Armored Tears (11 page)

14.

Lieutenant
Maria Rivers of the Arcadian Defense Force Aerospace Corps watched the barren
ground unfold thirty thousand meters below her. From up here, sitting in the
cockpit, at the controls of her RA-9 "Condor" combat-reconnaissance
aircraft —her "ghost," as she and her crew called it— the
curvature of Arcadia was obvious and the sky was black rather than blue.

Ravi,
Arcadia's sun, loomed like a huge ball of red-orange fire in the black sky; in
fact the actual star, Luhman-16A, was tiny as far as stars went; much, much
smaller than Earth's sun. But Arcadia orbited it very closely. Luhman-16B, a
companion dwarf star called Ragyi —named for Ravi's mythological consort—
was a reddish spot on the horizon. It was usually too dim to see in daylight,
though it was the brightest thing in the Arcadian night sky.

Far
below the deep blue of her world's mineralized seas, toxic to Earth life, met
the red of its parched, arid land. Thin tendrils of cloud formed minimalist
patterns of white across the deeper blue and red of land and water. At night,
the lights of humanity could be seen clearly, but in daylight, Arcadia looked
as hospitable as Mars.

"Daydreaming,
boss?" asked her sensors operator, Sergeant Gupta.

"Not
much else to do," she replied. "Nothing interesting on your end, I
take it?"

"Not
now, but a few minutes ago, I got what might have been a thermal trace from
Delta-9. But then the thermal patterns changed and you put us into that left
turn and I lost it."

"Should
have reported it, Gupta," Rivers replied, a bit annoyed.

"What
for? Command told us to stop playing tag with each other. So what if I saw
him... or if he sees us? Not like back when we could score some points off a
good track, or rattle his cage with a low-powered laser shot."

"We're
not up here for air-to-air combat training. We're on a surveillance flight. But
you still need to report a contact."

"Well,
I logged it, anyway," Gupta said. "When we land, we can ask Sanchez
for his flight logs and see if it was actually him."

"Yeah,"
Rivers agreed. "Next time report it, though."

"Got
it, boss," Gupta said in a resigned tone.

"Did
I hear that Gupta just let a target go?" asked the weapons operator.

"Yup,"
said Rivers. "Not that you can take a shot at it, Zeb."

"I
could still have run a track and set up a shot," Sergeant Zebadiah Jones
said, sounding annoyed. "Damn it, Gupta, don't keep that sort of thing to
yourself."

"Krishna
as my witness, both of you are just out to bust my ass," Gupta groaned.
"It's just our wingman. Nothing to get excited about."

"You
have a job to do, Gupta," Rivers said. "You can't blame us if we want
you to actually..."

"Just
a moment, Boss," Gupta said, his tone suddenly hard and focused.

"I'm
picking up a heat signature, but it's an odd one. Real clear, coming in over
the southern horizon, but it's above us."

"How
high?"

"Wait,
there's several. It's really fast. Krishna, it's fast. I think I've got a
thermal track on an inbound meteor."

"That's
something new," Rivers said. "Show me."

"Look.
Yeah, there's more than one of them. Maybe breaking up?"

"Is
it big enough to hit the surface?" Rivers asked. "Is it going to hit
anywhere we care about?"

"Wait
a minute," Gupta repeated. "This is strange. I've got multiple heat
sources, all coming over the southern horizon, all headed for the wastes south
of the Isthmus Highlands. I've got twenty... no, twenty three discreet sources.
Really hot. Orbital reentry hot. And they're all coming down on the exact same
trajectory."

"A
big rock breaking up?" Zeb asked.

"Not
with identical sources on the same trajectory," Gupta replied.

"Hold
on," Rivers said, nosing the plane down and shutting down the engine;
"ghosts" spent a lot of time gliding, and if this was what she
thought it might be, she wanted to cut her own emissions as close to zero as
possible; to become a "hole in the sky."

"I've
got the trajectory. Twenty three contacts, inbound to grid 72-42, south of the
Isthmus Highlands," Gupta interrupted. "Boss, I... I don't know how it’s
possible, but I think... the signatures look like re-entering space-craft. Like
one of our Vimana-class orbital boosters... but a lot bigger. And... and
there's twenty three of them."

"Holy
shit," Rivers breathed. "Holy shit."

"What's
it mean?" Zeb wanted to know.

"It's...
I don't know how it's possible... but I think it's an invasion," Rivers
said. "We need to report this. Gupta get all your data encoded for
transmission. Zeb, set our laser for communications pulse. Line it up with
Receiving Station Two, and as soon as we have a lock on the receiving station,
send this out. All of it. All of Gupta's sensor logs. Everything."

