Mavichel died thereafter.
I wasn't in the room personally. We all felt like we'd died ourselves, that our world, our movement, and our people had died with him when we heard that machine flat lining. The medical attendants of my staff walked out, looking blank and hopeless.
"Please leave us," I motioned to the present guards, my staff. The several March Conspirators, as we had come to call ourselves, that had made it out the Parade Route with me joined by the Arch Bishop's lifeless body, silently offering prayers.
I leaned against the far wall. How had things gone so wrong? Incoherent reports of raging skirmishes came in from all corners of the sprawling cities of the planet, the chain of command on both sides severed. In the room over, I'd heard the vox-officers in frantic battle over the com systems with commands all the way down to the smallest platoon. People, my soldiers and the Governor's, were running aimlessly across the city, everyone trying to get a hold of the situation, establish order.
But without us, the leaders of the revolution, it was impossible. The battles raged like a virus, buildings falling, armored divisions blaring away at the now void shielded citadel that housed the Governor, and the Guard barracks's. The return fire destroyed blindly.
We'd started this all in Mavichel's church, where we two dozen conspirators gathered in our planet's good interest and red colors. We'd all shed our colors, while we sat in the concrete bunker below street level in the slums that smelled of fuel and grease. The ground shook every so often at the blast of ordinance on the streets above.
Artillery fire in my home city. How could we ever come back from this?
"All's lost," one of us muttered solemnly, standing over the pale corpse.
"Aye," said another, turning to the other conspirators. "The Arch Bishop's word was our guiding light. Without him, all is naught." There was silence for a moment, while we all tried to come to terms with our situation. I spoke up next.
"I don't think now's the time for mourning," I said quietly, "the stakes are just higher now."
"How can you even think that!?" the second snapped, whipping about at me with wild eyes. "Don't dare discount the Arch Bishop's loss!"
I frowned at him, but I understood. These men weren't soldiers. In my field, we take the loss at heart and move on. They didn't understand that we couldn't stop there. Right then had to be the time we took action, that we compensated and moved on in the new set of circumstances. I told them as much.
"There's no way about it. Either we sit here and curse our fortune, which I am disinclined to allow us to do, or we move on."
"If we don't reestablish order soon, we condemn our people to further injustice, this time of the life threatening sort. So aye, action must be taken," said the youngest in the room, Djokhar Dudayev, "but what? Mavichel had his plans; we were only his consultants and suppliers. How do we move on without him within the frame of his designs?"
"We construct our own," I put forth.
"Dare we? How can we assume to make these decisions for our people?" Asked the first. "How could even Mavichel do that?"
"That's why he chose to have us, the Conspirators. We represent the people as a whole, from every corner of our society," the Djokhar, putting forth a finger to punctuate his point. There was a tone of hope on his voice as he came upon Mavichel's backup plan. I hadn't even considered it that way, as close as I was to the Arch Bishop. The numbers of the Conspirators had risen from the original twelve from the capitol city to a few hundred all over the several other major cities.
"So what would you suggest we do? Convene with what's left of our number?" the second asked, opening back up to discussion.
Djokhar turned to me, eyes glowing. "Can we open communication?"
"We'll see in the hours that follow. If my men remember their orders, we'll get reports in from the remaining Conspirators."
He nodded gratefully. "So we wait here. We take shelter and as the initial chaos dies down, we make contact. We aren't lost yet, fellows."
I excused myself as they continued on in conversation. I was one of them, yes, but I existed in the group for different reasons than the philosophers and writers, and the politicians and the merchant leaders. I was here to lead the troops, to keep order.
"General," said my vox-officer as I entered the room, coming to attention.
"At ease," I said with a wave of my hand. "Sit rep, please."
"Of course," he began, as I noted the madness over the vox system had lessened slightly. "Of the ten regiments present at the Parade Route, six have fled into the city with varying losses, net losses low overall. The other four have taken the buildings and are hammering the loyalists in the citadel.
"We're getting reports of loyalists turning weapons on our men in all other cities, but that's to be expected. Fighting's pretty fierce.
"Our armored divisions have scattered. They're working autonomously, as of right now." I nodded gladly at that. My trust for Major Mitrokhin had not been misplaced.
"Any reports from the units escorting the Conspirators?" My officer shook his head. I nodded, patting him on the back. "Keep us connected, Lieutenant. Make sure people hear our voices."
"Yes sir," he said, returning to the com room.
