Mitigated Futures

by Buckell, Tobias S.

  Mitigated Futures

  Copyright © 2012 by Tobias S. Buckell.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Illustration

  by Jenn Reese (Tiger Bright Studios). All rights reserved.

  Interior Illustrations by Steve Goad. All rights reserved.

  Electronic Edition

  Electronic ISBN:

  xxxxxxxxxxxxx

  www.TobiasBuckell.com

  Introduction

  Glimpses of the future. Iterations. If this goes on. Reflecting the mirror of our own world back at us through the metaphor of the future. These are the things I adore about the genre of science fiction. From my very first hit, after closing the pages of Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End, I’ve loved reading about various possible, impossible, or feared futures.

  When putting together the list of stories for this collection, I wanted to fill it with a similar vein of work. Futurism, wonder, possible and impossible futures. And I wanted more of a solid science fictional selection.

  With a world that is becoming rapidly more like the science fiction of my own youth, undergoing rapid change (and yet isn’t that always the complaint of anyone looking back?), these sorts of tales are the ones that I find myself turning too more and more. Futurism of various sorts. Processing where the now is taking us, or threatening to take us. Wisps of possibilities, strands of maybes, all seem to snagging my hindbrain and refusing to let go.

  Skyscrapers being built in thirty days. Computers predicting your buying preferences, the invasion of privacy, the nature of war and technology. In some ways wanting to write about the future has become a daunting process. Everything moves so quickly one might face the danger of a story being quaint by the time it goes to print.

  And yet the one thing I learned from my forays into reading science fiction at a young age was a strong inoculation to the fear of rapid change.

  Change is coming. The future is always barreling down at us. And I work in a genre that steps up to it and tries to figure out what might be thundering down at us.

  What a fantastic job to have!

  These are a handful of stories where I try to engage with that. From war, to climate change, to spam, there is a future settling in on us. I’d like to share the warped reflections of a shard of what may be in store for us.

  Or maybe hopefully not!

  Tobias S. Buckell

  June 28, 2012, Bluffton

  This one also goes out to all my supporters: readers, followers via social media or website, who rallied via Kickstarter to crowdfund this collection into being via preorders and enthusiasm. It’s a brave new world. Thanks for carrying me into it. Special extreme thanks go to Arachne Jericho. His support put the preorders for this collection up to the point where interior illustrations were unlocked. Special thanks also to Doselle Young, for commissioning the all-new story The Rainy Season.

  A Militant Peace

  with David Klecha

  Although not the religious sort myself, I attended a private religious college for my degree. My alma mater, though a private religious college, was pacifist. The Mennonite faith has a long history of conscientious objectors and war resistance. Doctrinally they take the ‘turn the other cheek’ side of things very seriously. My own reaction to pacifism is that it sounds great in theory, but I can’t get it to work when I start thinking about Nazis, or other horrible folk.

  The seed for this story began many years through random discussions with individuals who, although religious and conservative, opposed war. At the same time, I began to notice that in our hyper-connected world, every death in a war was more amplified than it had been in earlier wars. Hundreds of thousands of American troops died in the World Wars. Tens of thousands died in Korea and Vietnam. But during my generation, deaths numbered in the thousands. Or less.

  What will war look like in another generation or so, when hundreds would seem overly high? When live feeds render tens of deaths unacceptable?

  There was a judge who insisted that the ten commandments were important to be put in a courtyard because they were an important part of the US. And many claim the US to be a Christian nation. So what if a nation has to obey the commandment ‘thou shalt not kill’ in a very literal sense? What kind of foreign defense policy would that create?

  With the right technology, it isn’t that wild of a scenario to think about. And when I teamed up with David Klecha, I thought: let’s write a military SF story where the rules of engagement are basically pacifism, but there is an actual invasion happening. With overwhelming force and power. What would that look like?

  I am not only a pacifist but a militant pacifist.

  I am willing to fight for peace. —Albert Einstein

  For Nong Mai Thuy, a Vietnamese Sergeant in the Marine Police, the invasion of North Korea starts with the parachute-snapping violence of a High Altitude, Low Opening jump deep in the middle of the inky black North Korean airspace at night. Here the air is the stillest, bleakest black. The bleakness of a world where electricity trickles only to the few in Pyongyang.

  This is good for Mai. The synthetic-ballistic faceshield displaying heads-up information has a host of visual add-ons, including night-vision. She flicks it on, and the familiar gray-green of a landscape below rushes up to smack into her.

  When she thuds into the ground the specialized, carefully fitted, motorized armor hisses slightly as it adjusts to the impact.

  "Duc?"

  "I am safe," her partner responds in her ear over the faint distortion of high-end crypto. In the upper right of her HUD a beacon glows softly, and she turns around. Duc's smashed his way through several hefty tree limbs before hitting ground. But he's already packing his chute.

  They are officially on the ground.

  Beyond the darkness are some nine and a half million North Korean forces that aren't going to respond well to what has just happened.

  And Mai wonders: how many of them are already on the way to try and kill her right now?

