He shook his head. “Worst of all,” he concluded, “his body is actually rejecting the regeneration therapies your medical staff tried to offer him. He was too old to take them unless he was in the peak of health, and, obviously, he wasn’t. He may recover completely, but I think he’s always going to be in poor health and I would seriously recommend that he resigned from the Presidency when he recovered. At the moment, I wouldn’t permit him to do more than light duties when he awakes, if at all.”
I nodded. It was another reminder of just how primitive Svergie actually was, compared to Heinlein or Williamson’s World. Treatments that could extend a person’s life or cure the worst injuries or diseases simply didn’t exist here. Earth had had regeneration treatments as well, but they’d been reserved for the elite; everyone else, no matter who they were, lived a normal human lifespan. The UN had blamed that on the Colonies and convinced far too many people to support the various invasions and occupations. Worse, the treatments had to begin when the person was in their late teens for maximum effect… and the President was in his sixties. The best we could do was freeze his age and it looked as if we wouldn’t even be that lucky.
“Please inform me if his condition changes,” I said, finally. There was nothing else to say. “I’ll be on the military net and I’ll give you a priority code.”
We walked out of the hospital and back towards the armoured car. “I hope he recovers, sir,” Peter said, seriously for once. “What happens if he dies?”
“Frida Holmqvist ends up as the real President, not just the Acting President,” I said, remembering the Constitution. The Progressive Party would end up controlling both the Council and the Presidency; Frida, their leader, would be President. They’d have enough political power to ensure lasting change, both positive and negative. Frida had shown more backbone than I’d expected after the Communist Uprising had begun, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted her. “Our duties might change…”
The drive over to Government House was uneventful, although the building Frida had converted into a base of operations was surrounded by the one thing worse than an angry mob baying for blood — a mob of reporters, baying for news. The local reporters were less obnoxious than the UN’s tame attack dogs — they could be counted upon to write the story without doing anything as strange as actually checking the facts — but they were still irritating. I wanted to cover my eyes as flashbulbs started to go off in my face, but I swallowed the impulse. Instead, I walked to the armed guards in my best march, ignoring the reporters completely. They shouted silly questions anyway.
“When will the war be over?”
“Are you and the Acting President a couple?”
“Are you going to release the prisoners?”
I kept my face blank and ignored them. I didn’t know when the war would be over myself, the disposition of the prisoners was an affair for the planetary government and Frida and I were definitely not a couple. I didn’t understand why they came up with such questions, let alone had the nerve to ask. At least they weren’t casting aspirations on my sex life. The UN had been fond of using reporters to spread rumours and cast doubt on a person’s honesty, integrity and fitness for office. It was a wonder anyone believed them these days.
“Why did you hang one of your own men?” A reporter called, slightly louder than the others. “Why didn’t you hand him over to the Police?”
It was something I should answer, but I ignored the reporter anyway. I could have explained the truth, or made up a comforting lie, but the reporter would have misinterpreted and misrepresented everything I said for sensational effect. I could have told them all exactly why — I couldn’t tolerate indiscipline within the Legion — but they would never have understood. Their career insisted that they lie, cheat and steal; mine insisted on a certain personal integrity, if nothing else. Soldiers may fight for their countries, but they’ll die for their comrades in arms.
“You can’t take your pistol into the President’s presence,” the guard said, nervously. He wasn’t one of the soldiers I’d trained; my guess was that he was from the militia, just before the uprising. He should have been retrained at the spaceport under Russell, but the locals had been reluctant to pass all their fighting men through the camp. They probably thought that they had a good reason for it.
“Of course,” I said, removing the pistol from the holster and laying it flat on the table. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t get another one if that one were stolen. I would have liked one of the weapons that only worked for one person, but the UN had been experimenting for years and had never managed to get all the bugs out of the system. “Peter, wait here; I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Peter looked rebellious, but nodded reluctantly as I stepped into the office. Frida had taken over an executive boardroom for her personal office — at least until she moved again — and I examined it appreciatively. The previous owner had had good taste in paintings, although I was fairly sure that most of them were copies; the UN would never have let go of some of the classical paintings from centuries ago, even if they were banned to the general public. It wouldn’t do to have people wondering at the mystery of the smiling girl, would it?
“Reporting as ordered,” I said, formally. Frida looked up at me and smiled tiredly. “What can I do for you?”
“Stand at ease,” Frida said. Her lips twitched. “That is how you say it, isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” I said. “You could have roared like a Drill Sergeant or been fussy and precise like a Captain, but definitely close enough.”
Frida snorted as I sat down in a chair that was really too comfortable for my tastes. I dislike luxury when in the field, just because it can put me to sleep, or even relax too far. There probably wasn’t any danger of assassins within the building, but the discussion was too important to deal with while I was half asleep. Whatever Frida had called me from the besieged city to discuss, it had to be important.
“My small career in the politics has not been wasted,” she said, dryly. It had to be something uncomfortable, then. She didn’t normally waste time with small talk. “I’ve been trying to rebuild most of the government from scratch. The President handled more than I ever understood before finding myself in his shoes.”
I smiled. “If you wanted the job,” I asked, “shouldn’t you have found out what it entailed?”
“There’s normally a period when the outgoing President tutors the incoming President,” Frida explained. “Or at least there should be one; it’s easy to forget that the last few Presidents — apart from the incumbent — were really UN pawns. They only used the Constitution for toilet paper. They did everything the UN wanted and nothing for the people.”
She shrugged. “But you didn’t come here to hear a political speech,” she said. “Why did you hang the rapist from your men?”
I paused for a moment to think. “Because he abused his position,” I explained, finally. “Because he acted in a manner forbidden by regulations, regulations that were read out to him every day during his training and then every week while onboard ship. Because he allowed himself to get distracted in a very dangerous situation. Because he was a disgrace to the Legion. Because… take any or all of those answers.”
“The parents of the girl he… molested are demanding to know why he didn’t face the local courts,” Frida said, in the same dispassionate tone. “Why didn’t you hand him over to the Police for trial and sentencing?”