by Mark Kalina
"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.
"Anyway, I've got to get back to my job, get my squad squared away. But the captain says you can ride with him."
***
Bernie watched the heat shimmer above the stony flatlands spread out before her. She tapped her helmet controls to engage magnification mode to focus her visor display on the walls of the refugee camp, two kilometers away. Details jumped out at her; walls made of stacked plastic food crates filled with sand. Behin
d the walls, she knew, would be huts made of the same crates, and old tents, and other shelters that were no more than holes dug into the ground and covered with plastic sheeting for a roof.
Her frame made the weight of her armor and weapons feel effortless, but it did nothing for the heat or dust. And crawling in a frame was... not impossible, but not easy either.
Next to her, Lieutenant Maynard, her platoon leader, scanned the surroundings with a set of thermal sensors. Fifty meters behind them, in a shallow cut, the rest of the platoon was waiting.
"Remind me again why we're out here, LT?" she said, switching her display focus from point to point along the camp wall. There were no guards that she could see —they were all probably sheltering in the shade— but it didn't pay to get careless.
"Some Auxiliary Corps truck drivers found a rifle," replied Lieutenant Maynard.
"Oh, goody," Bernie said. "So now the Auxiliaries finally have a rifle. At last. What's that got to do with us?"
The lieutenant snickered. "Weren't you listening? It was a UEN pisser service rifle," he said. "And the gun-boy carrying it shot at the Auxiliaries. So now we get to bust open this camp, round up the gun-boys, and find out where they got that rifle.
"Unless," the lieutenant added, "your spies brought it to them?"
"They're not spies," Bernie said with a groan. "They're just Earther reporters. And the Australian guy is cute."
"I'd say the German chick is cute," said the lieutenant. "But not available, unless I miss my guess. Unless you're up for a three-way?" he added.
"Only in your fevered dreams, LT," Bernie said, shaking her head. "You want to know what else my two Earther guests aren't?"
"What?"
"They aren't out here wearing a frame, creeping up on a hostile refugee camp full of drugged up gun-boys," Bernie said.
"True, that," the LT replied. "They're in the Captain's frame carrier, riding in full air-conditioned glory with the Captain."
"OK, point. I'd rather be out here," Bernie agreed.
"Right. OK, I think we've observed long enough. I'll tell the captain that it's OK to bring the carriers up. Plan is, he takes 1st and 2nd Platoons and swings wide to set up the cordon. As soon as our guys and gals are up, we'll move in on the camp. Captain will be sending out drones, so we should have a clue of what's inside before we get there.
"C-squad provides overwatch for the first dash, then A, then B, in that order. Make sure you plan out your waypoints and pick ones with cover. The gun-boys aren't likely to have heavy firepower, but there's no need to get sloppy."
"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, sir," Bernie said "I've already picked out my waypoints, and you can bet your boy-parts they'll be good cover."
"Don't get cocky, Sergeant. If those gun-boys have one UEN rifle, they might have more."
"Right, sir."
"Right. When we hit the wall, we leave whichever squad's on overwatch to secure it, and the rest of us move in. We handle the refugees like the captain said, right Sergeant?" said the lieutenant.
"Right, sir," Bernie agreed. "Shoot the gun-boys and don't shoot the refugees. Stun gas grenades when the gun-boys take hostages. Save 'em if you can, but don't let the gun-boys start making demands."
"You've got it. Make sure your men have it too. Right? OK, then. Let's get back to our squads and get moving," the lieutenant said.
***
"I think this is terrible," Ulla said. "I had no idea they were going to take us with them when they attack the refugees."
"Not what I expected either," Aran agreed. "But I am getting some... interesting social context. Have you noticed the way the troops talk to each other? Even enlisted men and officers?"
"Not really."
"They're very informal. Very. But there's never any actual argument or disobedience."
"Does that mean they're not professional?" Ulla asked.
"No... no, I'd say the other way 'round. Actually, they remind me of things I've seen in old vids about the Australian Army."
"I think you have too much of a fondness for these people, Ulla said. "You're associating them with your Australians, who are totally civilized." Ulla's voice dropped to a whisper. "These people, these Arcadians, aren't civilized. They're about to attack a camp of defenseless refugees, and they think we'll approve of it. I... I feel sick. I wish I hadn't come."
"The refugees shot at their soldiers, you know."
"Well, you have to expect a certain level of violence from the disadvantaged," Ulla replied. "Civilized nations don't use that as an excuse for draconian brutality, though."
"I..." Aran started to say, but a sudden crackle of gunfire cut him off.