  Three minutes before Mai and Duc hit the ground, heavy machinery in stealth-wrapped containers had parachuted in, invisible to prying electronic eyes, and touched down.

  Mai and Duc fan out to establish a perimeter and protect it, even as hundreds more hit the ground, roll, and come up ready to follow orders beamed at them from commanders still up in the sky, watching from live satellite feeds.

  A portable airstrip gets rolled out across the grassy meadow. Within the hour the thorium nuclear power plant airdrops in and gets buried into the ground, then shielded with an artillery-proof cap.

  Once power is on, Camp Nike takes shape. The ballistic-vest wearing civilian Chinese contractors have built whole skyscrapers within forty-eight hours. Here they only need to get four or five stories high for the main downtown area. They get a bonus for each extra geodesic dome fully prepped by the morning. The outer wall of the camp is airlifted in. It's been constructed in pieces in Australia ahead of time, and the pieces slam down into the ground via guided parachutes. No one glances up, this part of the invasion has been practiced over and over again in Western Australia so much that its old news.

  Twenty minutes before sunrise two large transports land and the civilians rush them. The field is cleared of non-combatants soon after, leaving the ghost city behind it.

  It is dawn when what looks like a hastily organized contingent of the North Korean Army crests the hills. Thirty soldiers here to scout out what the hell just happened, Mai imagines.

  Mai ends up outside the perimeter, guardian to the north gate.

  "Welcome to Camp Nike," Duc mutters.

  Someone is riding shotgun through their helmet cameras and jumps into the conversation. It sounds like Captain Nguyen, Mai thinks. "Make a slight bow to the
commanding officer, wave encouragingly at the group."

  Mai's hand rests on her hip, where a sidearm would usually be.

  "No threatening gestures, keep your arms out and forward," her helmet whispers to her. Aggressive body-posture detected and reported by her own suit. It feels slightly like betrayal. Old habits die hard: Mai can't help but reach for her hip.

  She is, after all, still a soldier.

  The small group of men all have AKS-74s — which the North Koreans call a Type 88 — but they're slung over their shoulders, even though they can see Mai and Duc in full armor.

  "I have a bad feeling about this," Mai mutters.

  "Hold your positions," command whispers to them.

  It isn't right. Standing here, unarmed, holding her hands up in the air as if she's the one surrendering, placating an enemy. When there are men standing just thirty feet away with rifles.

  One of them steps forward, his hands in the air, and she realizes he's nervous.

  Mai points to a signpost near the gates.

  CAMP NIKE

  UNITED NATIONS SPONSORED

  ALTERNATIVE SETTLEMENT ZONE

  NO WEAPONS ALLOWED

  PLACE ALL WEAPONS IN THE

  MARKED BINS FOR DESTRUCTION

  The sign's in Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese and English, and also emblazoned with the internationally-recognizable logos of all the camp's primary private sector sponsors.

  There'll be more of that when people got inside. Shoes and clothing by Nike. Dinners by ConAgra. TV by Samsung. Computers by Dell.

  The men read the sign, and start shaking their heads.

  This, Mai thinks, is a moment of balance, where the world around her could swing one way or another.

  Duc takes initiative, to her surprise, and waves at the men cheerily. He flips his faceplate open, so they can see his expression, while Mai curses him silently and fights the urge to grab him and yank him to safety.

  All it'll take is one well-aimed shot from a sniper somewhere out there to kill him, now. Or for one of these men with an AKS-74 to spook.

  He might as well not even wear the armor, she thinks, absently reaching for her hip again.

  There is no gun, though. There never will be.

  Mai's not close enough for her translation software to help her understand what the group of men is arguing over. But Duc has gotten close enough to be surrounded.

  "They want to see the food," he reports.

  "What?"

  "They want to make sure they're not being tricked into a prison camp. They won't disarm until they see that what they were told about the camps was true."

  One of the men holds up a cheap, black smartphone and points at it.

  Six months ago these things were dumped into North Korea by the millions. Each phone disguises its texting and data traffic as background static, and otherwise functions as a basic, jamming-hardened satphone. Between the satellite routing and peer-to-peer whisper comms, they created a "darknet" outside of Pyongyang's official control.

  The Beloved Leader decreed death for anyone caught with one, but the experiment succeeded. Well enough to spirit out video and pictures of starving children, of brutal crackdowns on attempts to protest Pyongyang by desperate, starving peasants, and all the other atrocities that had built the case for international intervention.

  It has been through these phones that messages explaining the camps and invasion had been sent twenty-four hours ago.

  Promising food and safety.

  These soldiers are defecting, and can see the walls. Now they want to see the food.

  It's all about the food.

  "Three of you, leave your weapons in the bin," Duc says, "go in and come back out to report what you see."

  It is a reasonable compromise. Duc and Mai let the three unarmed men pass through, and five minutes later they're back, excited and shouting at their comrades.

  One of the men whistles back toward the crest of the hill. As if melting out of the countryside, a river of people carrying what possessions they had came trickling down the hillside, and out of the distant scrub where they'd been hiding.

