Soldiers

Chapter 32

The War at Home

"Mr. Garmisch, Supervisor Reinholdt will see you now."

Paul Garmisch got uneasily to his feet. He didn't know what this was about, but a guilty conscience had made him wary. The production supervisor's receptionist was indicating a door. It had opened, and a neatly-dressed, athletic-looking man waited by it. He was not Supervisor Reinholdt, but neither was he an office assistant. He looked too hard, too sure.

"Come in, Mr. Garmisch," the man said.

The words, the tone were mild, but to Paul Garmisch they sounded sinister. Garmisch was addicted to adventure cubes, and now he realized what this man reminded him of. He looked like the CIS men on shows about crime detection.

Garmisch entered the office. It was not Production Supervisor Reinholdt who sat behind the desk. It was a woman, someone Garmisch had never seen before. Reinholdt stood to her left, somewhat removed. "Please sit down, Mr. Garmisch," the woman said, and beckoned toward a chair. To her right, also not close, was another man, seated in a chair with a monitor arm and key pad. A small, brown, wiry man with probing, deep-seeing eyes; inwardly Garmisch squirmed, trying to escape them. A foreign immigrant, he thought. Perhaps a Malay. He'd known a Malay family once. The parents had looked somewhat like this man.

The woman repeated herself. "Please be seated, Mr. Garmisch. I am Ms. Sriharan."

She did not identify her function. The omission troubled Garmisch, and so did the chair she'd indicated. He'd never seen one like it before. It stood apart, on a low, apparently portable platform. He stayed where he was. "What is this about?" he asked. His tone was neither challenging nor indignant. It was wary. Frightened.

"I am about to tell you. But first, please sit down." She still sounded affable, looked affable. Her name was foreign, perhaps Asian he thought, but from her blond hair and blue eyes, she could be pure German. Garmisch did not consider himself hostile to non-Germans. "Let them live here, work here, vote here." He'd said it more than once. But he regretted genetic mixing, certainly with non-Nordics.

It was, he knew, much too late to be prevented. Non-Nordics had been trickling in for centuries. Perhaps as far back as the Troubles. (In school, history hadn't taken with him.) After a few generations, little remained of their origins except foreign surnames, sometimes dark skin. African hair. He himself was of mixed origin; it was hardly avoidable. But in his case, so far as he knew, his non-German ancestors were Aryan: Moldavian, Polish, and Croat. In school he had even taken German as one of his electives, learning it well enough to carry on limited conversations.

"Mr. Garmisch," she said. Her voice was still mild. "If you do not sit down, I must arrest you."

Garmisch looked at her, then at "the CIS man," then the Malay. What is a Malay doing here? he wondered. And what is he thinking? Hesitantly he stepped to the chair and sat. Perhaps, he told himself, the questions would not be about what he feared. Perhaps he had no reason to worry.

"Thank you, Mr. Garmisch. Let me complete the introductions." She gestured toward the supposed Malay. "This is Forensic Technologist Balaug, and the gentleman who admitted you is Senior Investigator VerDoorn. Both are of the Commonwealth Internal Security Directorate. You already know Supervisor Reinholdt, of course. He was kind enough to let us use his office."

The security directorate! The confirmation added weight to the stone in Garmisch's belly. He looked from one to the other. Ms. Sriharan leaned back in her chair like someone who'd just eaten a very fine meal. "It has been brought to our attention," she said, "that military blasters assembled on your line have been found defective. The assembler program had been altered, and a small but essential component was omitted, converting each blaster to a small but quite deadly bomb. A man died testing one; it blew his head quite off, and his arms to the elbows. We trust you can enlighten us on how this came to be."

Garmisch looked at Production Supervisor Reinholdt, who looked back at him grimly. Garmisch's gaze turned to his knees, and stayed there. It seemed to him that at the very least he would be discharged from his position. It was a good position. In these days, of course, there were many good jobs, but if they decided that what he had done was deliberate…

"First though," she continued, "let me advise you that you are not required to answer our questions. What you tell us may be used against you in a court of justice. Or to exonerate you, as the case may be."

