So far as anyone knew, joy was foreign to Horvath.
Paddy Davies was an idealist, and a mostly cheerful young man-the executive director of the People of the Glorious Creator. At age thirty-two, he could pass for twenty-five. "The People" was an ecumenical, nontheological religious umbrella beneath which various churches and sects-and any individuals who felt inclined-could merge to pursue common objectives. These days the overwhelming objective was peace. Paddy found joy in political conflict, and had many opponents but not so many enemies.
He didn't trust Jaromir Horvath, nor did Horvath trust him, but they had smoked the calumet, and united two of the more effective activist groups on Terra into a Peace Front. Which they directed, though reckless splinter groups might force their hands.
Together they watched Fritjof Ignatiev climb to the platform atop the mound. Ignatiev was the third leg of the Horvath-Davies-Ignatiev tripod. Horvath was all intellect and bile, a theorist and planner as bitter as Karl Marx, and with far less justification. He might convince, but he seldom inspired. While Paddy was charming and bright, but lacked charisma.
Ignatiev, on the other hand-tall, blond, and messianically sure of himself-had a compelling charisma that worked well on crowds. He radiated power, spirituality, and certainty, and his eloquence never ceased to impress. His intelligence, however, was less than ordinary. He listened closely to more powerful minds-notably those of Jaromir Horvath and Paddy Davies-and imprinted their arguments. His grasp of those arguments was often weak, but he delivered them as gospel, and Wellesley Square this night held a sea of true believers, eager to hear.
Simply standing by the microphone and raising his long arms, Ignatiev caused the clamor to fade, the drums to stop. The bagpipes groaned to a halt. He had a magnificent voice. He didn't test the sound system, didn't think about what he was going to say. He simply lowered his arms, opened his mouth, and began.
When he finished, thirty minutes later, the crowd cheered their heads off. Nothing he'd said had differed in substance from what they'd heard before. Afterward one of the major news anchors termed it "the same tired old bunkum." But Ignatiev had given it a sense of higher truth. And if it did not specify new efforts, it bathed the demonstrators in a pool of righteousness, strengthened their sense of unity in the cause, and inspired new fervor. While undoubtedly, some among those who watched and listened on television were converted. At least temporarily.
It was, Paddy thought, up to himself and others now to capitalize on it. Create and implement projects that would make a difference. Projects already prepared, that together would change the flow, turn public opinion around, and end this dedication to war. He left uplifted, less by Ignatiev's thirty-minute oration than by its effect on the crowd.
Jaromir Horvath had not been inspired. His cynicism left no room for that. Instead he returned sour-faced to his small grim apartment to plan and write, and channel the movement's efforts. Rarely did he imagine success-the war effort abandoned, the Infinite Soul triumphant, the Wyzhnyny invasion turned aside. But he would persist. It seemed to him that in another twenty years he'd be dead one way or another. And whether or not the Front prevailed in its struggle with a blind and perverse government, the all-creative, all-seeing Infinite Soul would take him into its loving arms.
Basically, Horvath was really rather orthodox.
Foster Peixoto had watched from his apartment high in the executive tower, as Jaromir Horvath had supposed. But he'd watched alone, and via television, not from his balcony, which was much too far from the scene. When Fritjof Ignatiev had finished, and the cheering had finally faded, only then did the prime minister switch off the set and step onto the balcony. There his tall form was susceptible to a marksman with a long-range weapon, but that was not the sort of thing that worried him. In such matters he was a fatalist.
He considered the Peace Front an annoyance of limited potential. It could produce mischief, but not revolution. Nothing Ignatiev had said had changed his mind on that. An overwhelming majority of Terrans found the Front's position seriously unconvincing. If history had done nothing else, he told himself, it had demonstrated the creator's disinclination to meddle in human affairs. Humankind would live or die by its own efforts.
Presumably the Front didn't expect to convert the broad public to its point of view. And surely its members were contemplating more than demonstrations. Even now, extremist splinters would be planning serious terrorism and sabotage. Or efforts to lever the political and theological primitivism of refugee labor battalions into strikes and uprisings. That had been his reason for setting up a government cable channel-for and restricted to-refugee labor camps. A channel with mostly entertainment, and educational/propaganda programming that would not offend refugee ethno-religious sensitivities.
But a certain risk remained: benign, well-intentioned civic organizations had begun inviting groups of refugee laborers to members' homes on Sevendays. One could cautiously vet such organizations in advance, but they could not be controlled without stirring up civic resentment and uproar. Thus Peace Front agents could infiltrate, as Internal Security agents had. Fortunately, the damage the Front might accomplish through such groups seemed limited. His main worry was that the media might fan small flames into something more troublesome.
Foster, he chided, you have taken steps; let IntSec do the worrying. If they uncover anything, act accordingly. Otherwise do not tire yourself over these matters.
Chang Lung-Chi had watched the video in his living room, from the comfort of his recliner. When the cheering had died, he switched off the set. Such delicious self-righteousness, he thought ironically, then grunted. In their imaginations, they no doubt say the same of me. He hoped devoutly they did not create serious problems. Neither he nor Foster believed they would. History showed that Homo sapiens had come a long way: it was far less susceptible to having its emotions hijacked by agitators. Though there was still room for worry. So they'd agreed: let the Front march and rant as long as their resistance didn't seriously impair the war effort. Since the Troubles, martial law was anathema. It would do more damage than a hundred Ignatievs. He was willing to tolerate even a certain amount of activist destructiveness, if it came to that.
But if it became serious… Then the trick would be to take countermeasures that met with broad public acceptance.
Chapter 18
Camp Mudhole
The Madam Jao-another converted bulk carrier-emerged from warpspace less than two hundred thousand miles off Pastor Luneburger's World. Brigadier Pyong Pak Singh had been waiting in his cabin to witness the event. Pak, his staff, his regimental commanders and their staffs, and their company commanders had made the trip from Terra "live," sixteen days in hyperspace, then a half-dozen hours in equally featureless warpspace. In between there'd been perhaps a minute in familiar F-space, but he'd been sleeping, and missed it.
They'd hardly noticed the lack of scenery. They'd spent six hours a day in class, reviewing the cube of New Ground Tactics, produced by War House staff. Each day ended with another six of discussion and simulation exercises.
They needed to know the stuff cold, and see that their troops did. Because if things came together as planned-ship-building, fleet training, weapons delivery, and their own preparation-in nine months they'd take this now utterly green division to its home world, New Jerusalem, to wrest it back from the invaders. Whether or not they succeeded, it would be the Commonwealth's first ground campaign; War House had decided to start ground warfare-not defending but attacking. And in the process, for better or worse, they'd learn a lot, both War House and his task force. Though War House wouldn't pay for it the way his people would.