The Chosen

'Where'll he be, sir?' Barrjen asked.

John replied without turning or halting his steady trot. 'I think I know.'

They were elbowing their way through crowds now, turning south to Monument Point. The crackle of small- arms fire sounded. The downslope of an avenue let them see the square around the Founders' Monument, the bronze figures still raising their weapons in the Oath. A barricade of vehicles surrounded it, some of them tanks or armored cars.

'He'll be there, if he's alive at all,' John said tonelessly. 'There are bunkers under the monument, old ones, but they're always kept up, the magazines kept full, it's a ritual-'

A wave moved forward from the streets and buildings around the square, a wave that screamed and fired as it ran, ran over a carpet of bodies that covered the pavement too thickly for the stone to show. Bullets lashed out into the wave and it absorbed them, piling up as if on a breakwater. In a minute or less the edge of the wave was piled against the muzzles of the guns, stabbing and shooting and tearing flesh with its bare hands.

'Vater. .' John whispered, in the tongue of his youth.

Something prompted Barrjen to dive for John's legs. They went down in a tangle of limbs; the others went prone with old-soldier reflex before they were consciously aware of what had happened. Even over a thousand yards and the screaming of the attacking horde the explosion was loud. Bronze and stone and human flesh erupted upwards. No un-Chosen hand would ever touch the Monument of the Oath.

'Vater!' John screamed, knowing exactly who had touched off that last fuse.

'Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ, sir, stay down!' Barrjen shouted.

Barrjen and Smith wrestled with him. Then he grunted and collapsed into their arms.

'Damn, damn!' Smith said, hands scrabbling for the wound. 'Damn, give me a bandage here, put some pressure on!'

Barrjen left them to their work, looking out over the square with a silent whistle. The crater was a hundred yards across, and he ran a quick calculation.

There can't be that many dead people in that small a space, he thought. Then he looked around at the burning chaos that stretched on either side around the harbor, farther than the eye could penetrate, up the sides of the mountains where the flames marked every plantation manor and village.

I guess there can be.

'Okay, let's get the boss back to the ship,' he said aloud.

* * *

'Nein,' Gerta Hosten said tonelessly.

'But sir, we have to strike quickly, before the enemy lands troops in the Land itself. We have half the area under control, and hundreds of thousands of armed-'

'Shut. Up.' Gerta told her son, looking down over the harbor of Westhavn. The fires were out, and the ships that crowded the roadstead were moving towards the docks. Occasionally a shot crackled, but nothing like yesterday when the local issue was still in doubt. She went on in the same flat mechanical voice:

'We have pockets of control in the north and east of the island. We have hundreds of thousands of children, Probationers; if it weren't for the fact that they'd been called up and concentrated, we'd all be dead by now. I doubt there are more than two divisions worth of Chosen adults left in areas we control. Perhaps a division's worth of Proteges who didn't mutiny. Now let me give you some arithmetic; there were more than two million slave laborers in the camps around Oathtaking and Copernik alone. And enough arms in the warehouses waiting shipment to the mainland to equip ten divisions. So there are at least a million armed rebels in the southern and eastern lowlands, not counting several divisions of Proteges who've killed their officers. Suppose that our children-and some of them are shorter than the weapons they're carrying-could retake that part of the Land, which they can't possibly do, what do you think the Santie army would make of them? And they'll be ready to put troops ashore here in fairly short order.'

'Their. . their navy was heavily damaged in the battle of the Passage.'

Gerta nodded, her face still to the window. 'They have six intact battleships. None of ours survived. The aircraft carriers are without aircraft. Perhaps two dozen other warships, all damaged, and several hundred merchantmen. We have no repair facilities, and no hope of restarting the industries-we had to kill nine tenths of the labor force over the past six days, or didn't you notice?'

'Then-'

Gerta turned. Johan Hosten was standing rigidly, but tears were trickling down his cheeks.

Smack. The flat of her palm took him across the side of the face. 'Attention!'

'Yes, sir!'

She could see him gather himself. 'Now, you will hear what we are going to do, and then you will assist me in preparing the necessary orders. Those who wish to do so will entrench here in Westhavn and in Konugsburg, and surrender to the Santander forces. They will live, at least. Those who do not wish do do so will board ship.'

'Ship?' Johann asked. 'For where, sir?'

'The Western Isles, of course,' Gerta said. 'It's our only remaining possession. The wireless reports that conditions are stable'-as much as they could be in a clutch of small jungle islands halfway around the world-'and it's rather far for the enemy to get around to anytime soon. We'll load all possible industrial equipment.'

'But sir. . how will. . even if only half our remaining population. . the Western Isles don't have any agriculture to speak of.'

'Then we'll eat a lot of fish, won't we?' Gerta said.

'But there aren't enough Proteges there to support us!'

Gerta sighed, closed her eyes and put two ringers to her brow. We just don't learn very fast, she thought bitterly.

'Then we'll have to learn how to fish, ourselves, won't we? You have your orders, Hauptman.'

'Zum behfel, Herr General.' Johann remained standing. 'May I speak further, General?' he said.

Gerta felt cold. 'You may,' she said.

'General,' said the boy. There were tears on his cheeks. 'I will be among those who remain in Westhavn. With your permission, sir.'

'Permission granted,' Gerta said tonelessly. 'Now, bring me the file on the merchant vessels available.'

'Mi Mutti? I will never surrender!'

Gerta looked at her son: perfectly trained to be what she wanted him to be. Her ultimate failure. 'No,' she said, 'I don't suppose you will. Now, bring me the file.'

EPILOGUE

John Hosten smiled at his wife from the hospital bed. 'Yes, Pia, I agree. A holiday. . when things are settled a bit.'

She put her hands on her hips. 'They will never be settled. Already they are talking of drafting you as a candidate for premier in the next election.'

John sat upright and winced at the pain in his leg. The doctors had saved it-and him-but it had been touch and go for a while. 'Not a chance, by God!'

Pia sighed and smiled. 'They will tell you it is for the public good-'

correct, Center said.

Shut up, John hissed mentally.

'— and you will rise to it like a trout to a fly.'

She gathered her cloak. 'Now they tell me you must rest. But you will see our son married-'

Maurice Hosten put his free arm around his fiancee; Alexandra Farr was still in Auxiliary uniform, and he in Air Corps sky-blue. The left arm was in a sling, but the cast was due to come off any day now. With luck, he might