Just Compensation

by Robert N. Charrette

  Until Russ pulled a maneuver Andy hadn’t seen before, and ended up behind him as they roared into a broad river canyon. Cannon shells raked across the sky in front of Andy. The bursts buffeted his Montjoy, taking the flight briefly out of his control. The Montjoy’s brief loss of supervision probably saved him; the course change being just enough to slip him free from Russ’s targeting projections. None of the shells caught him.

  Andy knew a clue when he got one. He vectored thrust every which way and skittered across the sky, staying one jink ahead of Russ’s cannon shells. But he couldn’t shake Russ, and the canyon walls were narrowing. Andy was running out of room to dodge. The only open space was the sky. Andy shunted power to aft thrust to surge ahead, pulling his nose up as he did. He sent the Montjoy up into a loop that with luck would put him behind his pursuer. His speed was high—a legacy of the burst he’d used to get the jump on Russ. He could put only so much push on the airframe to fight the inertia. For the next few seconds he might as well have been flying a missile.

  The Montjoy arced higher, nosing for the sun. Andy brought his nose up more, as much as he dared. The loop would be wide, almost too wide. He watched the altimeter rise. He was cutting it close. He tucked the Montjoy tighter as it approached the zenith of its path. Buzzers warned of the threshold. He fought to cinch the loop tighter. Instruments blurred as he grayed. Too tight? He fought the simulated G’s, barely maintaining consciousness. The buzzers vibrated through his bones. Slowly, slowly the Montjoy leveled off, showing its belly to the sun. He’d made it! By a handful of centimeters, if the altimeter was to be believed. If he’d been flying belly down, the Montjoy’s tail would have clipped the barrier and he’d have scratched.

  He could see the other craft following him up into the sky. The other Montjoy didn’t have his speed, which meant it could loop in tighter. Andy jinked, anticipating that Russ would apply cross-vector thrust to mutate the maneuver. He found himself shifting through empty air. Russ hadn’t shunted—instead he continued the loop as if he were running a fixed-wing. Russ had to know that he’d go through the barrier. Why would he try such a maneuver?

  Russ wouldn’t.

  The anomalies suddenly made sense. Someone other than Russ was in control of the other Montjoy. Before Andy could wonder at the why or how of it, the other Montjoy hit 500 meters and popped out of existence.

  “Frag it! We’re too late.” someone shouted outside Andy’s cockpit. The voice had to have come from the real world. Trouble. Real trouble.

  Andy’s vision blanked as dump shock slammed him. Someone had engaged the manual override on his console capsule. He was cut off, unable to warn the controllers of the breech in building security. Hissing hydraulics announced the impending opening of the hatch. He barely got his eyes shut in time to avoid the invading glare of the ready room lights.

  Blinking his aching eyes against the dazzle, he saw four people in the room: a troll who nearly filled the space by himself, an ork whose eyes reflected chrome highlights, a scruffy-looking norm, and—the only female—a small Asian woman with white hair. They wore white coveralls slung with various belts and bags, all except the woman who wore hardly anything at all. Despite the bad viewing angles, Andy could make out the shoulder patches on the coveralls. They said Telestrian Cyberdyne Maintenance. They lied. This was no maintenance crew. It couldn’t be. Had they been real, all four would have worn coveralls. There was only one thing this crew could be. Shadowrunners.

  “Let’s geek the little piece of drek.” the ork said.

  >LIVE FEED WFDC

  -[2 2:04:06/8-14-55]

  REPORTER: TAYLOR WEINGARTNER [WEIN-324]

  UPLINK SITE: ALEXANDRIA DISTRICT, FDC

  Weingartner: “It’s another hot August night here in the nation’s capital. I’m talking to you from the fringes of the ever-growing shanty camp of the Compensation Army. You saw me here last month when I told you how bad the camp’s sanitary conditions were. As the heat wave has continued, things have gotten worse. The miasma of suffering clings everywhere. But amid all the squalor, something new is moving.

  “You see them here and there, moving in small groups. They’re carrying food and medical supplies. They stop to help an ailing marcher. They settle a dispute. Who are they? The government doesn’t know.

