by Vernor Vinge
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Al’s Protection Racket operated out of Manhattan, Kansas. Despite the name, it was a small, insurance-oriented police service with about 20,000 customers, all within 100 kilometers of the main shop. But apparently “Al” was some kind of humorist: His ads had a gangster motif, with his cops dressed like twentieth-century hoodlums. Wil Brierson guessed that it was all part of the nostalgia thing. Even the Michigan State Police—Wil’s outfit—capitalized on the public’s feeling of trust in old names, old traditions.
Even so, there’s something more dignified about a company with a name like “Michigan State Police,” thought Brierson as he brought his flier down on the pad next to Al’s HQ. He stepped out of the cockpit into an eerie morning silence: It was close to sunrise, yet the sky remained dark, the air humid. Thunderheads marched around half the horizon. A constant flicker of lightning chased back and forth within those clouds, yet there was not the faintest sound of thunder. He had seen a tornado killer on his way in, a lone eagle in the far sky. The weather was almost as ominous as the plea East Lansing HQ had received from Al’s just four hours earlier.
A spindly figure came bouncing out of the shadows. “Am I glad to see you! The name’s Alvin Swensen. I’m the proprietor.” He shook Wil’s hand enthusiastically. “I was afraid you might wait till the front passed through.” Swensen was dressed in baggy pants and a padded jacket that would have made Frank Nitti proud. The local police chief urged the other officer up the steps. No one else was outside; the place seemed just as deserted as one might expect a rural police station to be early on a weekday morning. Where was the emergency?
Inside, a clerk (cop?) dressed very much like Al sat before a comm console. Swensen grinned at the other. “It’s the MSP, all right. They’re really coming, Jim. They’re really coming! Just come down the hall, Lieutenant. I got my office back there. We should clear out real soon, but for the moment, I think it’s safe.”
Wil nodded, more puzzled than informed. At the far end of the hall, light spilled from a half-open door. The frosted glass surface was stenciled with the words “Big Al.” A faint smell of mildew hung over the aging carpet and the wood floor beneath settled perceptibly under Wil’s 90-kilo tread. Brierson almost smiled: maybe Al wasn’t so crazy. The gangster motif excused absolutely slovenly maintenance. Few customers would trust a normal police organization that kept its buildings like this.
Big Al urged Brierson into the light and waved him to an overstuffed chair. Though tall and angular, Swensen looked more like a school-teacher than a cop—or a gangster. His reddish-blond hair stood out raggedly from his head, as though he had been pulling at it, or had just been wakened. From the man’s fidgety pacing about the room, Wil guessed the first possibility more likely. Swensen seemed about at the end of his rope, and Wil’s arrival was some kind of reprieve. He glanced at Wil’s nameplate and his grin spread even further. “W. W. Brierson. I’ve heard of you. I knew the Michigan State Police wouldn’t let me down; they’ve sent their best.”
Wil smiled in return, hoping his embarrassment didn’t show. Part of his present fame was a company hype that he had come to loathe. “Thank you, uh, Big Al. We feel a special obligation to small police companies that serve no-right-to-bear-arms customers. But you’re going to have to tell me more. Why so secretive?”
Al waved his hands. “I’m afraid of blabbermouths. I couldn’t take a chance on the enemy learning I was bringing you into it until you were on the scene and in action.”
Strange that he says “enemy,” and not “crooks” or “bastards” or “hustlers.” “But even a large gang might be scared off knowing—”
“Look, I’m not talking about some punk gang. I’m talking about the Republic of New Mexico. Invading us.” He dropped into his chair and continued more calmly. It was almost as if passing the information on had taken the burden off him. “You’re shocked?”
Brierson nodded dumbly.
“Me, too. Or I would have been up till a month ago. The Republic has always had plenty of internal troubles. And even though they claim all lands south of the Arkansas River, they have no settlements within hundreds of kilometers of here. Even now I think this is a bit of adventurism that can be squelched by an application of point force.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, no matter how important speed is, we’ve got to do some coordinating. How many attack patrols are coming in after you?”
He saw the look on Brierson’s face. “What? Only one? Damn. Well, I suppose it’s my fault, being secret-like, but—”
Wil cleared his throat. “Big Al, there’s only me. I’m the only agent MSP sent.”
The other’s face seemed to collapse, the relief changing to despair, then to a weak rage. “G-God d-damn you to hell, Brierson. I may lose everything I’ve built here, and the people who trusted me may lose everything they own. But I swear I’m going to sue your Michigan State Police into oblivion. Fifteen years I’ve paid you guys premiums and never a claim. And now when I need max firepower, they send me one asshole with a ten-millimeter popgun.”
Brierson stood, his nearly two-meter bulk towering over the other. He reached out a bearlike hand to Al’s shoulder. The gesture was a strange cross between reassurance and intimidation. Wil’s voice was soft but steady. “The Michigan State Police hasn’t let you down, Mr. Swensen. You paid for protection against wholesale violence—and we intend to provide that protection. MSP has never defaulted on a contract.” His grip on Alvin Swensen’s shoulder tightened with these last words. The two eyed each other for a moment. Then Big Al nodded weakly, and the other sat down.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m paying for the results, not the methods. But I know what we’re up against, and I’m damned scared.”
“And that’s one reason why I’m here, Al: to find out exactly what we’re up against before we jump in with our guns blazing and our pants down. What are you expecting?”
