“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
“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.
“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.
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.
-9-
Two days later, James Hawthorne paced before his desk in his office on the Third Level of New Baghdad. The city had sixty levels all told, one of the deepest in the Eurasian landmass. New Baghdad contained more than fifty- seven million inhabitants, the majority of them government workers.
Old-style books lined the shelves beside him. The shelves were filled with military history texts. Hawthorne clasped his hands behind his back as he paced. He’d worn a path in his carpet. More than once, he’d debated putting in wood flooring but had never gotten around to giving the order.
The more he thought about the episode in the Fifty-third Level, the more it troubled him.
Hawthorne stopped and scowled at his military history books. Reading was his greatest comfort. History and military history in particular had always been his passion. Earth was like the Chin Empire that had once faced Genghis Khan and his Mongols. Genghis Khan had fielded a single host of nomadic horse-archers. The Chin had possessed hundreds of thousands of solid soldiers, as well as owning the Great Wall of China and countless cities of teeming millions with vast protective walls. As important, the nomads had lacked siege equipment to breach those walls.
Yet Genghis Khan’s nomads were warrior’s born and bred. The windswept steppes and vicious tribal warfare