  “Look at them on their errands of mercy. You can spot them easily. They all wear neon-blue berets and matching armbands. It’s a uniform of sorts. Clearly they’re organized. Do you want to know who they are? I know I do. Let’s go find out.”

  [Viewpoint shift: over Weingartner’s shoulder. Short, stocky woman wearing blue beret comes into frame. She ignores camera until Weingartner speaks.]

  Weingartner: “You, ma’am. Yes, you. Would you mind pausing for a moment? Can you tell us about the beret you’re wearing? What does it mean?”

  Dwarven woman: “I’m kinda busy.”

  Weingartner: “Just a moment, ma’am. The country is watching and wants to know about you. Can you tell us who you are?”

  Dwarven woman [into camera]: “My name’s not important, but you want to know who I am? I’m somebody who knows we’ve got to care. [Touches beret.] We’re the Conscience of the Country, and we care. We are mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children even. We are elves and orks, trolls and dwarfs, any metatype you can imagine. And we believe in justice.

  “Now I gotta go. Got work to do.”<<<<<

  4

  When Captain Olivetti, last of the officers to give his private debrief, returned to the group outside the Tactical Operations Center, the talk had gotten around to catching up on careers. Tom Rocquette had served or schooled with most of the battalion’s officers and as yet he’d had little time to renew acquaintances. He hadn’t been at Fort Schwartzkopf for more than ten hours—and he’d slept six of those—before planning for the exercise had begun. That had been three days ago. He’d only received his promotion four days ago. It had come with his assignment and immediate transfer orders.

  Tom hooked a thumb under his collar tab to emphasize the dull black-enameled leaves pinned there. “I was supposed to get a furlough along with this. Instead I got transferred here from Denver, and out on this raggedy-ass boondoggle. Sorry you guys got me dumped on you like that.”

  “We don’t mind, Major.” Vahn said. It was an appropriate comment for a second in command, but Vahn sounded like he really meant it.

  “Call me Tom when it’s informal, okay? Goes for all of you. As to minding, I do.” An operational command was something he'd longed for, a rare and jealously sought slot in the UCAS army, but—“I was looking forward to that time off.”

  “Machine Rocquette wanting time off?” Olivetti sounded incredulous. “Machine” was a nickname Tom had picked up in his last year at the Point; supposedly it referred to his machine-like dedication. It hadn’t been dedication driving him back then, but Olivetti didn't know that. “You’re worse than my lamest reality-impaired rigger. What would you do with a furlough?”

  “I’d sleep for a week.” Tom admitted.

  “I know I’d head for bed.” Santiago said. “But I don’t know how much sleep I’d get.”

  “Really, Santi? I can’t think of anything else you might be capable of doing.” Vahn commented.

  Santiago’s reply was cut off by the call for the officers to assemble in the TOC for the general debrief. The ragged, tired group shuffled under the camouflage netting strung between the command vehicles, and found places among the workstations and commo sets. The general and his staff, all with eyes as red-rimmed as any trooper’s, were already in place.

  Contrary to Tom’s expectations, general debrief did not allow a forum for explaining the anomalies of the field exercise. The general and his staff weren’t interested in hearing Tom’s complaints about the umpires’ unfairness in scoring kills by making the green and orange hostiles super strong. In fact, the brass weren’t interested in hearing any of their officers’ complaints. All they wanted to know was why decisions had been
made and how they’d been implemented. Every gripe about the skewed scenario was shot down as it started. The general’s reaction wasn’t S.O.R Sure, it was within the regs for the general just to take input, but he wasn’t being fair. He also wouldn’t answer any of their questions. The lack of output didn’t go down well with the exhausted, frustrated men who’d been out on the maneuver. Tempers flared, but the brass just stood behind their stone wall and took it. Debriefs were supposed to be give and take. Not S.O.R at all. The only good thing to come out of the one-sided debrief was an early dismissal to barracks.

