“Colonel, this is ridiculous! You can’t force me to be president, and I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Falkenberg’s smile was grim. “Nor do I want you to understand. Yet. You’ll have enough trouble living with yourself as it is. Let’s go.”
George Hamner followed. His throat was dry, and his guts felt as if they’d knotted themselves into a tight ball.
The First and Second Battalions were assembled in the Palace courtyard. The men stood in ranks. Their synthi-leather battledress was stained with dirt and smoke from the street fighting. Armor bulged under their uniforms.
The men were silent, and Hamner thought they might have been carved from stone.
“Follow me,” Falkenberg ordered. He led the way to the Stadium entrance. Lieutenant Banners stood in the doorway.
“Halt,” Banners commanded.
“Really, Lieutenant? Would you fight my troops?” Falkenberg indicated the grim lines behind him.
Lieutenant Banners gulped. Hamner thought the Guard officer looked very young. “No, sir,” Banners protested. “But we have barred the doors. The emergency meeting of the Assembly and Senate is electing a new President out there, and we will not permit your mercenaries to interfere.”
“They have not elected anyone,” Falkenberg said.
“No, sir, but when they do, the Guard will be under his command.”
“I have orders from Vice President Hamner to arrest the leaders of the rebellion, and a valid proclamation of martial law,” Falkenberg insisted.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Banners seemed to mean it. “Our Council of officers has decided that President Budreau’s surrender is valid. We intend to honor it.”
“I see,” Falkenberg withdrew. He motioned to his aides, and Hamner joined the group. No one objected.
“Hadn’t expected this,” Falkenberg said. “It would take a week to fight through those guardrooms.” He thought for a moment. “Give me your keys,” he snapped at Hamner.
Bewildered, George took them out. Falkenberg grinned widely. “There’s another way into there, you know. Major Savage! Take G and H Companies of Second Battalion to secure the Stadium exits. Dig yourselves in and set up all weapons. Arrest anyone who comes out.”
“Sir.”
“Dig in pretty good, Jeremy. They may be coming out fighting. But I don’t expect them to be well organized.”
“Do we fire on armed men?”
“Without warning, Major. Without warning. Sergeant Major, bring the rest of the troops with me. Major, you’ll have twenty minutes.”
Falkenberg led his troops across the courtyard to the tunnel entrance and used Hamner’s keys to unlock the doors. Falkenberg ignored him. He led the troops down the stairway and across, under the field.
George Hamner stayed close to Falkenberg. He could hear the long column of armed men tramp behind him. They moved up stairways on the other side, marching briskly until George was panting. The men didn’t seem to notice. Gravity difference, Hamner thought. And training.
They reached the top and deployed along the passageways. Falkenberg stationed men at each exit and came back to the center doors. Then he waited. The tension grew.
“But—”
Falkenberg shook his head. His look demanded silence. He stood, waiting, while the seconds ticked past.
“MOVE OUT!” Falkenberg commanded.
The doors burst open. The armed troopers moved quickly across the top of the Stadium. Most of the mob was below, and a few unarmed men were struck down when they tried to oppose the regiment. Rifle butts swung, then there was a moment of calm. Falkenberg took a speaker from his corporal attendant.
“ATTENTION. ATTENTION. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE MARTIAL LAW PROCLAMATION OF PRESIDENT BUDREAU. LAY DOWN ALL WEAPONS AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE KILLED.”
There was a moment of silence, then shouts as the mob realized what Falkenberg had said. Some laughed. Then shots came from the field and the lower seats of the Stadium. Hamner heard the flat snap of a bullet as it rushed past his ear. Then he heard the crack of the rifle.
One of the leaders on the field below had a speaker. He shouted to the others. “ATTACK THEM! THERE AREN’T MORE THAN A THOUSAND OF THEM, WE’RE THIRTY THOUSAND STRONG. ATTACK, KILL THEM!” There were more shots. Some of Falkenberg’s men fell. The others stood immobile, waiting for orders.
Falkenberg raised the speaker again. “PREPARE FOR VOLLEY FIRE. MAKE READY. TAKE AIM. IN VOLLEY, FIRE!”
Seven hundred rifles crashed as one.
