been in the same place, working for the same employers.”
I had thought I knew Charley ap Morgan. In his cheerfulness, he had seemed more human, less of a half-god of war than other Dorsai like Kensie or Ian—or even lesser Dorsai officers like Chu. But now he had moved off with the rest. His words took him out of my reach, into some cold, high, distant country where only Dorsai lived. It was a land I could not enter, the rules of which I would never understand. But I tried again, anyway.
“Charley,” I said, after a moment of silence, “that doesn’t answer what I asked you.”
He looked at me then, briefly.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said.
He turned his attention back to the controls. We flew the rest of the way to the encampment without talking.
When we landed, we found the entire Expedition drawn up in formation. They were grouped by Forces into Battalion and Arm Groups; and their dun-colored battle dress showed glints of light in the late afternoon sunlight. It was not until we mounted the stand facing them that I recognized the glitter for what it was. They had come to the formation under arms, all of them—although that had not been in Ian’s orders. Word of Kensie had preceded us. I looked at Charlie; but he was paying no attention to the weapons.
The sun struck at us from the southwest at a lowered angle. The troops were in formation, with their backs to the old factory, and when Charley spoke, the amplifiers caught up his voice and carried it out over their heads.
“Troops of the Exotic Expeditionary Force in relief of Saint Marie,” he said. “By order of Commander Ian Graeme, this briefing is ordered for the hundred and eighty-seventh day of the Expedition on St. Marie soil.”
The brick walls slapped his words back with a flat echo over the still men in uniform. I stood a little behind him, in the shadow of his shoulders, listening. Pel and Moro were behind me.
“I regret to inform you,” Charley said, “that sniper activity within the City of Blauvain, this day, about thirteen hundred hours, cost us the life of Commander Kensie Graeme.”
There was no sound from the men.
“The snipers have not yet been captured or killed. Since they remain unidentified, Commander Ian Graeme has ordered that the condition of hostilities, which was earlier assumed to have ended, is still in effect. Blauvain has been placed under martial law, sufficient force has been sent to seal the city against any exit or ingress, and all persons under Exotic contract to the Expedition have been recalled to this encampment…”
I felt the heat of a breath on my ear and Pel’s voice whispered to me.
“Look at them!” he said. “They’re ready to march on Blauvain right now. Do you think they’ll let Kensie be killed on some stinking little world like this of ours, and not see that somebody pays for it?”
“Shut up, Pel,” I murmured out of the corner of my mouth at him. But he went on.
“Look at them!” he said. “It’s the order to march they’re waiting for—the order to march on Blauvain. And if Charley doesn’t end up giving it, there’ll be hell to pay. You see how they’ve all come armed?”
“That’s right, Pel, Blauvain’s not your city!” It was a bitter whisper from Moro. “If it was Castelmane they were itching to march on, would you feel the same way about it?”
“Yes!” hissed Pel, fiercely. “If men come here to risk their lives for us, and we can’t do any better than let them be gunned down in the streets, what do we deserve? What does anyone deserve?”
“Stop making a court case out of it!” whispered Moro harshly. “It’s Kensie you’re thinking of—that’s all. Just like it’s only Kensie they’re thinking of, out there…”
I tried again to quiet them, then realized that actually it did not make any difference. For all practical purposes, the three of us were invisible there behind Charley. The attention of the armed men ranked before us was all on Charley, and only on him. As Pel had said, they were waiting for one certain order; and only that order mattered to them.
It was like standing facing some great, dun-colored, wounded beast which must charge at any second now, if only because in action would there be relief from the pain it was suffering. Charley’s expressionless voice went on, each word coming back like a slapping of dry boards together, in the echo from the factory wall. He was issuing a long list of commands having to do with the order of the camp, and its transition back to a condition of battle-alert.
I could feel the tension rising as he approached the end of his list of orders without one which might indicate action by the Expedition against the city in which Kensie had died. Then, suddenly, the list was at an end.
“…That concludes,” said Charley, in the same unvarying tones, “the present orders dealing with the situation. I would remind the personnel of this Expedition that at present the identity of the assassins of Commander Graeme is unknown. The civilian police are exerting every effort to investigate the matter; and it is the opinion of your officers that nothing else can be done for the moment but to give them our complete cooperation. A suspicion exists that a native, outlawed political party, known as The Blue Front, may have been responsible for the assassination. If this should be so, we must be careful to distinguish between those of this world who are actually guilty of Commander Graeme’s death and the great majority of innocent bystanders.”
He stopped speaking.
There was not a sound from the thousands of men ranked before him.
“All right, Brigade-Major,” said Charley, looking down from the stand at the ranking officer in the formation. “Dismiss your troops.”
The Brigade-Major, who had been standing like all the rest facing the stand, wheeled about.
“Atten-shun!” he snapped, and the amplifier sensors of the stand picked his voice up and threw it out over the men in formation as they had projected Charley’s voice. “Dis-miss!”
The formation did not disperse. Here and there, a slight wavering in the ranks showed itself, and then the lines of standing figures were motionless again. For a long second, it seemed that nothing more was going to happen, that Charley and the mercenary soldiers before him would stand facing each other until the day of Judgment…and then somewhere among the ranks, a solitary and off-key bass voice began to sing.
“They little knew of brotherhood…”
Other voices rapidly picked it up.
“…The faith of fighting men—
“Who once to prove their lie was good
“Hanged Colonel Jacques Chrétien…”
—And suddenly they were all singing in the ranks facing us. It was a song of the young Colonel who had been put to death one hundred years before, when the Dorsai were just in their beginning. A New Earth city had employed a force of Dorsai with the secret intention of using them against an enemy force so superior as to surely destroy them utterly—so rendering payment for their services unnecessary while at the same time doing considerable damage to the enemy. Then the Dorsai had defeated the enemy, instead, and the city faced the necessity of paying, after all. To avoid this, the city authorities came up with the idea of charging the Dorsai commanding officer with dealing with the enemy, taking a bribe to claim victory for a battle never fought at all. It was the technique of the big lie; and it might even have worked if they had not made the mistake of arresting the commanding officer, to back up their story.
