The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge

  The northerner just shrugged, but the blond fellow in the outrageously striped shirt—Alvin Swensen, the report named him—leaned forward and almost hissed. “Maybe, maybe not, asshole! But it doesn’t matter. You’re going to kill a lot of people, but in the end you’ll be dragging your bloody tail back south.”

  Figuratively speaking, Strong’s ears perked up. “How is that, Mr. Swensen?”

  “Read your history. You’re stealing from a free people now—not a bunch of Aztlán serfs. Every single farm, every single family is against you, and these are educated people, many with weapons. It may take a while. It may destroy a lot of things we value. But every day you stay here, you’ll bleed. And when you’ve bled enough to see this, then you’ll go home.”

  Strong glanced at the casualty report on the situation board, and felt laughter stealing up. “You poor fool. What free people? We get your video, your propaganda, but what does it amount to? There hasn’t been a government in this part of the continent for more than eighty years. You petty gangsters have the guns and have divided up the territory. Most of you don’t even allow your ‘clients’ firearms. I’ll wager that the majority of your victims will welcome a government where there is a franchise to be exercised, where ballots, and not MSP bullets, decide issues.

  “No, Mr. Swensen, the little people in the ungoverned lands have no stake in your status quo. And as for the armed groups fighting some kind of guerrilla war against us—Well, you’ve had it easier than you know for a long time. You haven’t lived in a land as poor as old New Mexico. Since the Bobble War, we’ve had to fight for every liter of water, against an enemy far more determined and bloodthirsty than you may imagine. We have prevailed, we have revived and maintained democratic government, and we have remained free men.”

  “Sure. Free like the poor slobs you got locked up over there.” Swensen waved in the direction of the workers’ barracks.

  Strong leaned across the narrow conference table to pin Swensen with his glare. “Mister, I grew up as one of those ‘slobs.’ In New Mexico, even people that poor have a chance to get something better. This land you claim is practically empty—you don’t know how to farm it, you don’t have a government to manage large dam and irrigation projects, you don’t even know how to use government agriculture policy to encourage its proper use by individuals.

  “Sure, those workers couldn’t be told why they were brought here. But when this is over, they will be heroes, with homesteads they had never imagined being able to own.”

  Swensen rocked back before the attack, but was plainly unconvinced.

  Which makes sense, thought Strong. How can a wolf imagine anyone sincerely wishing good for sheep?

  An alert light glowed on Strong’s display and one of the clerks announced, “Presidential transmission under way, Mr. Strong.” He swore behind his teeth. The Old Man was early. He’d hoped to get some information out of these three, not just argue politics.

  A glowing haze appeared at the head of the conference table and quickly solidified into the image of the fourth President of the Republic. Hastings Martinez was good-looking with bio-age around fifty years—old enough to inspire respect, young enough to appear decisive. In Strong’s opinion, he was not the best president the Republic had seen, but he had the advisor’s respect and loyally nevertheless. There was something in the very responsibility of the office of the Presidency that made its holder larger than life.

  “Mr. President,” Strong said respectfully.

  “Ed,” Martinez’s image nodded. The projection was nearly as substantial as the forms of those truly present; Strong didn’t know whether this was because of the relative darkness within the van, or because Martinez was transmitting via fiber from his estate in Alva, just 300 kilometers away.

  Strong waved at the prisoners. “Three locals, sir. I was hoping to—”

  Martinez leaned forward. “Why, I think I’ve seen you before.” He spoke to the MSP officer. “The ads Michigan State Police uses; our intelligence people have shown me some. You protect MSP’s client mobs from outside gangs.”

  Brierson nodded, smiled wryly. Strong recognized him now and kicked himself for not noticing earlier. If those ads were correct, then Brierson was one of the top men in the MSP.

  “They make you out to be some sort of superman. Do you honestly think your people can stop a modern, disciplined army?”

  “Sooner or later, Mr. Martinez. Sooner or later.”