“FIRE!” Someone screamed, a long drawn-out cry, a plea without words.
“FIRE!”
The line of men clambering up the seats toward them wavered and broke. Men screamed, some pushed back, dove under seats, tried to hide behind their friends, tried to get anywhere but under the unwavering muzzles of the rifles.
“FIRE!”
It was like one shot, very loud, lasting far longer than a rifle shot ought to, but it was impossible to hear individual weapons. “FIRE!”
There were more screams from below. “In the name of God—”
“THE FORTY-SECOND WILL ADVANCE. FIX BAYONETS. FORWARD, MOVE. FIRE. FIRE AT WILL.”
Now there was a continuous crackle of weapons. The leather-clad lines moved forward and down, over the stadium seats, flowing down inexorably toward the press below on the field.
“Sergeant Major!”
“SIR!”
“Marksmen and experts will fall out and take station. They will fire on all armed men.”
“Sir!”
Calvin spoke into his communicator. Men dropped out of each section and took position behind seats. They began to fire, carefully but rapidly. Anyone below who raised a weapon died. The regiment advanced onward.
Hamner was sick. The screams of wounded could be heard everywhere. God, make it stop, make it stop, he prayed,
“GRENADIERS WILL PREPARE TO THROW.” Falkenberg’s voice boomed from the speaker. “THROW!”
A hundred grenades arched out from the advancing line. They fell into the milling crowds below. The muffled explosions were masked by screams of terror.
“IN VOLLEY, FIRE!”
The regiment advanced until it made contact with the mob. There was a brief struggle. Rifles fired, and bayonets flashed red. The line halted but momentarily. Then it moved on, leaving behind a ghastly trail.
Men and women jammed in the Stadium exits. Others frantically tried to get out, clambering over the fallen, tearing women out of their way to push past, trampling each other in their scramble to escape. There was a rattle of gunfire from outside. Those in the gates recoiled, to be crushed beneath others trying to get out.
“You won’t even let them out!” Hamner screamed at Falkenberg.
“Not armed. And not to escape.” The Colonel’s face was hard and cold, the eyes narrowed to slits. He watched the slaughter impassively, looking at the entire scene without expression.
“Are you going to kill them all?”
“All who resist.”
“But they don’t deserve this!” George Hamner felt his voice breaking. “They don’t!”
“No one does, George. SERGEANT MAJOR!”
“SIR!”
“Half the marksmen may concentrate on the leaders now.”
“SIR!” Calvin spoke quietly into his command set. The snipers concentrated their fire on the Presidential box across from them. Centurions ran up and down the line of hidden troops, pointing out targets. The marksmen kept up a steady fire.
The leather lines of armored men advanced inexorably. They had almost reached the lower tier of seats. There was less firing now, but the scarlet-painted bayonets flashed in the afternoon sun.
Another section fell out of line and moved to guard a tiny number of prisoners at the end of the Stadium. The rest of the line moved on, advancing over seats made slick with blood.
When the regiment reached ground level their progress was slower. There was little opposition, but the sheer mass of people in front of them held up the troopers. There were a few pockets of active resistance, and flying squads rushed there to reinforce the line.
More grenades were thrown. Falkenberg watched the battle calmly, and seldom spoke into his communicator. Below, more men died.
A company of troopers formed and rushed up a stairway on the opposite side of the Stadium. They fanned out across the top. Then their rifles leveled and crashed in another terrible series of volleys.
Suddenly it was over. There was no opposition. There were only screaming crowds. Men threw away weapons to run with their hands in the air. Others fell to their knees to beg for their lives. There was one final volley, then a deathly stillness fell over the Stadium.
But it wasn’t quiet, Hamner discovered. The guns were silent, men no longer shouted orders, but there was sound. There were screams from the wounded. There were pleas for help, whimpers, a racking cough that went on and on as someone tried to clear punctured lungs.
Falkenberg nodded grimly. “Now we can find a magistrate, Mr. President. Now.”
“I—Oh my God!” Hamner stood at the top of the Stadium. He clutched a column to steady his weakened legs. The scene below seemed unreal. There was too much blood, rivers of blood, blood cascading down the steps, blood pouring down stairwells to soak the grassy field below.