Hawthorne had debated with a warlord policy in North American Sector. The Highborn controlled everything above the stratosphere, making shipping impossible. Even quick jet flights were questionable. North American Sector was on its own. It wasn’t really a question of stopping the Highborn there, but a matter of how long it would take the Highborn to pacify the continent to their satisfaction. If he gave independent authority to hard-bitten, ambitious people—warlords—might they hang on longer than if they were mere Social Unity functionaries?
There was no way he could convince the other members of the Politburo.
Mune’s chair made noise as the captain wheeled himself into a corner. “With your permission, sir?”
Hawthorne nodded absently. It was good to see Mune, good to have him around again. The captain was the one man he knew he could trust. Hawthorne turned back to the large desk-screen.
Social Unity on Earth was Eurasia, Africa and parts of North America. It was the last battlefleet orbiting Mars, with a friendless understanding between them and the Planetary Union there. Neither side on Mars shot at the other. Neither side completely trusted the other.
Hawthorne stared at the green-colored areas of Earth, Social Unity territory. The algae tanks could only feed so many people. Highborn laser platforms had destroyed the many fishing fleets and the oceanic fisheries. That left traditional agriculture. Even with strict rationing….
“We’re starving to death,” Hawthorne said.
Mune looked up.
Even as he said that, Hawthorne knew he hadn’t stated the problem accurately. If he was going to start lying to himself, it was time to step down. The rationing system was rational, at least in terms of fighting the Highborn. Soldiers, production workers, PHC personnel, block leaders and the like received the highest calorie count. People who lived in the lower levels—those who served no warfare-useful purpose—they received much less.
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Mune said, as he tucked away a cell phone.
“Eh?” said Hawthorne, looking up.
“Have you discovered how rifles managed to appear in Level Fifty-Three?”
Hawthorne frowned.
“I didn’t think so, sir. I therefore request permission to begin an internal investigation.”
“You’d better explain that,” Hawthorne said.
“The lift security people fled their posts.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“They’ve been discovered, sir. Each of them has been shot in the back of the head.”
“Why wasn’t I informed before this?” Hawthorne asked.
“Yes, sir, that’s what I’d like to know.”
The cold feeling Hawthorne had felt as the food rioters had charged him returned. “My own people have been corrupted?” he whispered.
“Chief Yezhov is a cunning opponent, sir.”
“What evidence compels you to suspect him?” Hawthorne asked.
“I don’t consciously think about it as I shoot my gyroc, sir. I simply fire, relying on hundreds of hours of practice to guide me.”
“And your point?” asked Hawthorne.
“I’m a bodyguard, sir. I suspect those my instincts tells me are guilty. What happened down in the lower level—it smacks to me of the Chief of Political Harmony Corps.”
“Maybe we should give him a visit.”
“Let me visit him, sir. Meanwhile, perhaps you could turn your military insights into uncovering the moles in your organization.”
Hawthorne frowned at his desk-screen. The green areas of Earth versus the red areas—he needed to do something to change the course of the war. If he couldn’t, maybe it was time to let someone else try. Was Chief Yezhov the candidate for the job? Hmm. He doubted that. The Chief had strengths. They were shadowy powers like intrigue, sabotage, assassination and double-dealing. They were useful, certainly, but unlikely to win a war against the Highborn.
Looking up, Hawthorne said, “I’m a military man, Captain. I wield the sword better than anyone else does in Social Unity. But there’s an ancient saying about swords. You can do many things with them, but you can’t sit on them.”
“Sir?” asked Mune.
“Swords make a poor throne.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
“Direct action, the bolder the better, that’s the way to wield a sword. You said I have moles.”
“The facts indicate that, sir.”
“I can’t beat Yezhov his way. My counter-intelligence teams simply lack PHC guile and secret police ruthlessness. What happened two days ago, we don’t know for certain that Yezhov had a hand in it.”
“Who else would, sir?”
“That’s a cogent question. Yes….” Hawthorne tapped his desk with his fingertips. “We’re at the verge of the precipice, staring down into the abyss of defeat and Highborn domination. Social Unity is crumbling. The strain is too much for us. I’m at the top and I’m in charge of the bitterest defeat ever faced by men. I can no longer survive by the old methods.”
“Sir?”
“There was a ruler in the Twentieth Century, the Shah of Iran. Someone named the Ayatollah Khomeini had horribly weakened the Shah’s grip on his country. There was a Muslim rebellion against the monarchy, and agitators had caused the people to march in the streets against him. The Shah had an Imperial Guard. He should have used them.”
“Used them how, sir?”
Hawthorne smiled bleakly. “If you’ll allow me a further example, I’ll tell you. His name was Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He was one of the greatest military leaders in history. Before his rise to power, however, he was one general among many. He happened to be in Paris when the mobs rose up and marched in the streets against the Directorate. The five men of the Directorate ran revolutionary France. The five rulers froze at the uprising, terrified of the Parisian mob. Napoleon was made of sterner stuff. He gathered some tough soldiers and rolled cannons into the streets. Then he set a line in the streets. The mob surged across the line, and Napoleon ordered his artillerists to open fire. They shot canisters of grapeshot.”
“What was that, sir?”
“The cannons acted like giant shotguns. The grapeshot tore into the mob, blowing down many. The mob broke in terror, fleeing to their homes. Napoleon then sent his soldiers into Paris to arrest the worst ringleaders. Afterward, Napoleon said he’d solved the insurrection with a
whiff of grapeshot
.”
“You plan to use grapeshot, sir?”
“The Shah of Iran should have sent his Imperial Guard into the streets, set up machineguns and blown away the mobs in his capital. He could have saved his life and his country from the Islamic Revolution that caused grave havoc to the world for countless decades afterward. He could have sent his soldiers to arrest and then execute the Ayatollah Khomeini.”
