Martial Law 1: Patriotic Treason

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Why aren’t we shooting back?” Roger asked, plaintively. “What about the soldiers escorting us?”

  “Their hands are tied by the ROE,” the lead Marine said. There was a curiously dismissive tone to her voice. “They’re not allowed to shoot back unless their lives are in real danger.”

  An explosion, not too far away, made the entire vehicle shake. I heard more gunshots in the distance, but I couldn’t tell who was firing. The video heroes could tell the difference between one weapon and another by sound alone, but they all sounded the same to me. I hoped – prayed – that we weren't the targets of the assault, but somehow I felt otherwise. The enemy, whoever they were, had turned out to welcome us to Terra Nova in force. The truck kept moving rapidly and then…

  It crashed to a halt as another explosion shook it. I heard shattering sounds from the front cab and knew that the crew were dead. “Out, out now,” the Marine barked. Muna hesitated and the Marine caught her arm, pushing her rapidly towards the rear. I followed her, stumbling slightly, as the Marines jumped out first, their weapons already out and seeking targets. I couldn’t understand how they were taking it all so calmly. I was on the verge of panic until the Marine cuffed my head. “Keep down, damn you!”

  The noise was much louder outside the truck. We were caught in a crossfire coming from buildings on either side of us, with gunners pouring down fire towards the trucks. Half of the soldiers seemed to be dead already, their bodies draped over their burning vehicles or lying torn and broken on the ground. The Marines didn’t hesitate. Moving in perfect concert, they lifted their weapons and returned fire savagely, spending bullets like water. A handful of gunners fell out of the windows as the bullets tore through their flesh; others targeted the Marines and attempted to overwhelm them. The remaining soldiers, who had been pinned down under heavy fire, were attempting to counterattack or retreat, but neither seemed possible. The road was blocked at both ends.

  Hoskins must have been working for them, I thought, angrily. The thought seemed unlikely, but even I could see that we’d driven right into a planned ambush. The enemy, whoever they were, had had the time to set up perfectly and they’d killed…they might have killed the Captain! The thought spurred me to action, despite my terror, and I started to crawl around the remains of the truck. If the Captain was alive, it was my duty to go to him; if he were dead, it was my duty to take care of the bodies. I hadn’t understood some of the muttered comments the Marines had made before now, but I saw now that those on the ground were very different to those who served in space. They didn’t understand us and we didn’t understand them.

  The firing seemed to intensify, joined by a CRUMP, CRUMP, CRUMP sound that, moments later, was followed by explosions all around us. It seemed as if we were caught in the midst of a civil war, or perhaps half the city was trying to get at us and hitting their own side in all the confusion. I felt sweat trickling down my back as I crawled forward, stopping only when I saw the small group of soldiers in front of me, firing into the buildings. It saved my life. A handful of grenades tumbled down amongst them and shredded them in the explosions. Blood and gore splattered over me.

  Dark shapes burst out of the buildings, firing as they came. A handful fell, a dozen, but the remainder kept running, pressing their advantage. I tried to crawl backwards, but it was too late; one of them had seen me. He pointed his weapon at me, leered down the barrel of his gun, and smiled. I froze. I should have gone for the laser pistol on my belt, but somehow I couldn’t move. He held me hypnotized. I felt a warm trickle running down my leg, a moment before his head exploded as one of the Marines picked him off with a single shot. The Marine was past me in a moment, firing single shots into the group, wiping them all out. A moment later, we were in the clear.

  “Stay down,” he hissed, as a new sound rent the air. I could hear the sound of mighty blades tearing through the air. “Stay down…”

  The first helicopter swooped down, firing missiles into the buildings on both sides of the road. The others followed, bombarding enemy positions with missiles and gunfire, while thousands of soldiers in heavy armoured vehicles appeared at both ends of the street. The enemy forces faded away and vanished into the surrounding streets. It was over.

  “Get into the trucks,” I heard the Captain order. I had never been so glad to hear someone’s voice in all my life, even if I had wet myself from fear. I thought of presenting myself to the Governor like that and had to fight to suppress a giggle. Now the fear was wearing off, I was just happy to be alive. “Move, now!”

  The armoured truck was, thankfully, cooler than the outside. The Captain followed us in, with the Master Sergeant bringing up the rear. A moment later, the truck moved off. Apart from a handful of bullets pinging off the armour, the remainder of the trip was uneventful. Judging from the smell, I wasn't the only one who had wet myself either.

  “I want them all started on weapons training tomorrow,” the Captain ordered. It was the first time I’d heard him sounding angry. The Master Sergeant seemed equally angry, although his anger seemed directed at the soldiers on the outside. “If this is going to happen again…”

  It didn’t on that trip, but the memory stayed with me for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Five

  The UN’s position on weapons training and private gun ownership is, as always, presented as something its not. Citing safety fears and concerns over criminal use of weapons, the UN bans ownership of weapons, and places severe limits on those who would be expected to use weapons in the performance of their duties. It is not unknown for a person to spend their entire career in the UNPF and never fire a shot in anger, or even in training. Civilians are simply forbidden to use weapons; somehow, this does not affect criminal activity. The murder rate in Earth’s cities is shockingly high.