I strode then up the stairs into the impromptu barracks on ground floor. Every man stood, looking to me for orders. As a swept my gaze over them, young men with all trust invested in me, I knew, from here, we couldn't make any more mistakes.
"Platoon Leaders, with me," I said, walking into the command room, maps laid down over tables and the walls. I looked up at an overall view of the city, silent.
The city started low in the plains, in miles worth of manufactorums, and housing areas, moving up a low slope to the low laying slums. Further up the hill, the city became a few square miles of massive buildings, stone cathedrals intermingling with newer skyscrapers. The alleys there would make a dangerous Hell for the conflicts to come, this I knew.
At the top of hill, overlooking the steep fall to the ocean below was the capitol building. It was a massive cathedral, separated by a quarter mile of empty space. The direct route to it, the Parade Route, was at the moment alive with fire – so much we knew but didn't show on the map, of course.
"So," I began, turning to my men, "let's get to work."
--------
The atmosphere in the Chimera transport was grim, the sound of the engine's roar filling the enclosed space. Several guardsman stood, some looking shell shocked, but all silent.
Willam passed his gaze over them with a humorless smirk. He took a swig from the canteen he carried, shaking his head. "That's why you don't bring guns to a peace talk," he grumbled, his voice low.
One of the guardsmen, a young lieutenant, shot him a venomous look. "It takes men to fire guns, sir."
"Ah," Willam said, raising a finger, voice rising with an unusually black tone, "that's why you don't bring guns with killers attached to the triggers to a peace talk."
The Lieutenant was quick upon the old man, gripping him by his red cloak, and pulling him forward. Willam let out a little cry. "We're not killers! And this sure as Hell isn't our fault! My men had more stakes in this than any poet or philosopher, because it's our families that are starving! So shut your mouth before I shut it for you!"
"I would if it didn't leave the question of who, then, is to blame?" Willam spat back, recoiling as the man brought up a fist.
"Lieutenant!" snapped the Major, entering through transport's driving chamber. "Take a seat," he said, staring the young officer down. The man offered both of the two angry looks, but sat silently, as the older officer stood Willam up. "Join me topside if you would."
The two climbed up the short ladder to the hatch, and with the Major's help, Willam sat atop the tank as it rolled down the tight alley. Willam looked about, the buildings looming high overhead, blotting the sun out. The alley was barely wide enough to hold the Chimera as it chugged along, trailed by several other transports and a few Leman Russ tanks.
The alley was lined with dark windows and doors, the whole of the place looking desolate. Most of the lower levels of the city looked this way, he knew.
"Tell me, Mr. Haim, what do you think happened back there?" Major Mitrokhin asked. Willam chuckled sarcastically.
"Some begrudged guard couldn't contain his temper, and destroyed our chances of winning this without violence," he explained.
"Do you really think one of the PDF would have done that?" The Major asked, taking a swig from Willam's offered canteen.
"Let's face it," Willam said, looking up at the sky far above, "they aren't the smartest people around. I don't think any of them understand that a fight can be won without violence. They're made to fight, aren't they?" Vasili laughed.
"That's true, we aren't quite thinkers. And it's also true we're meant to fight. But this is our home, and the fight was never meant to follow us here. None of us wanted this."
"You've got it now, though," Willam commented darkly. "I fear the government will use this as every reason to make us the villains. We'll have to work hard to keep the moral high ground if we want to come out the victors."
Mitrokhin frowned but nodded, watching the dirt and detritus they passed.
"These streets, places like right here," Mitrokhin began, thoughtfully, "will be the death of us. I don't think anyone even remembers these places being built over, and now most of us will die here." As he said this, Willam glanced up at him, expectantly. "You thinkers better clear this up quick, because it won't just be us killers dying down here."
Willam raised an eyebrow, hoping he hadn't made offense, but after a moment Vasili grinned humorously. War wasn't a joke to him, but how else could he face this except with a smile on his face? Willam understood.
"Where are we off to?" he asked after a while.
"My armored divisions will be breaking up into smaller groups, and striking the Victory Spire from hidden positions. That means us, too."
Willam nodded grimly. He knew that meant the enemy tanks and infantry would be working to get rid of him. "Fortunately for you though, this Chimera isn't really up to any offensive work, and the General left us officers with specific instructions; get the conspirators to safety, wherever that may be." Willam sighed with relief at that, and again Vasili laughed, drinking deeply from the canteen.
"Emperor be praised that I've made myself weak and important," Willam laughed, joined then by Vasili. Their grim laughter and cheer echoed with the roar of tank engines down the alley, backed by the distant sound of war.