“Did they have food riots back then, sir?” Mune asked.
Hawthorne blinked, and he shook his head. “The lesson for us is similar but not identical. I have a sword, and now I need the willpower to use it. Someone practiced deceit against me. The likeliest candidate is Chief Yezhov, but I’ll probably never find the proof. Well, maybe I don’t need proof, not if I’m willing to use the sword. Or in my case, the cybertanks and soldiers in New Baghdad.”
“What are your orders, sir?”
“Call out your men, Captain. We’re going to go pay Chief Yezhov a visit.”
Hawthorne frowned as he stood in an underground room in Political Harmony Corps Headquarters. The video shots he watched were grainy, with occasional white-line wavers. Then everything fuzzed horribly, and the technicians at the boards adjusted controls.
The room was dark except for the wide-screen on the wall. Besides Hawthorne and the PHC technicians, there was Captain Mune in his wheelchair and Chief Yezhov of PHC.
The Chief wore a red uniform with black straps. He was a medium-sized man with round, un-athletic shoulders, pale skin, a weak chin and washed-out blue eyes. He nervously glanced at Hawthorne.
“This is quite normal, I assure you,” Yezhov said.
Hawthorne noted dryly to himself that Yezhov had been doing a lot of assuring the past six hours. The Chief had good reason to be terrified. A little more than seven hours ago, massive cybertanks had smashed through the front barriers. Into the rubble had swarmed bionic soldiers. Sixteen PHC guards had died in the ensuing gun-battle before the rest of the guards had thrown down their weapons, surrendering.
Hawthorne’s counter-intelligence people now combed through PHC computers. He doubted they would find anything damning against Political Harmony Corps. Yezhov had likely set up the real PHC operational headquarters elsewhere, leaving the headquarters in New Baghdad as a shell. The howl against what he’d done would soon begin. He’d have to decide whether he was going to initiate a bloodbath to maintain his authority or if he could continue along old lines but with upgrades.
“How long can the operative beam these images?” Hawthorne asked.
Yezhov cast him another nervous glance. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. The…
operative
doesn’t know she’s beaming the information.”
“What form of transmitter does she use?” Hawthorne asked.
“It’s a retinal scan,” Yezhov said.
“Explain that.”
“One of her eyes was surgically removed. A bio-replacement was inserted along with a cerebral power-pack. You’re watching what she’s seeing.”
Hawthorne stared at Yezhov. It seemed the Chief of PHC carefully kept his gaze on the screen in order to keep from looking at him. Finally, Hawthorne turned back to the picture.
The grainy images showed war-torn streets: rubble, blasted buildings and overturned vehicles. People moved quickly, usually with their heads bent and shoulders hunched. A soldier stood on a street corner. He wore a Free Earth Corps uniform.
“Where is this again?” Hawthorne asked.
“New Orleans, in Louisiana Sector of North America,” Yezhov said.
“That’s far behind enemy lines.”
“Ah,” Yezhov said. “If you would watch this….”
Hawthorne became absorbed as a giant strode into view. The Highborn wore combat armor, but without the customary helmet. He strode closer, until he filled the screen. His mouth moved as he talked to the operative. The Highborn had pallid skin, and the intensity of his eyes was overwhelming.
“We’ve studied their preferences,” Yezhov said. “They prefer tall women, at least tall in our terms. They enjoy big firm breasts and wide hips. The last no doubt is to absorb their...ah…vigorous ways.”
“She’s a volunteer?” asked Hawthorne.
“…Not as you might conceive of it,” Yezhov finally said.
“Explain,” said Hawthorne, who found that he was frowning.
“She believes herself an infiltration operative. For morale reasons, her true mission is kept from her.”
Hawthorne felt nauseous. It was one thing to send soldiers into desperate situations. But this—it was monstrous. Yet he found that he couldn’t tear his gaze from the screen. In morbid fascination, he continued to watch.
“Skip to the end sequence,” Yezhov told a technician.
One of the women at the controls made adjustments. The grainy image vanished, replaced by another. It was a shot of a ceiling. Then a door panned into view. Through it walked a nude Highborn. The man’s musculature was amazing, as was his other endowments.
“This is obscene,” whispered Hawthorne.
“War is vicious,” Yezhov said, without any inflection.
The next few moments were like a bad porn video. The Highborn’s face took on an animalist cast. Then everything went red on the screen. Suddenly, there was a white flash. The grainy image vanished, and the screen remained white.
“End of sequence,” a technician said.
Hawthorne blinked as a growing foulness filled him. This was inhuman. He said in a choking voice, “She didn’t know what would happen?”
“Few would volunteer if they did,” Yezhov said.
“What method did you use?” Hawthorne whispered.
“A cortex bomb,” Yezhov said. “The Highborn implant them in certain personnel of their suicide squadrons. You shouldn’t be troubled. We’re merely paying them back in like coin.”
“They’re not murdering their own people to kill our soldiers,” Hawthorne said.
“With respect, Supreme Commander, this is no different than your ordering soldiers to stand and fight the Highborn. My method is in the end more merciful.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
For the first time, Yezhov faced Hawthorne. “What have you said before? We could lose a million civilians to kill one Highborn. I have lost a single human and killed one Highborn. I doubt even your elite units have a better kill ratio than that.”
“You sacrificed her without her consent.”
“Do you ask permission when you send your soldiers into places that will get them killed?”
“That isn’t the same thing!” Hawthorne shouted.
“…I agree,” Yezhov said after a moment. “The military slaughters far more of its operatives than PHC does theirs.”
Hawthorne found that his right hand was trembling. He gripped it so the others wouldn’t see. Now if he could only grip his growing anger…. “We don’t send soldiers to their certain death,” he said.