***
Bernie watched as Lieutenant Maynard led A-squad, seven framers strong, in a fast, loping run across the ground towards the refugee camp walls. His men moved well, their weapons held steady, tracking their targets. A sprinting dash of a few hundred meters to a cluster of broken ground, and the framers melted into the desert, taking cover.
Off to her left, C-squad, led by Sergeant Grant, ran up level with her position and also took cover.
Bernie gripped her M39 and counted, one, two, three, in her head.
Then, "go!" she shouted, and her B-squad rose up and began to sprint forward to the waypoint she'd marked for them.
The sound of her boots and the mechanical hum of the frame's servos filled her ears as she ran. The trick was to scan for targets as you moved. Not easy, but crucial. Maybe that was why she saw the figure appear over the wall, almost a kilometer away.
"Shit!" she shouted, slapping at a button on the side of her helmet with her free hand to engage the display visor's autofocus feature.
The figure on the wall leapt into focus; a man in speckle-gray camouflage with a modern-looking combat sensors-helmet... and a modern-looking man-portable anti-armor missile launcher!
"Target on the wall! Rocket-launcher!" she shouted into her helmet comm. But even as she shouted, her right arm brought the M39 up to acquire the target. This was the real skill of a framer; to acquire a target, fast, on the move.
The rocket-launcher man was scanning, probably with helmet sensors no worse than hers, but he hadn't acquired a target.
His head snapped up in surprise as her M39 locked on with a laser-ranging pulse; Bernie had a fraction-of-a-second realization that his helmet must have a laser-detector; thoroughly modern gear. But her finger was already pressing the trigger, releasing the M39 to shoot in the first possible instant that the weapon bore on the selected target.
The crack and recoil of the high velocity 8.5mm round was barely a nudge against the servos of her frame. Her bullet hit the rocket-launcher man's face plate less than a second later, and the man fell with a puff of dust and a spray of armor-plastic and bloody fragments of skull behind him.
The rest of her squad saw her snap acquisition and shot. One other man fired at the same target, but his shot was too late, the bullet cracking through the space the dead man's head had just been.
"Engaging hostiles!" she shouted, as she reached her pre-planned cover and dove for the ground with the rest of her squad.
"Rocket-launcher on the wall!" she added into the comm as she rolled behind a substantial rock and got ready to pop up and re-engage.
"B squad lead, confirm your last," came Lieutenant Maynard's voice.
"Confirm," Bernie barked. "Engaged and dropped a man-port missile-gunner on the wall. Heads up for hostile heavy weapons!"
"Roger," returned the lieutenant, as his squad rose from cover and started their next dash.
A burst of automatic fire sounded from the refugee camp wall, and an arcing line of bright yellow tracers slanted out towards the charging framers. Bullets hit the ground and kicked up little splashes of dirt.
Men scattered, some going prone, others weaving as they made for their designated waypoint, running all out.
At least it wasn't an auto-smartgun, Bernie thought; if it had been, the burst probably wouldn't have misse
d.
"B-squad, engage all hostile targets!" she shouted, tracking her M39 to the point on the wall where the machinegun had fired from. She saw nothing there, but her thermals picked up a warm spot and she put an 8.5mm round through it. Her squad added to the volley, four or five M39s cracking out precise single shots. The hostile gun didn't fire again.
"Third Platoon, what are you shooting at?" came the captain's voice.
"Sir," replied Lieutenant Maynard, "we've been engaged by machineguns and man-portable missiles."
As a squad leader, Bernie's comm suite let her hear the Company command push.
"Confirm your last, Third Platoon Leader," Captain Wilson said, in a tone of disbelief.
Why the fuck did he have to be so slow, Bernie cursed silently at the captain. The LT had twigged fast enough. Fucking officers.
Two missiles shot out over the wall of the camp, arcing high and plunging down, far over the framers on the ground. Bernie looked back to see them streaking across the desert towards the distant frame carriers.
In theory, the frame carriers had decent anti-missile defenses. The heavy auto-smartgun could be slaved to anti-missile work... though it wasn't a perfect fit for the job. More to the point, each carrier had several dozen anti-rocket panels built into the edge of its armored roof; upon detecting a hostile launch, the point defense system would trigger the nearest panel to explode, showering the inbound rocket with a spray of steel fragments. The problem was, the systems had a reputation for going off at the wrong time, and sometimes showering nearby frame infantry with a spray of fragments; being well armored, the framers usually survived. Usually. The actual number of accidents was pretty low, but the reputation persisted.
The first frame carrier's point defense system was turned off. The inbound missile streaked in, punched through armor that was only rated to stop anti-frame rifle fire, and detonated. The explosion slammed open and shot fire out of every door and panel on the carrier. The driver and the systems-operator inside died instantly.