"Got
it, Boss," Zeb said. "How low should I keep our output?"

A
pinging alarm went off before Rivers could answer.

"Targeting
laser!" screamed Gupta. "It's coming from above. It's coming in from
orbit!"

"Launch
decoys, now!" screamed Rivers, triggering a burst of anti-laser aerosol
munitions and putting the plane into a sharp, evasive dive.

A
sound like thunder sounded through the plane's cockpit and a sudden jolt of
turbulence shook the airframe.

"DEW
line!" shouted Gupta, but Rivers didn't need to hear him say it. A line of
vapor, like a razor-edged contrail, had been traced through the sky, missing
her "ghost" by a fraction of a meter; a directed energy weapon line;
the ionized track left by the beam of a high power combat laser.

"Gupta!"
Rivers shouted. "Send it in clear! Send the message by radio! Maximum
transmission output!"

"That'll
broadcast our position!" Gupta shouted in horror.

"Do
it!" Rivers screamed. "That's an order!"

"Sending,"
Gupta said, softly.

Two
seconds later, another high energy laser pulse flashed out, this time
intersecting the fuselage of the "ghost." Composite and alloy
shattered and burned under the shock of the sudden burst of thermal energy, and
the burning fragments of Lieutenant Maria Rivers' aircraft tumbled down towards
the barren Arcadian ground.

***

Two
hundred kilometers above, inside the spherical command module of the UEN
Orbital Security Vehicle-11-
Yang Liwei
,
a weapons officer confirmed the destruction of an Arcadian combat-scout
"ghost" aircraft.

"Deploy
the weapons system radiators. Cool and recharge the laser and stand by to
engage further targets on our next orbit," the
Yang Liwei
's commanding officer ordered.

"Shall
we return to a higher orbit, sir?" asked the executive officer.

The
commanding officer released the straps that held him to his command station
couch and twisted to meet the executive officer's gaze; the executive officer's
crew station put the man upside down from the commanding officer's frame of
reference, but both men were veteran spacers, and used to the quirks of orbital
free fall.
 

"No,"
the commanding officer replied. "Maintain this orbit. We have destroyed
their satellites already. What's left is their aircraft, and we cannot engage
those as effectively from a high orbit."

"Sensors,"
he added, "have our deployed mini-satellites continue scanning for high
altitude atmospheric thermal contacts. The enemy are likely to have more than
one 'ghost' in the air. And keep our own systems scanning as well, in case they
have dispersed more widely than expected. Find them."

In
a featureless patch of desert, a buried navigation beacon, placed there a few
weeks earlier by UEN Special Operations agents, suddenly flared to life. High
above, twenty-three huge orbital cargo rockets plummeting down from orbit
detected the signal. Almost as one, they oriented their engines and began to
descend to the flat desert basin below, wreathed in the thunderous fire of
their retro-rockets.

15.

"I'm
afraid this isn't much help with your biotech story, Ulla, but I really
appreciate you coming along," Aran said with an apologetic smile at his
lover.

The
two of them were packing for what Aran was calling their "field
trip"
 
with the Arcadian
Defense Force Infantry Corps' 9th Frame Infantry Company.

"Well,
no, it doesn't" Ulla agreed. "On the other hand, it helps you out.
And... I might be able to learn things that are useful to me. Not about
biotech... but, well, I was going to be debriefed by EuroFed Intelligence when
I got back anyway. Maybe by UEN people as well. If I have something interesting
to tell them... A reporter can always use more government contacts."

"True
enough," Aran allowed, "but I'd be very careful of this sort of thing
if I were you. Once you get involved in that sort of thing, it can be hard to
get uninvolved, if you know what I mean."

Ulla
regarded him coolly for a moment.

"I
forget, sometimes, that you're from a Pacific Alliance country," she said.
"You're used to a lot less interaction with your government, aren't
you?"

"You
mean Indonesia or Australia?"

Ulla
smirked slightly. "That proves my point, if they're still separate enough
from the UEN, and from each other, that you can meaningfully ask that question.
You know," she added, frowning slightly, "I have to wonder if
that
 
makes you more... sympathetic
to these Arcadians."

Aran
frowned in turn. "Sympathetic. I suppose I am, sort of. They're settling a
frontier, here. Very Australian thing to do, really."

"And
the poor refugees are being shunted aside, like the Australian Aborigines
were?"

Aran
raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"No,
I'm sorry," Ulla said. "I didn't mean to try to start an
argument."

"Well,
I can think of things I'd rather be doing with you than fighting," Aran
said, smiling.

