The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (17 page)

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Authors: Vernor Vinge

BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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Still the barrage continued, raising the darkness and light high over the Kansas fields. There was no sound from this display, but the
thudthudding
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—watched 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.
The President didn’t seem interested in the display. All his attention was on the northerner. “So we can avoid these stationary gunmen till we find it convenient to deal with them. You are a great puzzle, Mr. Brierson. You claim strengths and weaknesses for your people that are equally incredible. And I get the feeling you don’t really expect us to believe you, but that somehow
you
believe everything you’re saying.”
“You’re very perceptive. I’ve thought of trying to bluff you. In fact, I did try earlier today. From the looks of your equipment”—he waved his hand at the Command and Control consoles, a faintly mocking smile on his face—“we might even be able to bluff you back where you belong.
This once.
But when you saw what we had done, you’d be back again—next year, next decade—and we’d have to do it all over again without the bluffs. So, Mr. Martinez, I think it best you learn what you’re up against the first time out. People like Schwartz are just the beginning. Even if you can rub out them and services like MSP, you’ll end up with a guerrilla war like you’ve never fought—one that can actually turn your own people against you. You do practice conscription, don’t you?”
The President’s face hardened, and Strong knew that the northerner had gone too far. “We do, as has every free nation in history—or at least every nation that was determined to stay free. If you’re implying that our people would desert under fire or because of propaganda, you are contradicting my personal experience.” He turned away, dismissing Brierson from his attention.
“They’ve arrived, sir.” As the tanks rolled into position on the smoking hillsides, the personnel carriers began disgorging infantry. The tiny figures moved quickly, dragging gear toward the open tears in the earth. Strong could hear an occasional popping sound: Misfiring engines? Remnant ammo?
Tactical aircraft swept back and forth overhead, their rockets and guns ready to support the troopers on the ground. The techs’ reports trickled in.
“Three video hard points detected,” small arms fire chattered. “Two destroyed, one recovered. Sonoprobes show lots of tunnels. Electrical activity at—” The men in the picture looked up, at something out of view.
Nothing else changed on the picture, but the radars saw the intrusion, and the holomap showed the composite analysis: a mote of light rose leisurely out of the map—500 meters, 600. It moved straight up, slowed. The support aircraft swooped down upon it and—
A purple flash, bright yet soundless, seemed to go off
inside
Strong’s head. The holomap and the displays winked down to nothing, then came back. The President’s image reappeared, but there was no sound, and it was clear he was not receiving.
Along the length of the van, clerks and analysts came out of that stunned moment to work frantically with their equipment. Acrid smoke drifted into the conference area. The safe, crisp displays had been replaced by immediate, deadly reality.
“High flux nuke.” The voice was calm, almost mechanical.
High flux nuke. Radiation bomb
. Strong came to his feet, rage and horror burning inside him. Except for bombs in lapsed bobbles, no nuclear weapon had exploded in North America in nearly a century. Even during the bitterest years of the Water Wars, both Aztlán and New Mexico had seen the suicide implicit in nuclear solutions. But here, in a rich land, without warning and for no real reason—
“You
animals
!” he spat down upon the seated northerners.
Swensen lunged forward. “God damn it! Schwartz isn’t one of my customers!”
Then the shock wave hit. Strong was thrown across the map, his face buried in the glowing terrain. Just as suddenly he was thrown back. The prisoners’ guard had been knocked into the far wall; now he stumbled forward through Martinez’s unseeing image, his stun gun flying from his hand.
From the moment of the detonation, Brierson had sat hunched, his arms extended under the table. Now he moved, lunging across the table to sweep up the gun between his manacled hands. The muzzle sparkled and Strong’s face went numb. He watched in horror as the other twisted and raked the length of the van with stunfire. The men back there had themselves been knocked about. Several were just coming up off their knees. Most didn’t know what hit them when they collapsed back to the floor. At the far end of the van, one man had kept his head. One man had been as ready as Brierson.
Bill Alvarez popped up from behind an array processor, a five millimeter slug-gun in his hand, flashing fire as he moved.
Then the numbness seemed to squeeze in on Strong’s mind, and everything went gray.
WIL LOOKED DOWN THE DIM CORRIDOR THAT RAN THE LENGTH OF THE COMMAND van. No one was moving, though a couple of men were snoring. The officer with the handgun had collapsed, his hands hanging limp, just a few centimeters from his pistol. Blue sky showing through the wall above Wil’s head was evidence of the fellow’s determination. If the other had been a hair faster …
Wil handed the stun gun to Big Al. “Let Jim go down and pick up the slug gun. Give an extra dose to anyone who looks suspicious.”
Al nodded, but there was still a dazed look in his eyes. In the last hour, his world had been turned upside down. How many of his customers—the