  The real reason, of course, is simple. A disarmed population, one that has been trained to be scared of weapons, is one that is unable to revolt.

  -Thomas Anderson. An Unbiased Look at the UNPF. Baen Historical Press, 2500.

  “All right, pay attention,” the Master Sergeant bellowed. He had the kind of voice that seemed to echo through space, even if sound itself couldn’t travel through a vacuum. “This is Basic Weapons Handling for Dummies! When you came into this cabin, you knew nothing about weapons! When you leave, you will know enough to use a weapon in self-defence or as you are directed by senior officers! Anyone who fucks about in this course will be taken outside and soundly beaten. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” we said. Master Sergeant Erwin Herzog was not the type of person anyone would easily defy. He was a short grizzly sparkplug, but we’d all seen him exercising and none of those muscles were the result of cosmetic surgery. I’d also seen him practicing with his fellow Marines and knew just how tough he was. If he called me out, I knew I wouldn’t even be able to land a punch.

  “I am a Sergeant,” he snapped. “You will address me as Sergeant! I work for a living. I once tried out for officer status, but I was disadvantaged. My parents were married!”

  He glared around at us impartially. “First model, the standard-issue UN Model Seven Laser Pistol,” he announced, picking up the pistol and waving it under our noses. “Fires a beam of laser light capable of burning through flesh and light armour. Powered by a single power cell emplaced in the hilt. Designed by a gay sausage sucker and used only by little girls and girly men. What is wrong with this weapon?”

  I winced under his tone. The Model Seven looked like something out of a science-fiction movie, one of the endless videos produced about the UNPF and its services to Peace along the frontier. The weapon looked cool, but in the Master Sergeant’s hand, it began to look almost like a toy. It might well have been a toy in a previous incarnation. One of my former friends at school had actually had a set of contraband toy guns.

  “I don’t know, Sir…ah, Sergeant,” Roger said, finally. “It kills people, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it kills,” Herzog agreed, slowly. “It ki
lls an opponent who is not smart enough to wear heavy armour, but it kills. Never underestimate just how stupid an enemy soldier can be. At the same time, never underestimate the scale of your own mistakes, or just how ignorant you actually are.” He glared at Roger. “What is wrong with this weapon?”

  He carried on without waiting for Roger to answer. “There are two things wrong with this piece of shit,” he thundered. “The first thing is that it’s fragile. Slam it to the ground and it will break! The second thing is that the power pack” – he opened the hilt of the pistol and removed the small cell from the weapon – “cannot hold a charge more than a week, if that. If you charge this weapon on Monday, you will be unable to fire it on Sunday. That could be unpleasant.”

  Sally spoke into the silence. “Sergeant,” she said, carefully, “why can’t the weapon hold a charge that long?”

  “Because some penny-pinching asshole in the Department of Supply decided that it would be cheaper to purchase these shitty power packs from one manufacturer than spend additional money on power packs that actually work,” Herzog informed her. “That asshole probably got a promotion for his stroke of genius, but we on the front lines have to pay the price. Those of you who went down to the surface of the world below will know now that we’re at war. The assholes back home do not believe it in their bones. They are quite happy to give us shit like this to save a few billion credits.”

  He threw the pistol to the deck hard enough to make me wince. “You’ll see this again and again in your careers,” he added, icily. “Those of you who have been working off their demerits by doing the replacement work will have realised that all of the components on this ship have around half the lifespan we were promised. The soldiers down on the ground are meant to be able to communicate with one another with ease. Naturally, half the radios don’t link into the other half, which is why the ambush went off so well. The bastard in charge didn’t know that the convoy was under attack until it was almost too late.”

  I shivered, remembering the brief…incident. The Captain hadn’t said anything to us about it, even during the brief pointless ceremony at Government House, but on the way back we’d been escorted by hundreds of soldiers. We’d also seen something of the city. It looked like a war zone…no, it was a war zone. The various factions fighting it out for control had somehow managed to learn the route of the convoy and plan an ambush in advance. They’d almost killed all of us.

  “This is something a little different,” Herzog snapped, holding up a second weapon. Unlike the laser pistol, it was made of dark metal and gleamed in his hand. “This is as Standard-Issue Marine Automatic Pistol, based on a design hundreds of years old. It fires a clip of nine bullets” – he opened the weapon to reveal the clip stored inside the gun – “and is fucking difficult to fuck up, although knowing most spacer babies you’ll manage it somehow! You shoot someone with this, they’re going to be dead or seriously injured, if you hit them. The one advantage of the laser pistol is that it fires a beam in a straight line. This weapon…you jerk when you fire and you’ll miss.”

  He looked from face to face, and then finally pushed the weapon, hilt first, at Roger. “Take it,” he ordered, nodding towards a target set up at the rear of the room. “Hit that target now and you’ll lose a demerit.”

  Roger didn’t hesitate. He swung around, pointed the weapon towards the target, and pulled the trigger. It clicked, uselessly.