Ulla
grinned. "When I get back to Germany, I'll be able to brag about my exotic
Australian-Indonesian boyfriend. I'm looking forward to that. I guess we have
time. If we hurry. One thing I do like about how hot this place is," she
added, reaching to pull off her shirt. "I'm never wearing too much."

***

"I
didn't expect so much green," Ulla admitted as Bernie pointed over the
wheel of her little Toyota, down into the valley ahead of them.

"It's
all farmland for about the next fifty klicks," Bernie said. "We set
the irrigation system up in the early '60s. Since then, this has become one our
most productive agriculture zones."

Spread
out on both sides of the road were field after field of vivid green crops. In
places, rows of narrow greenhouses with solar-panel roofs broke up the carpet
of green. Out further from the road, glittering fields of solar-panels flashed
in the unrelenting sun. Here and there, clusters of low houses with solar-panel
roofs stood out, starkly white against the green.

"How
long did it take your government to set this up?" Ulla asked, unable to
keep the tone of admiration out of her voice.

"Government?"
Bernie asked. "What's the government got to do with this?"

"Why,
to set it up. The power, the irrigation, environmental and food-production
regulatory oversight..."

Bernie
let out a short laugh. "Government didn't do any of this. The Sunny Valley
project's a cooperative. The owners got together the money and set up the power
stations and the irrigation filters and pumps in the '60s, like I said. After
that, they ran the first farms.

"Lots
of new farmers there now; they pay back the co-op for the power and water. And
since it's a co-op and not a corporation, every new farmer has to buy an
ownership share within a few years of setting up. That way, no one's working
for anyone else.

"We've
got corporate structure farms too, but these co-ops seem to be more productive.
My brother's wife's family has a patch a few klicks east of here, along this
road; we'll be driving by it pretty soon. If we weren't in a hurry, we could
stop by. Anyway, my brother's father-in-law says you work harder, farming your
own patch instead of working for someone else."

"But..."
Ulla said after a long pause, "how... how can you organize it,
without..." she let the words trail off. Then asked again, her tone
sharper, "what about food and dietary regulations? How do you make sure
the is safe to eat, or that people won't over-produce the wrong sort of food?"

"Wrong
sort of food?" Bernie asked. "What do you mean, wrong sort? Farmers
grow what will sell. As for quality, can you imagine what would happen if they started
trying to sell bad food? The entire co-op's reputation would be shot. People
pay attention to that sort of thing. If someone claimed they got bad food from
the co-op, people would hire investigators to prove it... and if it was true,
who'd ever buy from them again?"

"So
the government does have oversight? Investigators?" Ulla said, sounding
relieved.

"What?
No!" Bernie said. "Just regular people would hire an investigation.
Why even ask the government for that? Government investigations are only for
actual crimes; a food quality dispute isn't their business."

Ulla
looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words.

"A
totally different society," Aran murmured.

"You
know," he added after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "I think it
would be more obvious, if Arcadians used a different language, instead of just
sticking to International English like almost everyone else. Then they'd sound
as foreign as they actually are."

Bernie
said nothing as they drove down into the valley. "Maybe," she
allowed, after the silence had stretched a few minutes. "But lots of Earth
societies were like this... a hundred years ago, or even fifty. You make us
sound alien, or crazy, but the way I've read it, lots of other societies were
like us. But then Earth governments displaced every other sort of
organization... every other way people could work together. So now you've got
nothing but government. But the thing is, since government can make you do what
it says, all your organization is coercive, now."

"But
that's how organization works," protested Ulla. "Someone has to be in
charge, and they have to have the power to protect the disadvantaged and ensure
things are fair. The alternative is just chaos; the strong abusing the weak."

Bernie
frowned. "Not... well... hell. This is over my head. I'm just an infantry
grunt. But it seems to me there's a difference between choosing to be part of
something, even if it means obeying orders, and just being told that you have
to always do what someone says, all the time, just because they call themselves
the government."

Ulla
said nothing. Next to her, Aran was utterly intent as he typed notes into an
compact data pad.

"A
different society," he repeated, meeting Ulla's eyes for a moment before returning
to his notes.

***

"Those
are big" Ulla said, looking at the cluster of tan-colored vehicles.
       

They
were big, Aran thought. A quick count showed that there were nine of the huge
vehicles, parked in no apparent order across a patch of coarse, reddish sand.
The sand gave way to coarse reddish rocks off in the distance. Compared to
Arcadia, he mused, the Western Desert of Australia was a rain forest.
 

