The chief nodded, backing away. It seemed he worked to keep his face neutral. He motioned to the other security people, who gripped well-used shock rods.
Mune stepped beside Hawthorne and said in a low tone, “I recommend you go back to your office and watch videos of the latest bread riots, sir. This is too risky.”
“Do videos carry the stench of despair?” Hawthorne asked. He moved past the security cordon, his shoes echoing on the pavement. They were on Level Fifty-Three, a low-card district. Some of the lamps on the ceiling were broken. Across the wide veranda were five-story offices, human welfare buildings. Some had smashed windows on the lower stories. There was burn damage as well.
“It’s quiet,” said Mune.
Hawthorne listened to his shoes click as he set out in a fast stride. Several blocks later, he crunched over broken glass. The cleanup crews hadn’t made it very far, and he wondered why not. There were green apartment barracks on the next street. All the shrubs and synthi-trees there had long ago been torn out. People boiled bark, leaves and roots. According to reports, some had ground up the wood and eaten that too. He spied a group of children listlessly sitting on steps. The best off were rail-thin. Several lacked shirts and had the bloated, distended bellies of the truly starving.
“Has it really gotten that bad in the capital?” whispered Hawthorne.
Mune had glanced at the children before passing on to study the surroundings. “We’re being watched, sir.”
“Hmm,” said Hawthorne.
It had been nearly three years since he’d sent the reinforcement fleet to Mars. To ensure the fleet’s passage past the Doom Stars, he’d attacked from several farm habitats orbiting Earth. Those habitats had helped feed the planet’s billions—no longer. Because of the attack, the Highborn had retaliated, destroying some habitats and conquering the others. It had been a bitter decision, but Hawthorne had ordered Space Command to begin targeting enemy-controlled habitats. Merculite missiles and proton beams—
Few habitats in Earth orbit existed as farms now. Most were drifting hulks. A few of them had degraded orbits, and might have fallen like meteors onto the planet. Proton beams had sliced them into manageable chunks. The atmosphere had burned ninety-eight percent of the chunks. The last two percent had hit the surface, most of those plunking into the oceans. A tiny percentage had struck land, doing damage, but nothing to affect the outcome of the war.
“There, sir,” said Mune.
Hawthorne stopped, and looked where the captain pointed. Three scarecrow-thin men walked toward them. They wore threadbare shirts and worn shoes.
“I don’t see any others,” said Mune. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Is this level fully populated?” asked Hawthorne.
“The block-leader reports said yes.”
“Could those reports have been fabricated?”
Captain Mune glanced at him.
Hawthorne gripped his belt with both hands and watched the approaching men. The loss of the habitats had hit food production hard, as had lost landmasses. There was growing starvation throughout the Earth. That it occurred here in the lower levels of New Baghdad, the very capital—what must it be like in other cities?
“Sir,” Mune said.
Hawthorne saw them, another group of men. This group was ten strong. Like the first three men, the second group headed toward them.
“I’ve read reports of cannibalism,” said Mune.
“No,” Hawthorne said, feeling ill. “It couldn’t have gotten that bad.” How could he have remained so ignorant of the situation? Were his people shielding him?
“The riots several days ago, sir—” Mune ripped the gyroc from under his tunic. Then he jumped at Hawthorne, grabbing the Supreme Commander’s shoulder. He jerked hard, almost dislocating the bone from the socket.
Hawthorne grunted as pain blossomed in his shoulder. He went down, and he heard the crack of a fired rifle. Then he heard the whine as a slug passed near and a ricochet as the bullet
spanged
off pavement.
“Sniper,” said Mune. The gyroc clicked. A shell popped out as its thruster-packet almost immediately ignited. With a whoosh, it sped up at a fourth-story window. There was a shattering of glass, an explosion and seconds later the sound of masonry as bits showered on the paving below.
One of the scarecrow-thin men shouted. The rest panted eerily as they came on faster. Some produced knives. Others brandished clubs. More than twenty men came at them now. They came from three different directions. Their clothes were tatters at best. The look in the men’s eyes—they were full of desperation.
“Halt!” Hawthorne shouted, raising his hands as if he could push them back.
Mune manually ejected the shells in his gyroc. He inserted others with red tips. “Fragmentation rounds, sir,” the captain explained.
“I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad,” Hawthorne whispered. There was a gun in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it. “It’s murder just shooting them down.”
“Murdering them is better than dying, sir.”
“I order you to halt!” Hawthorne shouted.
One man did. Two others shouted at the man. That one jumped as if poked with fire, and he sprinted after the others.
Mune fired. A shell sped at the ten-man clump. Hawthorne witnessed the red burn of the rocket-shell’s exhaust. Then a proximity fuse must have sensed the targets. The shell exploded. Shrapnel tore into half of them, knocking down several, making too many scream and shriek.
Those still standing turned and sprinted for safety. Some of the fallen jumped up and ran after the others. The screams of the wounded continued.
Mune snarled a curse, and he aimed at a distant barrack. Two shells popped out of the gyroc. Then he leaped before Hawthorne, and Mune staggered as something thudded against him.
“You’re hit,” said Hawthorne.
“Yes, sir,” Mune said, wheezing heavily. “Now run while I shield you.” Without waiting for confirmation, the captain shoved Hawthorne, propelling him toward the lift. Another slug tore into his back, and the captain’s left arm abruptly sagged. Mune whirled around, lifted his gyroc and fired one second after another rifle cracked. A bullet chipped pavement near Hawthorne’s foot.
The Supreme Commander’s belly curled with fear.
Snipers are trying to kill me
. He ran. Something whined past his ear. A spark against a metal post and another ricochet—Hawthorne roared with frustration.
“Go that way, sir.”
