Warworld: The Lidless Eye (7 page)

The courtyard spotlights showed a convoy of some twenty trucks and armored cars, some of them still disgorging militiamen. Hamilton saw bullet holes in the truck covers and a few in the flared skirts of the armored cars, as well as seven or eight men being carried on stretchers toward the dispensary. Captain Mazarin, he suspected, had played down the seriousness of their fight with the bandits.

Warden James Dunn was directing a dozen servants, who were loading sacks of grain into one of the trucks. John wondered if Mazarin was going to leave a platoon or two in exchange for the foodstuffs. The castle garrison—it was easier now to think in those terms—had over a hundred able-bodied men, most of them with a lifelong familiarity with hunting weapons. Maybe the militiamen were going to train them in infantry tactics—but, then, some of the older bodyguards were ex-Imperial Marines and the Warden himself was a former Regimental Sergeant-Major.

It wasn’t until the militiamen started wrestling heavy crates out of the back of another truck that his question was answered. Captain Mazarin cut one of the crates open and pulled out a Medieval-style armored helmet. John recognized the helm; it was a sallet, a late-Medieval style of helmet introduced when gunpowder was changing the face of battle.

When Mazarin finished unloading the crate, a dozen gleaming helmets stood in a row on the stone pavement. Now John had another
question:
Has my grandfather lost his blanking mind?
Other than a costume ball, what other possible use was there for these out-of-date helmets? He could easily think of a hundred different things that would be more valuable in exchange for their precious grain stocks.

“Stand back!” Mazarin shouted, as he drew his sidearm and fired point-blank at the nearest helmet.

Sprooonnngg!
The sallet jumped and tottered. John was unable to see where the ricocheting bullet went. He was too busy staring at the helmet, unmarked except for a tiny nick and a smear of lead.

“That’s our best durasteel alloy, Baron,” Mazarin said proudly. “It will stop anything short of a spent-uranium slug. Of course, a man can still be knocked down or even break something, if he’s hit in a limb. If he’s hit in the head, he’ll still have to worry about a concussion, whiplash or great murdering headaches. But any brains he has will remain in his head where God put them, instead of scattered all over the landscape!”

The Baron grinned like a proud father.

Someone else opened another crate and started laying out breastplates. A third crate held steel shoulder pieces—vam-something or other, he couldn’t remember just what they were called. He did remember that one wore some kind of padded garment under his armor, an “arming doublet,” he recalled.

“We had to build them a bit heavier than they did in the Middle Ages,” Mazarin said, “but the armor is ten times as strong. You’re not going to be turning cartwheels in these, but a fit man should still be able to run. We built them in six different sizes, so they’ll fit any average or large man less than thirty kilos overweight.”

The Baron smiled. “These will do; by damn,
more
than do!

Mazarin picked up a durasteel gauntlet, put it on and wiggled his fingers. “We’re also working on closer tolerance with computerized machine tools. We can do things the old Milanese and Nuremburg smiths never dreamed of. Here try this, Baron.”

He handed John Hamilton a gauntlet and a pen. Once John got used to the weight, he found that he could actually write with his armored
glove on. He scribbled “Long Live the Empire” on a piece of paper, then removed the gauntlet and handed it to his grandfather.

The Baron cradled it in his arms as if it were a newborn puppy. “Tell Brigadier Cummings he has my undying thanks. He’s done far better with these than what I had expected. Anything I can do to repay him…”

“You’ve already more than repaid us, sir. The specie and food will keep the Volunteers paid and fed; if we can do that we can do a lot of other things. Now we’re independent, free of the Chamber of Deputies and Castell. Now that we’ve evacuated Fort El Alamein, we can concentrate our forces at Forts Fornova and Kursk. All our efforts to date would have been wasted, though, if we couldn’t meet the payroll or keep rations coming in.”