It was not a song to which I would have had any objection, ordinarily. But now—suddenly—I found it directed at me. It was at Pel, Moro, myself, that the soldiers of the Expedition were all singing it. Before, I had felt almost invisible on the stand behind Charley ap Morgan. Now, we three civilians were the focus of every pair of eyes on the field—we civilians who were like the civilians that had hanged Jacques Chretien; we who were St. Marians, like whoever had shot Kensie Graeme. It was like facing into the roaring maw of some great beast ready to swallow us up. We stood facing it, frozen.
Nor did Charley ap Morgan interfere.
He stood silent himself, waiting while they went through all the verses of the song to its end:—
…One fourth of Rochmont’s fighting strength-
One battalion of Dorsai—
Were sent by Rochmont forth alone,
To bleed Helmuth, and die.
But look, look down from Rochmont’s heights
Upon the Helmuth plain.
At all of Helmuth’s armored force
By Dorsai checked, or slain.
Look down, look down, on Rochmont’s shame
To hide the wrong she’d done,
Made claim Helmuth had bribed Dorsais—
No battle had been won.
To prove that lie, the Rochmont Lords
Arrested Jacques Chrétien,
On charge he dealt with Helmuth’s Chiefs
For payment to his men.
Commandant Arp Van Din sent word:
‘You may not judge Dorsai,
‘Return our Colonel by the dawn,
‘Or Rochmont town will die.’
Strong-held behind her walls, Rochmont
Scorned to answer them,
Condemned, and at the daybreak, hanged,
Young Colonel Jacques Chrétien.
Bright, bright, the sun that morning rose
Upon each weaponed wall.
But when the sun set in the west,
Those walls were leveled all.
Then soft and white the moon arose
On streets and roofs unstained,
But when that moon was down once more
No street nor roof remained.
No more is there a Rochmont town
No more are Rochmont’s men.
But stands a Dorsai monument
To Colonel Jacques Chrétien.
So pass the word from world to world,
Alone still stands Dorsai.
But while she lives, no one of hers,
By foreign wrong shall die.
They little knew of brotherhood
—The faith of fighting men—
Who once to prove their lie was good
Hanged Colonel Jacques Chrétien!
It ended. Once more they were silent—utterly silent. On the platform Charley moved. He took half a step forward and the sensors picked up his voice once more and threw it out over the heads of the waiting men.
“Officers! Front and Center. Face your men!”
From the end of each rank figures moved. The commissioned and non-commissioned officers stepped forward, turned and marched to a point opposite the middle of the rank they had headed, turned once more and stood at attention.
“Prepare to fire.”
The weapons in the hands of the officers came up to waist level, their muzzles pointing at the men directly before them. The breath in my chest was suddenly a solid thing. I could not have inhaled or exhaled if I had tried. I had heard of something like this but I had never believed it, let alone dreamed that I would be there to see it happen. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the angle of Charley ap Morgan’s face, and it was a Dorsai face in all respects now. He spoke again.
“The command to dismiss has been given,” Charley’s voice rang and reechoed over the silent men, “and not obeyed. The command will be repeated under the stricture of the Third Article of the Professional Soldier’s Covenant. Officers will open fire on any refusing to obey.”
There was something like a small sigh that ran through all the standing men, followed by the faint rattle of safeties being released on the weapons of the men in ranks. They stood facing their officers and non-commissioned officers now—fellow soldiers and old friends. But they were all professionals. They would not simply stand and be executed if it came to the final point. The breath in my chest was now so solid it hurt, like something jagged and heavy pressing against my ribs. In ten seconds we could all be dead.
“Brigade-Major,” said the level voice of Charley. “Dismiss your troops.”
The Brigade-major, who had turned once more to face Charley, when Charley spoke to him, turned back again to the parade ground of men.
“Dis—” No more than in Charley’s voice was there perceptible change in the Brigade-Major’s command from the time it had been given before, “—miss!”
The formations dissolved. All at once the ranks were breaking up, the men in them turning away, the officers and non-coms lowering the weapons they had lifted to ready position at Charley’s earlier command. The long-held breath tore itself out of my lungs so roughly it ripped at my throat. I turned to Charley but he was halfway down the steps from the platform, as expressionless as he had been all through the last few minutes. I had to half-run to catch up to him.
“Charley!” I said, reaching him.
He turned to look at me as he walked along. Suddenly I felt how pale and sweat dampened I was. I tried to laugh.
“Thank God that’s over,” I said.
“Over?” He shook his head. “It’s not over, Tom. The enlisted men will be voting now. It’s their right.”
“Vote?” The world made no sense to me, for a second. Then suddenly it made too much sense. “You mean—they might vote to march on Blauvain, or something like that?”
“Perhaps—something like that,” he said.
I stared at him.
“And then?” I said. “You wouldn’t…if their vote should be to march on Blauvain—what would you do?”
He looked at me almost coldly.
“Lead my troops,” he said.
I stopped. Standing there, I watched him walk away from me. A hand tugged at my elbow; and I turned around to see that Pel and Moro had caught up to me. It was Moro who had his hand on my arm.
“Tom,” said Moro, “What do we do, now?”
“See Padma,” I said. “If he can’t do something, I don’t know anybody who can.”
Charley was not flying directly back to Blauvain. He was already in a staff meeting with his fellow officers, who were barred from the voting of the enlisted men by the Covenant. We three civilians had to borrow a land car from the encampment motor pool.