  The President smiled, but Strong wasn’t sure whether he was piqued or truly amused. “Our armor is approaching Manhattan on schedule, sir. As you know, we regard this action as something of a benchmark. Manhattan is almost as big as Topeka, and has a substantial cottage electronics industry. It’s about the closest thing to a city you’ll find in the ungoverned lands.” Strong motioned for the guard to remove the three prisoners, but the President held up his hand.

  “Let ’em stay, Ed. The MSP man should see this firsthand. These people may be lawless, but I can’t believe they are crazy. The sooner they realize that we have overwhelming force—and that we use it fairly—the sooner they’ll accept the situation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Strong signaled his analysts, and displays came to life on the situation board. Simultaneously, the conference table was overhung with a holographic relief map of central Kansas. The northerners looked at the map and Strong almost smiled. They obviously had no idea of the size of the New Mexican operation. For months the Republic had been building reserves along the Arkansas. It couldn’t be entirely disguised; these three had known something about the forces. But until the whole military machine was in motion, its true size had escaped them. Strong was honest with himself. It was not New Mexican cleverness that had outwitted northern electronics. The plan could never have worked without advanced countermeasures equipment—some of it bought from the northerners themselves.

  Computer-selected radio traffic became a background noise. He had rehearsed all this with the technicians earlier; there was not a single aspect of the operation that the President would miss. He pointed at the map. “Colonel Alvarez has one armored force coming north from 01d70. It should enter Manhattan from the east. The other force left here a few minutes ago, and is approaching town along this secondary road.” Tiny silver lights crept along the map where he pointed. A few centimeters above the display, other lights represented helicopter and fixed-wing cover. These coasted gracefully back and forth, occasionally swooping close to the surface.

  A voice spoke against a background of turbine noise, to announce no resistance along the eastern salient. “Haven’t really seen anyone. People are staying indoors, or else bobbled up before we came in range. We’re avoiding houses and farm buildings, sticking to open fields and roads.”

  Strong expanded one of the views from the western salient. The situation board showed a picture taken from the air: A dozen tanks moved along a dirt road, trails of dust rising behind them. The camera chopper must have been carrying a mike, for the rumbling and clanking of treads replaced the radio traffic for a moment. Those tanks were the pride of New Mexico. Unlike the aircraft, their hulls and engines were 100 percent Product of the Republic. New Mexico was poor in most resources, but like Japan in the twentieth century, and Great Britain before that, she was great in people and ingenuity. Someday soon, she would be great in electronics. For now, though, all the best reconnaissance and communication gear came from Tinkers, many in the ungoverned lands. That was an Achilles’ heel, long recognized by Strong and others. It was the reason for using equipment from different manufacturers all over the world, and for settling for second-class gear in some of the most critical applications. How could they know, for certain, that the equipment they bought was not booby-trapped or bugged? There was historical precedent: The outcome of the Bobble War had been due in large part to Tinker meddling with the old Peace Authority’s reconnaissance system.

  Strong recognized the stretch of road they were coming up on: A few hundred meters beyond the lead tank lay
an irregular blackened area and the twisted metal that had once been a helicopter.

  A puff of smoke appeared by the lead tank, followed by the faint crack of an explosion. Bill Alvarez’s voice came on an instant after that. “Under fire. Light mortar.” The tank was moving again, but in a large circle, toward the ditch. Guns and sensors on the other armor swung north. “The enemy was lucky, or that was a smart round. We’ve got radar backtrack. The round came from beyond the other side of the farm we’re passing. Looks like a tunnel entrance to the old Fort Riley—Wait, we got enemy radio traffic just before it happened.”

  His voice was replaced by the crackling of high amplification. The new voice was female, but barely understandable. “General van Steen to forces [unintelligible]. You may fire when ready.” There was a screaking sound and other voices.

  Strong saw Swensen’s jaw sag in surprise, or horror. “General van Steen?”