The Baron looked at the grim stone walls around them as if they showed him some other time or place. “I wish I could do more, Captain. Your militia may be the last hope for civilization on Haven. This stuff”—pointing to the armor—“is my insurance. Or the insurance for my grandchildren and their grandchildren and all the grandchildren to come, for God knows how long. If I’m wrong, they’ll pack it away and laugh at me as I used to laugh at the stories of Old Edwin the Hoarder when I was young. But, if I’m right, this may be all that lets my grandchildren
have
children.”

The Baron shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “How many did you bring?”

Mazarin clearly wasn’t the kind of officer to leave details to his NCOs. He started reciting figures without referring to his belt computer. “A hundred and fifty durasteel sets of armor and five hundred cold-rolled steel sets. The cold-rolled steel won’t stop more than pistol slugs and shell or grenade fragments, but I suspect there’ll be enough of those flying around to make them useful.”

The next shipments would include another hundred durasteel sets of armor and a thousand steel sets, as well as fifty durasteel back-and-breast combinations. The final shipment would include fifty more complete durasteel sets of armor, five hundred durasteel helms and eight hundred
more back-and-breasts, three hundred of them durasteel.

“Now, sir,” Mazarin said. “May I ask a question?”

The Baron nodded.

“Why so many sets of armor?” He lowered his voice. “As I understand it, you have less than a hundred men of fighting age.”

The Baron gave him a knowing smile. “We’ll have a lot more shortly, Captain. Once they’re all trained, I intend to build a real curtain wall, with towers, around Whitehall. Trust me, I don’t believe we’ll have any shortage of new recruits, either. Those steel suits are for my neighbors, or at least those neighbors who think they’re worth an alliance with House Hamilton. If we all stand together, shoulder-to-shoulder, we should be able to keep this end of the Central Valley peaceful.”

Mazarin shook his head. “I wish I could say you’re wasting your time. But I don’t think you are, nor would you believe me if I said it.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t believe it myself.”

2629 A.D., Haven

The knock on his door echoed through his bedroom like a gunshot. John Hamilton twisted out of his bedcovers, wondering for a moment if Whitehall was under attack. The knocking began again; this time in earnest.

“Your Lordship! Wake up! There’s someone here to see you.”

As his heartbeat returned to normal, John began to put his clothes on over his thermal underwear. Outside the big cities, where they had energy to burn (but for how much longer?), nobody in the hinterlands went to bed without their long johns. Even now, late in an equatorial summer, it was cold enough in the chamber to set his teeth to chattering.

The knocking resumed.

“Just a minute!” he called out, as he pulled on his trousers.

He opened the door to see James Dunn, the castle Warden—another term that no longer felt archaic or strange on his tongue. “What is it, James?”

“There’s a Lord Whakley here to see you sir.”

“A who—Whakley! It’s early. What’s he doing here?”

“He just arrived from Castell in a hovercar with his wife and family, Your Lordship. I believe he’s asking for sanctuary.”

John found Howard Whakley and his Grandfather hovering over the kitchen fire, warming their hands.

“Good to see you, Howard. “But—what are you doing here at this hour?”

Whakley gave him a what-a-stupid-question look. For the first time, John noticed the tightly drawn face and bloodshot eyes. “We’ve just escaped from Hell! Castell’s gone mad—the whole city! The police went on strike and the streets are running with blood. The Provos attacked Government House. Murdered the Governor-Elect and everybody they could catch who wasn’t a sympathizer or member of the Party. They hung a dozen of the Deputies inside the Chamber of Deputies. Then they took over the media and declared martial law.

“The miners, some of the police and Big Al’s Syndicate didn’t like that idea. They fought back. It took the Provos about three days to end the fight. Twenty thousand casualties, they’re calling it. They pretty much wrecked themselves in the process.”

“Thank God for small favors,” the Baron said.

“Very small,” Whakley added. “While everyone in the city who wasn’t directly involved in the fight was watching Castell burn, David Steele brought out his bully boys and proclaimed himself King of Haven.”