  The first two hundred new citizens of Camp Nike stream in through the gates, and once they're through, all that is left are the full bins of AKS-74s waiting to be destroyed.

  "Were you worried?" Duc asks as they watch the North Koreans line up at refugee registration booths.

  "Yes," she replies. "I think we'd be foolish not to worry when people with guns walk up to us."

  Duc thumps his chest. "With these on? We're invincible here."

  Maybe, Mai thinks. She looks back at the small city inside the walls. But we aren't the only ones here, now, are we?

  ***

  For forty-eight hours the stream of humanity continues. A thousand. Five thousand. Ten thousand. The Korean People's Army is too busy chasing ghosts to notice right now: false reports about touchdowns. Jammed communications. Domination of their airspace.

  Satellite telescopes, early warning systems, and spyware pinpoints the point of origin of several missile launches. They die while still boosting up into the air, struck from above by high-powered lasers.

  Electromagnetic pulses rain down from heavy stealth aircraft drones, leaving any unshielded North Korean advanced military tech, which is far more than anyone realized, useless metal junk.

  By the time the North Koreans managed to haul out their ancient, analog Cold War-era artillery, Mai is on her way to the barracks to bunk down for her first real night of sleep.

  The shelling begins in earnest. A distant crumping sound, but without the accompanying whistle of the rounds falling.

  The Point Defense Array pops up. Green light flickers and sparks from the top of the almost floral-looking tower in the center of Camp Nike. Lines shimmer into the night sky as they track incoming artillery rounds.

  They'd been told during training that the green lasers were doing nothing more than "painting" the individual targets before the x-ray lasers slagged the incoming shells into nothing more than a slight metal mist.

  Mai watches the light show build in intensity for a few moments, just as awed by its beauty as she had been when she'd first seen it demonstrated.

  The bursts light up the undersides of the clouds. And not a single shell gets through.

  She wonders if she would still have the reflexes to get to cover if she ever hears the telltale whistle of an incoming round again, after living like this.

  ***

  There might be thousands of Captain Nguyens in the Vietnamese military, Mai knows. But here at Camp Nike, there is only one. She is the sort of woman who straightens spines at a glance. They call her the Warrior of Binh Phuoc, and it's rumored that she single-handedly kept that border region safe for years during the Cambodian Unrest.

  Nguyen's been hopping in and out of helmet cameras all week long, moving them around like pawns on a chessboard.

  Now it's time for Mai to face the chess master.

  Mai joins Trong Min Hoai, a member of her team, as they hop over a row of Japanese-donated grooming 'bots, rolling up the main street of Camp Nike sweeping up litter. They're both in full PeaceKeeping armor, servos whining as they work around her limbs to amplify her tiniest motions.

  In an already carefully-cultivated and manicured gaming park over to their right, a group of South Korean volunteers are combining literacy lessons with one of the role-playing games popular in the South.

  All it would take, Mai thinks, glancing up at the snap and crack of green Point Defense activity in the distance, is one artillery shell to sneak through and hit that park.

  But no one's looking up. After a week, even the civilians are taking it for granted.

  Inside the ground floor of the temporary headquarters building, a nondescript ten-story instant skyscraper, Captain Nguyen stands in front of a podium and surveys the twenty fully power-armored members she's called in.

  "LOCKDOWN," declares an electronic system, and the doors thud shut. A soft blue glow ind
icates that the room is nominally clean of electronic surveillance.

  Everyone's links to the outside die. Soldiers remove their helmets and let them hang from dummy straps on the back of their armor.

  It's strange to see all these faces.

  Most relax in place, Mai's one of the few who grits her teeth at that. She comes from Vietnam's elite Marine Police, suffused with discipline and duty. Other soldiers have traveled in from less formal corners of Vietnam.

  Mai's tempted to say it's Western influence, but she comes from a family that has quietly welcomed the easing of the Party's influence over the long years.

  Her grandfather served in the Republic of Vietnam Army in 1975. He melted back into civilian life when Saigon fell. Unlike various Hmong or other American allies he had not been lucky enough to secure a trip to the United States. Instead he endured, raised a family, and placidly waited for the wheel to turn. As it had in Europe or Russia.

  That came almost without their noticing. Now Vietnam jostles with South Korea and Japan for economic strength.

  Which is what got her here.

  South Korea is playing down its role in this humanitarian incursion of sovereign national borders. Japan knows better than to stick any of its troops on foreign soil anywhere the Pacific Ocean touches land, even if it's a peacekeeping mission.

  No one wants American soldiers involved in this.

  The UN has pushed hard to get Vietnamese forces to lead this. They believe they're in the best position, historically and culturally.

  Behind the scenes promises and paybacks in the form of infrastructure, debt forgiveness from creditor nations, and military upgrades have been fairly epic.

  And if all goes well, Vietnam becomes a real world player, able to use this as a bargaining chip to leverage itself up onto the table with the world's most powerful nations.