  Colonel Alvarez’s voice came back. “There were replies from several points farther north. The original launch site has fired two more rounds.” As he spoke, black smoke appeared near the treads of two more tanks. Neither was destroyed, but neither could continue.

  “Mr. President, Mr. Strong, all rounds are coming from the same location. These are barely more than fireworks—except that they’re smart. I’ll wager ‘General van Steen’ is some local gangster putting up a brave front. We’ll see in a minute.” On the holomap, two blips drew away from the other support aircraft and began a low-level dash across the miniature Kansas landscape.

  The President nodded, but addressed another unseen observer. “General Crick?”

  “I concur, sir.” Crick’s voice was as loud and clear as Alvarez’s, though the general was 50 kilometers to the east, at the head of the column en route to Topeka. “But we’ve seen an armored vehicle in the intermediate farmland, haven’t we, Bill?”

  “Yes,” said Alvarez. “It’s been there for months. Looks like a hulk. We’ll take it out, too.”

  Strong noticed the northerners tense. Swensen seemed on the verge of screaming something. What do they know?

  The attack planes, twin engine green-and-gray jobs, were on the main view now. They were only 20 or 30 meters up, well below the camera viewpoint, and probably not visible from the enemy launch site. The lead craft angled slightly to the east, and spewed rockets at an unmoving silhouette that was almost hidden by the hills and the corn. A second later, the target disappeared in a satisfying geyser of flame and dirt.

  And a second after that, hell on earth erupted from the peaceful fields: Beams of pale light flashed from unseen projectors, and the assault aircraft became falling, swelling balls of fire. As automatic fire control brought the tanks’ guns to bear on the source of the destruction, rocket and laser fire came from other locations immediately north of the roadway. Four of the tanks exploded immediately, and most of the rest were on fire. Tiny figures struggled from their machines, and ran from the flames.

  North of the farm, Strong thought he saw explosions at the source of the original mortar attack. Something was firing in that direction, too!

  Then the camera chopper took a hit, and the picture swung round and round, descending into the firestorm that stretched along the roadway. The view went dark. Strong’s carefully planned presentation was rapidly degenerating into chaos. Alvarez was shouting over other voices, demanding the reserves that still hung along 01d70 directly south of Manhattan, and he could hear Crick working to divert portions of his air cover to the fight that was developing.

  It wasn’t till much later that Strong made sense of the conversation that passed between the northerners just then:

  “Kiki, how could you!” Swensen slumped over the holomap, shaking his head in despair (shame?).

  Brierson eyed the displays with no visible emotion. “What she did is certainly legal, Al.”

  “Sure it is. And immoral as hell. Poor Jake Schwartz. Poor Jake.”

  The view of the battle scene reappeared. The picture was almost the same perspective as before but grainier and faintly wavering—probably from a camera aboard some recon craft far south of the fighting. The holomap flickered as major updates came in. The locals had been thorough and successful. There were no effective New Mexican forces within five kilometers of the original flareup. The force dug in to the farmland was firing rockets southward, taking an increasing toll of the armored reinforcements that were moving north from 01d70.

  “Crick here, Mr. President.” The general’s voice was brisk, professional. Any recriminations with Intelligence would come later. “The enemy is localized, but incredibly well dug in. If he’s isolated, we might be able to bypass him, but neither Alvarez nor I want something like that left on our flank. We’re going to soften him up, then move our armor right in on top.”

  Strong nodded to himself. In any case, they had to take this strong point just to find out what the enemy really had. In the air over the holomap, dozens of lights moved toward the enemy fortress. Some flew free ballistic arcs, while others struck close to the ground, out of the enemy’s direct fire. Across the table, the holo lit the northerners’ faces: Swensen’s seemingly more pale than before, Brierson’s dark and stolid. There was a faint stench of sweat in the air now, barely perceptible against the stronger smells of metal and fresh plastic.