They know. They surely know. I prepared the assembler program. I am in charge of it. Perhaps if I help them… Otherwise, it seemed certain he would be put in prison, where there were dangerous people who might harm him, beat him up for pleasure, or stab him to death so he could never tell what he knew. Inwardly he shivered.

Ms. Sriharan was looking steadily at him, as was Supervisor Reinholdt. And the Malay, and the senior investigator, whose names had not registered with him. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

"I have a neighbor," he said softly, as if not wanting to be overheard. "Sometimes he asked me into his apartment, where we would drink beer together, and talk. It is very nice to drink beer with someone and talk. One time he asked me if I would like to go to a football game with him. He had tickets. There is always a party afterward, he said. There will be women, some of them looking for a good man…"

The prime minister's office, five thousand miles from Leipzig, was considerably larger than Supervisor Reinholdt's. And the people gathered there were interested in the broad issue of sabotage, of which defective blasters were only a part.

"It may be time," the prime minister said, "to take the issue to the public. Saboteurs have presented us with several cases having the potential of great harm, including defective equipment in warships and armored floaters. Even defective stasis lockers on troopships. All potentially serious, and a drag on the defense effort.

"Now, from Luneburger's World, we have a case in which several parachutes arrived from the Indonesian Autonomous Republic improperly packed. One of them was used in a training exercise, and a soldier nearly lost his life-a nineteen-year-old from New Jerusalem. His body was effectively destroyed; he would not have survived the day had he not signed a warbot agreement."

Foster looks worn out, the president thought, and the day has little more than begun; he needs more sleep. He would not, however, urge it on him. Defense of the human species took priority. Perhaps if his ability to function seemed threatened… But his friend would never agree to ease off. He'd argue that in Terran gravity, Lunies habitually looked tired.

"I have heretofore been reluctant to bring the sabotage problem to the public attention," Peixoto went on. "Publicizing crimes sometimes does more harm than good by stimulating others to commit similar acts. Especially political crimes by extremists. But numerous inflammatory Peace Front harangues on the Ether and the broadcast media make this consideration less compelling than it might be. And now we are able to give the issue a suitable human face, an earnest, nineteen-year-old face. While at the same time promoting the warbot program."

He scanned the faces around the table. "Any questions or comments at this point? Nabil?"

The director of internal security had thrust his hand up, like Thor raising his hammer. He stood to speak, his words emphatic. "Declare martial law," he said. "Outlaw the Peace Front, and imprison its leaders for sedition or treason. Hold them incommunicado in special prison camps. Charges such as leading or organizing a demonstration, or burning the flag, deserve imprisonment at hard labor for the duration of the war. The most severe crimes-sabotage, mutiny, or inciting to mutiny-should bring sentences of hanging."

He remained on his feet for two or three more seconds, all eyes on him. But the prime minister showed no sign of replying while Al-Kathad still stood, so the director sat down.

"Thank you, Nabil. Martial law is an option, one I hope will not become necessary." He gazed mildly but unblinkingly at the director. "Imprisonment is appropriate, but not the death sentence. Historically, many fanatics have embraced execution to promote their cause. Often effectively."

Peixoto's gaze moved to the minister of justice-a one-time senior jurist, and Al-Kathad's boss. "Bikel, how would you implement martial law from the viewpoint of justice?"

Bikel Wong remained seated while he spoke. "Let me begin by agreeing with Nabil that martial law is advisable," he said. "Peace Front activities are building momentum. Its leaders are determined; they will not give in short of success-or their removal from the social/political environment. By which I mean imprisonment. Incommunicado.

"Membership in Peace Front organizations, including subscribers to Peace Front talk groups and newsfaxes, is less than two percent of the Terran population, and even lower on the other Core Worlds. However, polls indicate that as many as fifteen percent have reservations about defending the Commonwealth. Mostly on the grounds that we cannot succeed, and might do better leaving it in the hands of the All-Soul. On Terra, fifteen percent means some one-point-two billion who are more or less susceptible to Peace Front propaganda.