Baron Hamilton barked out a laugh. “King! The little shitbird has truly gone mad. Only the Emperor can crown a king.”

Whakley shook his head. “Steele’s found a way around that dilemma. Says Haven’s no longer an Imperial Member World. We’ve seceded and he calls Haven an Independent Monarchy.”

“I’m sure the Empire will have something else to call it,” John said,
“like ‘treason’ and ‘rebellion.’” It was something he knew had to be said. He also knew that the Empire returning was a question of “if” rather than “when,” and so did everyone else in the room. “Why haven’t we heard anything about this over the Tri-V or radio?”

“Steele’s got control of all the stations that weren’t wrecked in the fighting,” Whakley said. “He’s censoring everything going out. I suppose he knows that the rest of Haven might have differing opinions over what he’s done. I know he’s busy trying to organize an army before anyone else scrapes up the firepower to oppose him. He believes he’s a general as well as a king—a regular Napoleon.”

The Baron let loose with a noise indicating disgust too great to put into words. “All Steele is going to do is start a civil war in the Shangri-La Valley at a time when the rest of Haven’s on the brink of decivilization. Brigadier Cummings always said the man was dangerous… By the way, what’s the militia been doing while Steele was running amuck?”

John and his Grandfather exchanged glances; they both pretty much knew the answer to that question. What they really wanted to find out was how much the general public—including David Steele—might know.

“Nothing, so far, Baron. The militia evacuated Castell City about a standard month ago—took everything that wasn’t bolted down—and moved lock, stock and gun barrel into Fort Kursk. I suspect they’ve been lying low since the fighting began. I know the Chamber of Deputies called them out, but there was no reply from the Brigadier.”

John and the Baron were relieved to learn that the militia had opted out of the rebellion in Castell. There was no reason for the militia to get involved when the City Fathers hadn’t supported them with cash or supplies. The Haven Volunteers had most of the heavy weapons and armored vehicles left on Haven. The militia’s arsenal could make a big difference in how long David Steele’s cardboard monarchy lasted and how much damage it did.

Somebody had to protect Haven from outsiders and pirates and that was the militia’s primary job, not choosing sides in local squabbles
or revolts. Above all, the militia was neutral unless things got too far out of hand. Cummings was probably glad to see the Provos, who wanted to set up political action committees and put moral officers in every community, get their heads handed to them on a platter. Strong men came and went, but political ideologies and religious crusades were like viruses and needed to be stamped out.

“The Provos revoked Cummings’ commission,” Whakley went on. “They also proclaimed that the Haven Volunteers were disbanded. Of course, it was all hot air. The Brigadier didn’t even give them the courtesy of a reply. They did a lot of other equally stupid things, none of which stuck; thereby making Steele look like a credible answer to the store owners and professional people in Castell. The Provos were unable to raise any troops of their own without a way to pay them, other than their political cadres. Nor did they have a solution to inflation; other than printing more fancy toilet paper.

“Steele, on the other hand—that’s the main reason I’m here—found out about the Whitehall hoard. The first objective for the Royal Army is to—”

“What!?” roared the Baron. “How did he find out?”

“George Morris, the banker, talked. They threatened to torture his son and he told them everything he knew. Killed himself afterwards, the poor bastard. Couldn’t live with what he’d done—Whitehall wasn’t the only outfit he sold out. I got word from one of his confidantes, who’s working both sides, that Steele wants Whitehall—and John dead.”

Collaborators, trying to work both sides
, John thought with disgust. Typical of the kind of instability that had undermined Castell since the Imperial Governor had left. Still, he’d trusted Morris to keep his mouth shut. Of course, he might have caved, too, had he any hostages to fortune besides his sister and grandfather.

“How long do we have?” the Baron asked.

Whakley shrugged. “It’ll take him some time to pull his troops together; they’re still culling the opposition in the city. I’d say a standard month or two.”