  “First lesson of shooting,” Herzog said. He laughed as he held up his hand. “Never – ever – take anyone’s word about a weapon being loaded, or not. You can’t trust anyone, even me. The next person to make that mistake will be cleaning Marine Country until its completely spotless.”

  “I didn’t see you do that,” Roger said, astonished. I hadn’t seen Herzog palm the clip either. “How did you…?”

  “I’ll tell you one day,” Herzog promised. “It’s a very old trick. Now” – he took back the weapon and inserted the clip – “point and fire again.”

  Roger checked the weapon this time, pointed and fired. It clicked again. “You also have to take the safety off,” Herzog explained, dryly. He demonstrated quickly. “The morons in charge of security at any surface base will probably make a fuss about you carrying a weapon, regardless of the regulations in effect. Always keep the safety on unless you want to use the weapon to kill someone, or to practice shooting. Take care of the weapon and it will take care of you.”

  He smiled. “Now, shoot!”

  The bang was much louder than I’d expected. “Ouch,” Roger said, with a hiss of pain. The gun had jerked in his hand. “I hit the target…”

  “You hit the outer ring,” Herzog said. His tone wasn't quite mocking. “My old grandmother could shoot better than you.” He took back the weapon and passed it to Muna, who checked it carefully, earning herself an approving look in the process. “Your turn.”

  An hour later, we had all had a turn firing the pistol and learning how to use it. Herzog made it clear. It wasn't just shooting that was important, but cleaning and preparing the weapon for use. Once we’d all been issued a pistol – although Herzog did warn us that we might not be allowed to keep them in the long run – we were told that they would be inspected regularly. A single weapon in bad condition would mean two demerits.

  “In your free time, come here and practice shooting,” Herzog ordered, finally. We groaned. We barely had any free time on the ship. The First Lieutenant and the Senior Chief kept us working from dawn till dusk. I had never realised that I could be so grateful for sleep until they’d started to put us to work. The Academy had been far more routine, with hours allocated for the different courses well in advance, and none of us had been really challenged. “Now…”

  He opened a box and revealed a third weapon. I’d seen something like it before, carried by the soldiers down on Terra Nova, but this one was gleaming. “Standard-Issue UN Assault Rifle, Mark Nine,” Herzog informed us. “These weapons are issued, without fail, to both Marines and Infantry troops down in the mud. Why is that?”

  I hesitated, and then took a guess. “To allow compatibility?”

  “Correct,” Herzog bellowed. “I can use their weapons; they can use ours. We can use their supplies; they can use ours, if they need them. The Infantry doesn’t know what it is like to be a Marine, but they know that they can use our weapons, if they need to do so. When you have all qualified with the pistol, we will move on to the rifle and qualify you on that as well.”

  He glanced at his chronometer and smiled thinly. “Times up for the day,” he said, with a faint leer. It was an expression that promised pain…and lots of it. “Unarmed combat practice tomorrow, same time, same place.”

  I didn’t – quite – groan again, but unarmed combat against trained Marines was a humiliating experience. I had a handful of lessons back at the Academy, but I hadn’t realised just how much more the Marines got, to say nothing of their constant practice against each other. The Doctor was forever complaining about repairing various Marines after sparring matches had broken bones and inflicted smaller injuries. We’d landed blows…but I was very aware that we’d been allowed to land those blows. The Marines were so controlled that they could absorb our blows without lashing back and knocking us out.

  The next week went very slowly. The Captain had us running interception drills on the handful of freighters orbiting Terra Nova, or trying to set up exercises with some of the other starships. I spent some of my off-duty time reading about Terra Nova’s history in the ship’s library, but I found nothing to explain the ambush, or what I was coming to realise was incessant warfare. I asked Lieutenant Hatchet for an explanation, but she clammed up and assigned me other duties until I got the message. There were some questions I couldn’t ask even her.

  “Perhaps they’re fighting over religion and the UN is caught in the middle,” Muna said, her dark eyes hooded. I knew little about her origins, apart from the fact that her presence at the Academy hadn’t been universally popular. I couldn’
t understand why. She was good company, if sometimes shy and reserved. “Or perhaps they’re fighting against the UN itself. There were people back home who hated the UN and wanted to destroy all the peacekeepers…”

  She shook her head. “The UN was the only force keeping the warring tribes apart,” she added. I realised, suddenly, that she could never go home again. The UNPF was her home now. “If it had withdrawn, they would have wiped each other out, but that didn’t stop them mounting attacks.”

  “Perhaps,” Roger agreed. He seemed to hesitate. His family connections should have ensured that he had access to more information than anyone else, but on the starship he was cut off from anyone who might have shared information with him. “Or perhaps there’s something else going on. Were they shooting at us, or was it just a target of opportunity?”

  I shrugged. “Would they have known or cared who we were?” I asked. It didn’t seem very possible, somehow. “How many Ensigns graduate from the Academy each year?”

  Sally snorted. “Perhaps they were so scared when they heard that you three were on your way they decided to set up an ambush to welcome you,” she said. “They might even have intended to put your heads on poles…”