  By chance or design, all of the officers of Tom’s battalion decided to exit the TOC between the same two vehicles. The rigger commander Olivetti picked the same path. Tom recognized the pattern; there would be an informal debrief before this crowd actually hit the sack. It didn’t take long to get started.

  “What kind of drek was that?” Santiago’s voice was loud enough to carry back into the TOC where the general and his staff remained, but the look on the captain’s face suggested he didn’t care. When Santiago got angry about something, everybody knew about it. “We don’t know squat more than we did before we went out. Nothing added to nothing is still nothing. Less than nothing, considering the drek the umps were pulling out there.”

  “Hey, hey, Santi. Chill it, eh? The exercise is oh-ver.”

  Vahn clapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder, urging him to a quicker step away from the TOC. Vahn whispered in Santiago’s ear, “Store it till we get back to barracks, eh?”

  Vahn and Santiago were same-year graduates from the Point. Tom remembered hazing them. He also remembered that Vahn had spent a lot of time cleaning up after his quarrelsome buddy. It looked as though Vahn was still trying to watch out for his friend and cover up his impolitic excesses. Mistakes made during an exercise weren’t supposed to reflect badly on an officer, but mistakes made in conduct concerning the exercise were another matter. Having made it clear that they didn’t want to hear complaints, the brass wouldn’t take kindly to Santiago’s mouthing off while still in earshot. Vahn, as usual, was more concerned about the future than his buddy.

  Santiago wasn’t ready to listen. “What the frag happen to the Informed Army? Tell me that! How the hell are you supposed to make an informed decision without information? Did I miss something? When did we become the old Red Commie Army?”

  “We most assuredly are not.” said a voice that made Tom feel sudden pity for Santiago.

  “ ’Ten-hut!” Tom called belatedly.

  The surprised group went to stiff attention. Most of the others looked surprised and a little nervous like Vahn. Clearly he wasn’t the only one to have missed Colonel Malinovsky’s approach. Santiago had the sense to look a little guilty.

  Malinovsky was their regimental commander. The colonel came from a career military family with a history of service going back over a century. Most of his ancestors had served in the old Soviet army and its immediate successors. Like many fleeing the turmoil in end-of-century chaos, the Malinovsky family had been buffeted in the Euro Wars of the early thirties. They had finally found a home in the West, where they built new careers, proving themselves intensely loyal to their new country. Some, like the Colonel, were sensitive about their past.

  But Colonel Malinovsky didn’t seem to be interested in Santiago. He addressed Tom directly.

  “At ease, Major Rocquette.” The colonel’s stiffness didn’t allow more than the most minute relaxation. “You lost almost half your task force in that last encounter, Rocquette.”

  Tom was aware of how poorly they’d done.

  “Anything to say about that?”

  “I’ve nothing to add to the download or the debrief, Colonel.”

  Malinovsky’s cold gray eyes stared into Tom’s. Tom couldn’t read anything in those blank steel walls. Slowly the colonel nodded.

  “I am impressed.” he said. “You did a damn good job out there, Rocquette. If the rest of the task forces going through this scenario do as well, we’ll have a chance at winning this one.”

  Good job? Sure, relative to the other teams, Tom’s troops had weathered the frag-up well enough. But well enough wasn’t good enough. The job had been far from good.

  Whatever Tom thought of the exercise’s results, clearly the colonel had a higher opinion. Malinovsky had broken ranks with the rest of the brass to come out and talk to them. If he was willing to go that far, maybe he’d go further.

  “You know, Colonel, we’d all feel a lot better if we knew what the exercise was about. Just what is going on?”

  “You shouldn’t be asking that question and you know it.” Malinovsky said.

  “There are times you still have to ask.” Tom said.

  Malinovsky nodded. “I will tell you that we’re operating under security conditions. At this time, you all have no need to know the reasons.”

  “There hasn’t been an announcement.” Olivetti said.

  “It’s going out now.” Malinovsky told him.

  “It’s not because of what’s happening in Washington, is it?” Tom asked.

  “If it were something to do with that nonsense, I couldn’t tell you.”

