Planet Wrecker

-8-

“I don’t recommend this, sir,” Captain Mune said for the fifth time this hour.

Supreme Commander Hawthorne understood Captain Mune’s concerns. And he silently agreed with the captain’s reasoning. Coming here was…penitence maybe. Or maybe he was a glutton for pain, or maybe he needed to feel the fear in his belly.

He’d always hated the generals in what the ancients had called World War One. Those generals and field marshals had lived and dined in French chateaus as their soldiers had died in the mud and on the wire by the tens of thousands. Soft hands had moved pins on a map or pushed little blocks of wood representing a battalion of terrified soldiers, wet from the constant rain. If the generals and field marshals had slogged through the trenches with their men, they might not have continued the senseless butchery for years on end. Those generals might have striven for a way to win without fields of corpses.

Hawthorne sighed, and he tied the laces of his hood. He wore a green tunic with a hood covering his head. He was taller than the security people around him, but he was no longer thinner. His eyes felt gritty and he knew there were discolored bags under them. There had been too many sleepless nights lately.

“Be careful who you’re touching,” said Captain Mune. He jostled a security woman’s arm, shaking a chemsniffer out of her grip. She’d been using it on Hawthorne. The chemsniffer clattered on the pavement as the woman gasped with pain.

Other brown-clad security people turned, facing Mune.

The captain was a bionic soldier, and today he was Hawthorne’s sole bodyguard. The captain’s arm made soft whining sounds as he produced a card, handing it to the chief of lift security. The whining noise came from Mune’s mechanized joints.

The chief of lift security, who wore dark glasses and badly needed a shave, glanced at the plastic card and then at Mune.

Like the Supreme Commander, the captain wore a tunic, and like Hawthorne, Mune was incognito today. He was nearly as tall as Hawthorne, but thicker and more than five times as strong. That thickness now made Mune noticeable, made him stand out among the thin security people in their baggy uniforms.

Hawthorne knew that Mune had a heavy-duty gyroc pistol hidden on him. The gyroc fired rocket-propelled, fin-stabilized shells, an unlikely weapon down here in the lower levels of New Baghdad, the capital of Social Unity on Earth.

“What is this about?” asked the chief. His unshaven chin had plenty of white hairs among the black ones.

“Sure you really want to know?” asked Mune.

Hawthorne glanced at the captain. Mune spoke in a menacing tone.

“It’s your life,” said the chief, who had grown pale. “Just to let you know—”

“Don’t,” said Mune.

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.