Hawthorne heard the voice, and he felt pressure move him rightward. He ran toward the human welfare buildings. Beyond them was one of three operable lifts to this level. Political Harmony Corps had blocked the stairwells two weeks ago, while the other elevators had been dynamited by lift security.
The reports he’d read said the food riots down here had been suppressed. Emergency supplies and riot control squads were supposed to have dampened things. He’d wanted to see a lower level himself, assess things with his own eyes and ears. This had been a surprise inspection. The snipers, they implied that someone in the higher government echelons had smuggled rifles down here.
Have the security people been compromised?
Mune groaned. Hawthorne glanced at him. Pain creased the captain’s heavy features. Blood welled from holes in his tunic. One arm hung limply. The other held the gyroc.
“Hang on,” Hawthorne wheezed. “We’re almost to the lift.”
The muscles on the captain’s face bunched tight. He gave an imperceptible nod.
They rounded the last corner of the welfare buildings, with the wide veranda before them and then the lift.
Hawthorne uttered a single-word curse. The lift was shut and the security people were gone. In twenty seconds, he passed the temporary barriers, ran a little farther and slapped his hand against the call button.
“Sir,” Mune said.
Hawthorne turned as the captain’s heavy body crumpled onto the flooring. Blood welled from Mune’s back where he’d taken several sniper slugs.
At that moment, the elevator door opened, and half-a-dozen bionic men tumbled out. They wore combat armor and cradled machineguns.
“Sir,” said their leader.
“Where did you—?” Hawthorne tried to ask.
“Captain Mune sent us a signal, sir,” said the leader.
One of the bionic bodyguards knelt beside Mune. He pulled out a medkit and pressed it against the captain’s neck.
“Where are the lift people?” asked Hawthorne.
“In custody, sir,” said the leader.
Hawthorne nodded. It was time to leave.
Two days later, James Hawthorne paced before his desk in his office on the Third Level of New Baghdad. The city had sixty levels all told, one of the deepest in the Eurasian landmass. New Baghdad contained more than fifty-seven million inhabitants, the majority of them government workers.
Old-style books lined the shelves beside him. The shelves were filled with military history texts. Hawthorne clasped his hands behind his back as he paced. He’d worn a path in his carpet. More than once, he’d debated putting in wood flooring but had never gotten around to giving the order.
The more he thought about the episode in the Fifty-third Level, the more it troubled him.
Hawthorne stopped and scowled at his military history books. Reading was his greatest comfort. History and military history in particular had always been his passion. Earth was like the Chin Empire that had once faced Genghis Khan and his Mongols. Genghis Khan had fielded a single host of nomadic horse-archers. The Chin had possessed hundreds of thousands of solid soldiers, as well as owning the Great Wall of China and countless cities of teeming millions with vast protective walls. As important, the nomads had lacked siege equipment to breach those walls.
Yet Genghis Khan’s nomads were warrior’s born and bred. The windswept steppes and vicious tribal warfare had hardened the nomads into the most brutally efficient warriors of the medieval world. Genghis Khan had been arguably the greatest warlord of history. The combination had proven too much for the Chin, for the Sung, the Turks, Arabs, Russians, Poles and Hungarians. The Mongols had swept the medieval world in a relentless tide of conquest. Their march hadn’t been merely measured in miles, but in degrees of latitude and longitude across the globe.
The Highborn were the Mongols of today. Few in number compared to Earth’s masses, they outfought and outgeneraled Social Unity’s armies.
A ping sounded at the door. Hawthorne turned in surprise. He’d left orders that no one disturb him. Because of what had occurred two days ago, he now became queasy. Had someone corrupted his bodyguards? Three strides brought him behind his desk. He opened a drawer and placed a hand on his gun, the same gun he’d used down in Level Fifty-Three.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened and Captain Mune’s wheelchair rolled in.
“What are you doing up?” Hawthorne asked.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” Mune said. He had a bandage on his cheek and a crease on his forehead that quickheal hadn’t been able to erase yet.
Hawthorne released his gun and closed the drawer. “You should still be in the hospital.”
It was a heavily-built wheelchair, made to take Mune’s weight. His chest looked bulkier than normal, making the fabric of his uniform strain against his buttons. Bandages likely caused that. His gyroc was slung in a holster, dangling from his right armrest.
“The bullets caused a lot of bleeding, but little internal damage, sir.”
“I’ve read the report, Captain. You’re belittling your injuries.”
“I’m supposed to keep off my feet. I can do that sitting here, sir. In case of another emergency, I’m quite capable of standing and doing what’s necessary.”
“Your health is necessary to me.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sure—”
“Now listen here, Captain Mune. You’ve saved my life on more occasions than I care to count. You’re…. Damnit, man, you’re making this harder that it should be.”
“I’m sorry, sir. And thank you for what you did.”
“What are you thanking me for?” asked Hawthorne.
“You saved my life, sir.”
Hawthorne shook his head. “That was a terrible experience. Every time I close my eyes, I see those poor souls falling to the cement. I killed them. I shot down the very people I’m supposed to be protecting. I don’t know, Captain. This war….”
“If you can’t win it, sir, no one can.”
“That’s propagandist crap.”
“No, sir, it’s the truth. It’s one of the reasons….” Mune looked away, appearing uncomfortable.
Hawthorne also looked troubled as he cleared his throat. After a moment, he pulled out his chair, plopping into it. He turned on his desk-screen. The truth was that Captain Mune had become his best friend. The thought of Mune dying—
Hawthorne cleared his throat again. He brought up a map of Earth. The red parts were Highborn-controlled. Now that meant all the islands of Earth, which included Antarctica Sector, Australian Sector and even Old Britain Sector. The Highborn had taken South America, driven through Central America and now fought a continent-wide campaign in North America. Projections indicated a total defeat there in another five months.