"At the same time, however, punishments for obstructing defense activities must be moderate and judicious. I recommend the use of civil tribunals, each consisting of three prominent and respected judges, sitting in closed sessions to evaluate the charges and evidence. And to pass sentence where appropriate." He paused, seeming unhappy at the prospect. "Nabil agrees, we do not want imprisonment based on rumors, nor an open season on dissenters. Or witch hunts. And people must not be arrested, then simply disappear. As for being held incommunicado-approved representatives of humanitarian organizations should visit the camps regularly, and question whomever they please. But complaints must be taken only to Justice, not to the public.

"And finally," said the justice minister, "all sentences should be reevaluated at the end of the war, when the pressure is less and our perspective greater."

Chang Lung-Chi grunted to himself. Justice delayed, he thought wryly, is better than no justice at all. He got to his feet without asking to be recognized; he was, after all, the president. "I recommend against martial law," he said. "Though I may change my mind later, the lessons learned from the Troubles advise against it. It is enough that our prime minister has extraordinary wartime powers.

"Today's activists are not the seasoned, well-schooled insurgents of eight or ten centuries ago, and I do not believe they pose so serious a threat. Certainly not yet.

"And let me say this about martyrdom: Peace activists are innately self-righteous. True believers. They will condemn any sentence, whether passed in closed or open courts, and deny all evidence, however compelling. They will declare-they will trumpet!-that everyone sentenced is a martyr. They are already our dedicated enemies, regardless of what we do. So in dealing with saboteurs, we must have two goals: first, the supression of sabotage, and second, the winning of at least acquiescence by those who have misgivings about defense."

He paused long enough that Nabil took the opportunity to speak. "If we imprison their spokesmen… " he began.

"If we imprison their spokesmen simply for speaking, we create additional martyrs and new spokesmen," the president said, "which we cannot afford to do. Certainly not yet. Arrests and punishment should be limited to those who commit crimes widely recognized as such. Meanwhile, we must strengthen public recognition that sabotage, terrorism, and the destruction of property are felonies. And that it is destructive to pass them off as simply differences of opinion."

Again he paused. "This means a bluntly honest exposure of Peace Front fallacies and lies. It means promoting the validity of our defense activities, and establishing that they are necessary and efficacious. And these efforts need to be headed by someone whom the population as a whole trusts and respects."

With that the president sat down. From beneath arched brows, Foster Peixoto's eyes rested on him quizzically. "Indeed. And are you willing to take the job?-while seeing to your already existing responsibilities?"

"I am. Though you may very well come up with a better candidate. Meanwhile, I am the head of state, not the head of government. If I have difficulties handling it all, I will delegate my ceremonial and other less essential duties, and give priority to this more critical work. But we should not create a special office. It should be done within the existing structure of government."

Nabil Al-Kathad listened glumly. He recognized the factors the others had pointed out, but saw himself as ultimately responsible for enforcing the law and suppressing crime. I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't, he thought. Meanwhile there remained the matter of appropriate and effective punishment.

This time he raised his hand, and the prime minister recognized him. "Yes, Nabil?"

"I still believe it is appropriate to execute criminals for high war crimes. It establishes their gravity in the public mind."

"Mr. Prime Minister," said Chang Lung-Chi, "if I may?"

"Go ahead, Mr. President."

"Nabil, my good friend, in cases sufficiently extreme, I would be willing to consider loading the guilty into a hyperspace courier and shipping them, without stasis, to a system in the path of the Wyzhnyny advance. There they would be shuttled to the surface of an enemy-occupied planet to negotiate peace. The minimum terms being Wyzhnyny withdrawal from the world they have taken, and from the general bounds of the Commonwealth sector."

With that the prime minister asked for further comments. As these were people with strong demands on their time, within five minutes the meeting was adjourned.