  That was an answer in itself, and they all knew it. So if the threat wasn’t the mobs infesting Washington, what was it? Where was it? The UCAS was at peace with all its neighbors.

  “Then the exercise wasn’t just a psych test?” Captain Hayne asked.

  Hayne had commanded the task force that had been wiped out in the first encounter, and hadn’t been shy about complaining about the unfairness of the scenario. Tom hadn’t considered that the whole skewed testing, and stone-wall response to the officers’ reactions, might have been designed to see how they would take it. Such a theory could explain a lot.

  “Not just.” the colonel said. “The threat is real, gentlemen. That’s all I’m allowed to say. For now, forget it, and get yourselves some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  The colonel headed back into the TOC, leaving Tom and the others to head for their rides.

  “Not just, he says.” Hayne was still primed for bitching. 'That has to be part of it too. Sure, that’s it! The whole thing, even the colonel’s nicey-nice, is part of the psych. They’re messing with our heads, guys. I might have known. Should have known it when we got jumped after a negative scout. They were gunning for me. What a crock!”

  It sounded like Hayne was edging into a paranoiac episode from too much wideawake. He needed to be calmed down. “Everybody got jumped after a negative scout.” Tom pointed out. “The umpires said that the OpFor’s ambushes were legit.”

  ‘The ambushes were crocks.” Hayne insisted. “Nothing hides from astral recon that well.”

  Tom had encountered a few things, but none of them fit the rest of the profile of the OpFor they had fought. “I don’t think the hostiles really were hidden.” Tom said. “I think Hooter saw them.”

  “Your upload said the astral was clear.” Vahn said with a hint of accusation.

  “That’s what Hooter said.” Tom told him. “I just relayed it.”

  “If Hooter saw those things before they attacked, why didn’t he say anything?” Olivetti asked. “More ‘I can’t talk about that’ drek?”

  “Fragging with our minds.” said Hayne.

  “Hell, Hooter’s a mage.” Santiago said. “Maybe he just wanted to see us ordinary folk get our heads handed to us so he could make some flashy play in the end game to show off.”

  “Hooter’s a stuck-up fragger, but he’s a team player when it comes to going along with the other hoodoo boys.” Vahn said. “Furlann probably dictated Hooter’s scout reports to him.”

  Furlann?

  “Rita Furlann?” Tom asked.

  “The one and only Ice Heart.” Vahn said. “She’s head of the magical OpFor field team here.”

  Tom had worked with Furlann in Denver. Besides being an excellent field mage, she was an expert on exotic magics and the psychological applications and effects of hermetics
. Tom was beginning to see.

  The UCAS Army had excellent virtual training facilities, and Fort Schwartzkopf here in the Midwest had the Army’s best, which meant the best in the world. There were a lot of reasons why the Army made extensive use of those facilities, among them lower cost than real-world training, better security, and less wear and tear on equipment and terrain. It had been decades since any battalion-sized field exercises had been conducted, but now the joint chiefs had authorized these expensive war games. Why?

  “It’s the magic angle.” Tom concluded. “It’s gotta be.”

  “How’s that?” Olivetti asked.

  “Those are a major’s leaves you’re wearing, aren’t they?”

  Tom asked. “Everybody knows that physical response to magical effects doesn’t model well in cyberspace. Look at the OpFor we were facing. Most of the tactical problems in the exercise were oriented toward defeating magical whatevers. We hardly saw mundane opposition.”

  “So you think that whoever the threat is supposed to be they can hide from both magical and tech recon?” Olivetti asked. “I don’t think I like that idea much.”

  “It was part of the scenario.” Tom said. He didn’t like the idea either.

  “You don’t think the injuns are working up another Ghost Dance, do you?” Hayne asked.

  If he was feeling paranoid about that possibility, he was justified. The U.S. military’s complete helplessness against the magical assets of the emerging Native American Nations still rankled. The subsequent loss of large chunks of territory and the break-up of the old United States remained an unhealed wound in many quarters. There were scars deeper than Vietnam on the UCAS body politic and on the country’s military. It would take something on the order of a Desert Storm for a payback.