people who paid for his protection—had been killed? Wil tried not to think about that; indirectly, those same people had been depending on MSP. Almost tripping on his fetters, he stepped over the fallen guard and sat down on the nearest technician’s saddle. For all New Mexico being a foreign land, the controls were familiar. It wasn’t too surprising. The New Mexicans used a lot of Tinker electronics, though they didn’t seem to trust it: much of the equipment’s performance was downgraded where they had replaced suspicious components with their own devices. Ah, the price of paranoia.
Brierson picked up a command mike, made a simple request, and watched the answer parade across the console. “Hey, Al, we stopped transmitting right at the detonation!” Brierson quickly entered commands that cleared Martinez’s image and blocked any future transmissions. Then he asked for status.
The air conditioning was down, but internal power could keep the gear going for a time. The van’s intelligence unit estimated the nuke had been a three kiloton equivalent with a 70 percent radiance. Brierson felt his stomach flip-flop. He knew about nukes—perhaps more than the New Mexicans. There was no legal service that allowed them and it was open season on armadillos who advertised having them, but every so often MSP got a case involving such weapons. Everyone within 2,000 meters of that blast would already be dead. Schwartz’s private war had wiped out a significant part of the invading forces.
The people in the van had received a sizable dose from the Schwartz nuke, though it wouldn’t be life-threatening if they got medical treatment soon. In the division command area immediately around the van, the exposure was somewhat higher. How long would it be before those troops came nosing around the silent command vehicle? If he could get a phone call out—
But then there was Fate’s personal vendetta against W. W. Brierson: Loud pounding sounded at the forward door. Wil waved Jim and Al to be quiet. Awkwardly, he got off the saddle and moved to look through the old-fashioned viewplate mounted next to the door. In the distance he could see men carrying stretchers from an ambulance; some of the burn cases would be really bad. Five troopers were standing right at the doorway, close enough that he could see blistered skin and burned clothing. But their weapons looked fine, and the wiry noncom pounding on the door was alert and energetic. “Hey, open up in there!”
Wil thought fast. What was the name of that VIP civilian? Then he shouted back (doing his best to imitate the clipped New Mexican accent), “Sorry, Mr. Strong doesn’t want to breach internal atmosphere.”
Pray they don’t see the bullet holes just around the corner.
He saw the sergeant turn away from the door. Wil lip-read the word
shit
. He could almost read the noncom’s mind: The men outside had come near to being french-fried, and here some silkshirt supervisor was worried about so-far-nonexistent fallout.
The noncom turned back to the van and shouted, “How about casualties?”
“Outside of rad exposure, just some bloody noses and loose teeth. Main power is down and we can’t transmit,” Wil replied.
“Yes, sir. Your node has been dropped from the network. We’ve patched backward to Oklahoma Leader and forward to div mobile. Oklahoma Leader wants to talk to Mr. Strong. Div mobile wants to talk to Colonel Alvarez. How long will it be till you’re back on the air?”
How long can I ask for? How long do I need
“Give us fifteen minutes,” he shouted, after a moment.
“Yes, sir. We’ll get back to you.” Having innocently delivered this threat, the sergeant and his troopers moved off.
Brierson hopped back to the console. “Keep your eyes on the sleepers, Al. If I’m lucky, fifteen minutes should be enough time.”
“To do what? Call MSP?”
“Something better. Something I should have done this morning.” He searched through the command menus for satellite pickups. The New Mexican military was apparently leery of using subscription services, but there should be some facility for it. Ah, there it was. Brierson phased the transmitter for the synchronous satellite the Hainan commune had hung over Brazil. With narrow beam, he might be able to talk through it without the New Mexicans realizing he was transmitting. He tapped in a credit number, then a destination code.
The display showed the call had reached Whidbey Island. Seconds passed. Outside, he could hear choppers moving into the camp. More ambulances?
Damn you, Rober. Be home.
The conference area filled with bluish haze, then became a sunlit porch overlooking a wooded bay. Sounds of laughter and splashing came faintly from the water. Old Roberto Richardson never used less than full holo. But the scene was pale, almost ghostly—the best the van’s internal power supply could do. A heavyset man with apparent age around thirty came up the steps onto the porch and sat down; it was Richardson. He peered out at them. “Wil? Is that you?”
If it weren’t for the stale air and the dimness of the vision, Wil could almost believe he’d been transported halfway across the continent. Richardson lived on an estate that covered the whole of Whidbey Island. In the Pacific time zone it was still morning, and shadows swept across lawn-like spaces that stretched away to his manicured forests. Not for
the first time, Wil was reminded of the faerie landscapes of Maxfield Parrish. Roberto Richardson was one of the richest men in the world; he sold a line of products that many people cannot resist. He was rich enough to live in whatever fantasy world he chose.
Brierson turned on the pickup that watched the conference table.

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