  Damn. Those three had been surprised by the ambush, but Strong was sure that they understood what was behind the attack, and whence the next such would come. Given time and Special Service drugs, he could have the answers. He leaned across the table and addressed the MSP officer. “So. You aren’t entirely bluff. But unless you have many more such traps, you won’t do more than slow us up, and kill a lot of people on both sides.”

  Swensen was about to answer, then looked at Brierson and was silent. The black seemed to be deliberating just what or how much to say; finally, he shrugged. “I won’t lie to you. The attack had nothing to do with MSP forces.”

  “Some other gang then?”

  “No. You just happened to run into a farmer who defends his property.”

  “Bull.” Ed Strong had spent his time in the military in combat along the Colorado. He knew how to read the intelligence displays and manage tactics. But he also knew what it was like to be on the ground where the reality was bullets and shrapnel. He knew what it took to set up a defense like the one they had just seen. “Mr. Brierson, you’re telling me one man could afford to buy the sort of equipment we saw and to dig it in so deep that even now we don’t have a clear picture of his setup? You’re telling me that one man could afford an MHD source for those lasers?”

  “Sure. That family has probably been working at this for years, spending every spare gAu on the project, building the system up little by little. Even so,” he sighed, “they should be out of rockets and juice soon. You could lay off.”

  The rain of rocket-borne and artillery high explosives was beginning to fall upon the target. Flashes and color sparkled across the screen, more an abstract pattern than a landscape now. There was no human life, no equipment visible. The bombers were standing off and lobbing their cargo in. Until the enemy’s defenses were broken, any other course was needless waste. After a couple minutes, the airborne debris obscured all but the largest detonations. Napalm flared within, and the whole cloud glowed beautiful yellow. For a few seconds, the enemy lasers still flashed, spectacular and ineffective in all the dirt. Even after the lasers died, the holomap showed isolated missiles emerging from the target area to hunt for the bombers. Then even those stopped coming.

  Still the barrage continued, raising the darkness and light high over the Kansas fields. There was no sound from this display, but the thud-thudding of the attack came barely muffled through the hull of the C&C van. They were, after all, less than 7,000 meters from the scene. It was mildly surprising that the enemy had not tried to take them out. Perhaps Brierson was more important, and more knowledgeable, than he admitted.

  Minutes passed, and they all—President and gangsters alike—watche
d the barrage end and the wind push the haze away from the devastation that modern war can make. North and east, fires spread through the fields. The tanks—and final, physical possession of the disputed territory—were only minutes away.

  The destruction was not uniform. New Mexican fire had focused on the projectors and rocket launchers, and there the ground was pulverized, ripped first by proximity-fused high explosives, then by digger bombs and napalm. As they watched, recon craft swooped low over the landscape, their multiscanners searching for any enemy weapons that might be held in reserve. When the tanks and personnel carriers arrived, a more thorough search would be made on foot.

  Finally, Strong returned to Brierson’s fantastic claim. “And you say it’s just coincidence that this one farmer who spends all his money on weapons happens to be on our line of march.”

  “Coincidence and a little help from General van Steen.”

  President Martinez raised his eyes from the displays at his end. His voice was level, but Strong recognized the tension there. “Mr., uh, Brierson. Just how many of these miniforts are there?”

  The other sat back. His words might have seemed insolent, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. “I have no idea, Mr. Martinez. As long as they don’t bother our customers, they are of no interest to MSP. Many aren’t as well hidden as Schwartz’s, but you can’t count on that. As long as you stay off their property, most of them won’t touch you.”

  “You’re saying that if we detect and avoid them, they are no threat to our plans?”

  “Yes.”

  The main screen showed the tank forces now. They were a few hundred meters from the burning fields. The viewpoint rotated and Strong saw that Crick had not stinted: at least 100 tanks—most of the reserve force—were advancing on a 5,000-meter front. Following were even more personnel carriers. Tactical air support was heavy. Any fire from the ground ahead would be met by immediate destruction. The camera rotated back to show the desolation they were moving into. Strong doubted that anything living, much less anything hostile, still existed in that moonscape.