“Medic, dustoff, Ms. von Alderheim is down, repeat, dustoff soonest,” she said. “Wound trauma, internal bleeding, multiple fractures of the right arm.” The other Spartan trooper rose from his crouch and fired.
“Talkins, Capital Seven here,” a calm voice said from her hand unit. Her chest seemed to turn tight and squeeze; that was her Helot contact’s codename. “Make sure of the von Alderheim woman if you can. Quickly.”
God damn, she thought to herself. It seemed to come from some distant part of her mind, while her body and mouth did things on their own.
“Guard Graffin von Alderheim,” she said sharply, drawing her pistol and moving forward into the maze of parked vehicles. The soldier shouted uselessly behind her, and there was the heavy bwanggg of a Peltast round ricochetting off armor, sending him back to cover.
“God damn.” Dangerous, but she had to get out of the vicinity of Melissa. Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain her survival.
And there were some things that you couldn’t do even to keep your cover.
“God damn, we Legionnaires are supposed to stop this sort of thing.” That stopped her, for a moment. We. We had always been her and George, after Mother went away. A helicopter went by overhead, and she shook herself back to awareness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thomas Cook & Company: Almanac of Interstellar Travel:
Transit times for standard merchant charter:
(Standard Terran month of 30 days)
Earth—Sparta (via Tanith): 6 months
Tanith—New Washington/Franklin system: 4 months
New Washington—Sparta (via Tanith): 9 months
—all travel times may be reduced by 50% or more for naval couriers, warships or assault transports.
* * *
When bad men combine, the good must associate; otherwise they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.
—Edmund Burke,
Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents
* * *
Further, war, which is simply the subjection of all life and property to one momentary aim, is morally vastly superior to the mere violent egoism of the individual; it develops power in the service of a supreme general idea and under a discipline which nevertheless permits supreme heroic virtue to unfold. Indeed, war alone grants to mankind the magnificent spectacle of a general submission to a general aim.
—Jakob Burkhardt,
Reflections on History
* * *
“The bones in the arm and shoulder were severely damaged. Shattered would not be too strong a word,” the doctor said, with the impersonal sympathy of her craft. “Massive edema and tissue damage as well, from hydrostatic shock.”
Lysander listened, but most of his attention was elsewhere. Melissa’s face was barely visible through the quartz view port in the regeneration tank universally known as a mummy case. Her head was covered with a white surgical bandage but it looked more like an old fashioned night cap. There was no makeup, but she seldom wore much anyway, and enough remained of her tan to give some illusion of healthy color. She looked relaxed, even peaceful, but very helpless, and very still. She’s always been so active. And now—
A nurse shouldered through, studied displays and touched a few of the controls around the cocoon-like capsule of the regeneration tank, and left silently. There were half a dozen Life Guards outside the door, and a sandwich-armor slab closed off the window, but otherwise the small private room in the St. Thomas Royal Hospital was nothing out of the ordinary. Every ward was overcrowded with war casualties, and the regeneration clinics more than any.
Lysander swallowed, holding his helmet awkwardly in hands that suddenly felt too big. Freiherr von Alderheim was there, looking somehow deflated; Lysander’s father was there as well, holding himself erect now, but with an effort that showed the stoop lurking beneath it. Recovery from the enemy’s virus attack was proceding, but still slowly. Queen Adriana stood by, holding her husband’s arm, almost visibly willing strength into it.
God, I hate hospitals, Lysander thought. There was the smell, of course, but that wasn’t as strong as in a battlefield surgical unit. Mostly there was a feel of sickness to them, a concentrated misery that soaked into the walls themselves.
“That’s fairly straightforward regenn work, though,” Dr. Ruskin continued; her fingers touched the scanner equipment tucked into the loops of her green gown slightly nervously. This was rather distinguished company for a sickroom. “At least seventy-five percent, possibly complete recovery. It’s the neurological damage that had us worried most of the morning. Ten hours of Sir Harlan’s best work. It was, well, what he was able to do was wonderful, that’s all.”