The
vehicles they were driving towards looked to Aran to be about as big as the big
twenty-two-wheeler semi-trailer-trucks that crossed the outback in Australia.
Unlike semi-trucks, they were tracked vehicles, with three sets of short tracks
set one after another along their sides. A big machinegun, or small automatic
cannon, dominated a tiny turret at the front of each vehicle, and long side-bay
panels, hinged open at the top, gave little patches if shade next to each
vehicle, where most of the soldiers were clustered.

"Those
are our frame carriers," Bernie said, pulling her Toyota up to one of the
long tracked vehicles. "Wait here while I square this with my C.O. There's
always room inside the carriers, so you guys can ride in style."

***

"Sergeant
Polawski reporting, sir," Bernie said, snapping a salute to Captain
Wilson, her company commander.

"Polawski,"
he replied slowly, saying her name is if it tasted bad.

Bernie
resisted the urge to gulp.

"What
in the fucking name of fuck are you up to Polawski? I got a message from the
goddam Diplomatic Branch office about you. And your fucking guests. Are you
fucking insane, Sergeant?"

"Sir,
I was just..."

"Escorting
some spies?"

"Sir,
I don't actually think they're spies. I mean, it's too obvious; spies are
supposed to be sneaky. But even if they are, isn't it better to drag them out
into the boonies with a framer company then to let them wander around the
Government Mall in Redstone?"

Captain
Wilson glared. "I'd like to bust your ass for this, Polawski," he
said "But your new buddies in the Diplomatic Branch have you covered. I've
just been on the comm with them, talking about what a credit to the Infantry
Corps you are, what with your taking initiative and helping them out.

"So
here's the deal, Sergeant. You get back to work, and you keep doing your usual
job, just as well and as hard as you usually do. And you babysit these two
Earthers. They can ride along in my carrier, but I'm not playing tour guide for
them. You are. You brought them, you take care of them. Clear?"

"Clear,
sir!"

***

Private
Kilash Palalin was a very big man, and in his armor and frame, he was bigger
yet, which made it a point of some pride to Aran that he managed not to flinch
when the big man thrust an angry finger at his face.
     

"No!
No comment! You fuckin' UEN reporters just twist anything people say to you.
You wanna talk to a fuckin' refugee, UEN man? Well that ain't me! But you just
wait a while. We're gonna crack open a camp and then you can see the filth that
comes out for yourself. I ain't no fuckin' refugee no more. N' you're lucky
you're the Sergeant's fuckin' guest, is what. Otherwise..."

"That's
enough, Private Palalin," Bernie said.

"Yes,
Sergeant," the big man replied, and stomped off, the servos of his frame
whining softly as he moved.

"Sorry
about that," Bernie said to Aran. "I guess he's touchier than I
expected about it. My fault."

Ulla,
who had stood to one side, looked a bit pale under her sun hat, but Aran shook
his head.

"No...
no, it's OK," he said. "I've had people refuse interviews before...
some even more vehemently than that. Once in a while, a lot more vehemently.

"But
you know, Bernie," he added, after a moment, "something just occurred
to me, listening to your angry friend. I'm not sure what sort of name 'Palalin'
is..."

"Native
Taiwanese, whatever that means," Bernie supplied. "He told me,
once."

"Ah,
OK. Native Taiwanese. But I'll bet a year's pay he thinks of himself as
Arcadian, right?" Aran said.

"No
bet," Bernie answered, smiling ruefully.

"Right.
I think, though, I just figured out a clue as to why your society holds
together so well, where Ulla and I keep expecting it to be chaos."

"OK,
I'd love to hear it," Bernie said.

"You're
all in it together. All you Arcadians... or at least most of you... enough of
you. That's why it works... for now. All of you are fighting together, against
this inhospitable oven of a world, and against the refugees —whom you see
as outsiders who threaten to take what you've built— and against the UEN
that wants to exert authority over you... which you see as worse than just
taking what you've made."
    

"Well,
yeah, sure," Bernie said.

"Right.
But that's my point. Look, maybe Earth governments are too invasive... or even
way too invasive... and I'll grant, the UEN is far from perfect. But what
you've got is only working because of that shared sense of pressure you're all
under. All your informal social institutions work like they do because of that
sense of being in it together, that pressure.

"You
know how the UEN could wreck your society, Bernie? All they'd have to do is evacuate
all the refugees and leave you alone for a generation or two. No threat, no
danger, and your descendants would grow up without that pressure... and without
that common bond you people have now."

Bernie
frowned, opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head.

"You...
oh, hell, I don't know. Like I told you earlier, that's over my head," she
said. "But even if you're right, it still doesn't make me want an Earther
style of government any more than I did before. And it still doesn't give some
refugee gang-lord, or some UEN official, any right to take what we've made
here.