The Long War

the way up to Valhalla, and beyond. They’re the ones who backed the Footprint Congress here at Valhalla, where they composed their Declaration of Independence. And that’s their flag. Multiple worlds, see? . . .’
    Maggie heard a series of soft pops, like bubbles bursting: people stepping in. At last they had company.
    Cutler started barking orders, relayed by the marine commanders. The marching formation broke up into a line. Maggie took her own position.
    And she glimpsed people, men, women, children, most dressed either like farmers or beach bums or a combination of the two, just popping into the world, all over the square before the city hall. They arrived sitting down, and when one landed on top of another the newcomer would fall away, laughing and apologizing. A babble of conversation started up, like a country fair.
    All these people were filling in the space between the marines and the city hall. The dirigibles patrolled overhead, observing, impotent, their turbines growling.
    Captain Cutler, red-faced, surveyed this scene. ‘Bayonets,’ he snapped.
    ‘Belay that,’ said Admiral Davidson mildly, but clearly enough for all to hear. ‘We’re here to win hearts, Captain, not to cut them out of warm bodies. And there’ll be no firing either, except on my direct order. Is that clear?’
    And still the people kept coming, filling in the square, like human raindrops covering the ground. Some brought picnic baskets, Maggie saw, bemused. Cake, bottles of beer, lemonade for the kids. Others carried gifts: baskets of apples, even strings of big, plump-looking fish that they tried to hand to the marines, and dumped at their feet when they refused.
    Captain Cutler pressed Admiral Davidson. ‘Our mission is to take that city hall and raise the US flag, sir.’
    ‘Well, it rather looks as if Old Glory is already flying.’
    ‘But it’s the symbolism of the act . . . Let me try at least to clear a path across this square, Admiral.’
    ‘Oh – very well, Cutler. But play nice, will you?’
    At Cutler’s barked orders, marines were sent into the crowd. Meanwhile the dirigibles began gliding over the square, loudhailers broadcasting orders. ‘You are asked to disperse! Disperse immediately!’
    Maggie watched marine Jennifer Wang, from the detail that had travelled on board the Franklin , wade in with her colleagues. Surrounded by these people in their country-work type clothes, encased in her K-pot and turtle-shell body armour plates, she looked like some kind of alien invader beamed down from the sky.
    Wang chose her target at random. ‘Move, please, ma’am,’ she said to one fortyish woman with a gaggle of kids.
    ‘I will not,’ the woman said clearly.
    Her kids took it up like a playground chant. ‘I will not! I will not!’
    Wang just stood there, baffled.
    They tried lifting people bodily out of the way, grabbing wrists and ankles and just lifting. But others, especially little kids, would come and sit on the person you were trying to shift. And even if you got a clean lift the person would just go limp, like a floppy mannequin, making him or her almost impossible to handle. Cutler, without referring back to Davidson, tried getting his marines to soft-cuff a few of the protestors. But the people involved would just flick away into another world, and come tumbling back where you couldn’t reach them. Maggie found herself impressed with the coordination of this flash mob blocking the square, with the training they’d evidently had in this passive-resistance stuff – with their determination and discipline, almost military class, though with different techniques and objectives.
    And gradually the chanting was breaking out all over: ‘ I will not! I will not! ’
    Cutler stormed back to Davidson, frustrated, angry. Maggie thought his right hand hovered a little dangerously near his pistol. He said to Davidson, ‘If we could identify the leaders, sir—’
    ‘With a mob like this there may not be any leaders, Captain.’
    ‘Then a couple of rounds above their heads. Just to scatter them.’
    Without replying, the Admiral removed his cap, closed his eyes, and raised his lined face to the late-summer sun.
    Cutler snapped, ‘ No? Then how the hell are we going to fulfil our mission here? Sir .’ That last syllable was almost a snarl, and Maggie thought Cutler had to be close to insubordination – if not to breaking down altogether. ‘We cannot let these people mock us, sir. They do not