“She will recover?” von Alderheim asked.
“Yes, we think so.”
She doesn’t sound very sure, Lysander thought.
“And she can still have children?” von Alderheim insisted.
“Yes, there were no injuries of that kind,” the doctor said. This time she sounded much more confidant.
“Does she know we’re here?” Queen Adriana asked.
“No, Madame,” Dr. Ruskin said. “We’re using a neurological hookup to keep her asleep until the regeneration stimulation process takes hold.”
“So there’s no point in her father and my son staying here?”
“I wish they wouldn’t,” Ruskin said. “We’re terribly crowded, and some of the staff are awfully young; they want to see His Highness close up, and that can be disruptive. It really would be better if you go back and wait at the Palace. We’ll let you know in plenty of time before we wake her up.”
“She shouldn’t be alone,” Lysander said. “We failed her. I failed. Her and the whole planet, I can’t protect them and—”
“Nonsense,” the Queen said. “You can’t be everywhere at once.”
“I know, Mother, but—”
“And the doctor is right, Lysander. We are in the way.”
“How long? Until she wakes up?” Lysander demanded.
“Nine days minimum. More likely eleven.”
“Hmm. You’re certain there’s nothing we can do here?”
“Nothing but get in the way,” the doctor said. “You could go say a few words to anyone off duty in the staff lounge. They all want to see you. But otherwise—” Her voice softened. “You needn’t worry that she’ll be neglected, Highness. There’s no one here who doesn’t love the Princess. Soon to be Princess. We’ll have her well in time for the wedding, Prince Lysander. I swear it.”
“Thank you. And there’s work to do.” He started toward the door, then went back inside the room alone after the others left. Lysander, Prince of Sparta, put both hands on the tank and spoke quietly. “I’m sorry,” he said. He straightened and looked at the blocked off window as if he could see through to the city outside, to the city and the countryside beyond. “I’m sorry.” He stood that way a long time. When he turned to leave, his face might have been carved from stone.
* * *
Dion Croser stepped to the edge of the dais and raised his hands. Silence fell across the stadium like a ripple through the ocean of forty thousand faces, all turned toward him. Behind him his image stood, fifty meters high on the great screen; he flashed his famous grim smile and leaned his hands on the lectern. It was full night, but the blazing rectangles of light all around the upper tiers made a white day of the sloping seats, shutting out the dark and the stars. Searchlights stood between them, shining vertical pillars thousands of meters up into the sky until they merged into a canopy of white haze; between them were giant Movement banners, the black circle on red with the red = sign in its midst.
“Victory!” he said.
The word rolled and boomed back from the ampitheatre, and the crowd roared. A wave of pure noise that thudded into you like a fist in the gut. Terrifying, if you were the crowd’s enemy. Exhilaration beyond words when the adoration of the many-throated beast struck. The stadium was just off Government House Square; they would be hearing it in the Palace . . . hearing it in every house in Sparta City.
Power, he thought. This is power.
The sound went on and on, building until the ground shook with it; the white-noise surf of it gradually modulating as the disciplined blocks of NCLF militants chanted.
Dion the Leader! Dion to Power!” More and more falling in with the chant. “DION THE LEADER! DION TO POWER!”
He listened, waiting for the peak moment; they were like some smooth sculptor’s material under his command, and he could feel threads of unity stretching out from his mind to each of theirs. The sound was unaltered, but he could feel a moment’s smooth pause inside himself, like the hesitation of water at the top of a fountain’s arc. He raised his hands, and silence fell like a curtain into an aching void.
“My people,” he said, and there was a sigh like a vast moan.
You are my people, he thought. Foolish and brutish and short-sighted, you are what others have made you. Made you, and then despised you for it; but you will follow me, and I will give you back your pride. Make you worthy of yourselves.