Al leaned back in the softly creaking chair. He looked out through the window into the dark silence of the morning, and for a moment seemed to relax. However improbably, someone else was going to take on his problems. “They started about three years ago. It seemed innocent enough, and it was certainly legal.” Though the Republic of New Mexico claimed the lands from the Colorado on the west to the Mississippi on the east, and north to the Arkansas, in fact, most of their settlements were along the Gulf Coast and Rio Grande. For most of a century, Oklahoma and northern Texas had been uninhabited. The “border” along the Arkansas River had been of no real concern to the Republic, which had plenty of problems with its Water Wars on the Colorado, and of even less concern to the farmers at the southern edge of the ungoverned lands. During the last ten years, immigration from the Republic toward the more prosperous north had been steadily increasing. Few of the southerners stayed in the Manhattan area: most jobs were farther north. But during these last three years, wealthy New Mexicans had moved into the area, men willing to pay almost any price for farmland.
“IT’S CLEAR NOW that these people were stooges for the Republic Government. They paid more money than they could reasonably recoup from farming, and the purchases started right after the election of their latest president. You know—Hastings Whatever-his-name-is. Anyway, it made a pleasant boom time for a lot of us. If some wealthy New Mexicans wanted isolated estates in the ungoverned lands, that was certainly their business. All the wealth in New Mexico couldn’t buy one-tenth of Kansas, anyway.” At first, the settlers had been model neighbors. They even signed up with Al’s Protection Racket and Midwest Jurisprudence. But as the months passed, it became obvious that they were neither farmers nor leisured rich. As near as the locals could figure out, they were some kind of labor contractors. An unending stream of trucks brought raggedly dressed men and women from the cities of the south: Galveston, Corpus Christi, even from the capital, Albuquerque. These folk were housed in barracks the owners had built on the farms. Anyone could see, looking in from above, that the newcomers spent long hours w
orking in the fields.
Those farms produced on a scale that surprised the locals, and though it was still not clear that it was a profitable operation, there was a ripple of interest in the Grange journals; might manual labor hold an economic edge over the automatic-equipment rentals? Soon the workers were hiring out to local farmers. “Those people work harder than any reasonable person, and they work dirt cheap. Every night, their contract bosses would truck ’em back to the barracks, so our farmers had scarcely more overhead than they would with automatics. Overall, the NMs underbid the equipment-rental people by five percent or so.”
Wil began to see where all this was leading. Someone in the Republic seemed to understand Midwest Jurisprudence. “Hmm, you know, Al, if I were one of those laborers, I wouldn’t hang around in farm country. There are labor services up north that can get an apprentice butler more money than some rookie cops make. Rich people will always want servants, and nowadays the pay is tremendous.”
Big Al nodded. “We’ve got rich folks, too. When they saw what these newcomers would work for, they started drooling. And that’s when things began to get sticky.” At first, the NM laborers could scarcely understand what they were being offered. They insisted that they were required to work when and where they were told. A few, a very few at first, took the job offers. “They were really scared, those first ones. Over and over, they wanted assurances that they would be allowed to return to their families at the end of the workday. They seemed to think the deal was some kidnap plot rather than an offer of employment. Then it was like an explosion: They couldn’t wait to drop the farm jobs. They wanted to bring their families with them.”
“And that’s when your new neighbors closed up the camps?”
“You got it, pal. They won’t let the families out. And we know they are confiscating the money the workers bring in.”
“Did they claim their people were on long-term contracts?”
“Hell, no. It may be legal under Justice, Inc., but indentured servitude isn’t under Midwest—and that’s who they signed with. I see now that even that was deliberate.
“It finally hit the fan yesterday. The Red Cross flew a guy out from Topeka with a writ from a Midwest judge: He was to enter each of the settlements and explain to those poor folks how they stood with the law. I went along with a couple of my boys. They refused to let us in and punched out the Red Cross fellow when he got insistent. Their chief thug—fellow named Strong—gave me a signed policy cancellation, and told me that from now on they would handle all their own police and justice needs. We were then escorted off the property—at gunpoint.”
“So they’ve gone armadillo. That’s no problem. But the workers are still presumptively customers of yours?”
“Not just presumptively. Before this blew up, a lot of them had signed individual contracts with me and Midwest. The whole thing is a setup, but I’m stuck.”
Wil nodded. “Right. Your only choice was to call in someone with firepower, namely my company.”
Big Al leaned forward, his indignation retreating before fear. “Of course. But there’s more, Lieutenant. Those workers—those slaves—were part of the trap that was set for us. But most of them are brave, honest people. They know what’s happening, and they aren’t any happier about it than I am. Last night, after we got our butts kicked, three of them escaped. They walked fifteen kilometers into Manhattan to see me, to beg me not to intervene. To beg me not to honor the contract.
“And they told me why: For a hundred kilometer stretch of their truck ride up here, they weren’t allowed to see the country they were going through. But they heard plenty. And one of them managed to work a peephole in the side of the truck. He saw armored vehicles and attack aircraft under heavy camouflage just south of the Arkansas. The damn New Mexicans have taken part of their Texas garrison force and holed it up less than ten minutes flying time from Manhattan. And they’re ready to move.”
It was possible. The Water Wars with Aztlán had been winding down these last few years. The New Mexicans should have equipment reserves, even counting what they needed to keep the Gulf Coast cities in line. Wil got up and walked to the window. Dawn was lighting the sky above the far cloud banks. There was green in the rolling land that stretched away from the police post. Suddenly he felt very exposed here: Death could come out of that sky with precious little warning. W. W. Brierson was no student of history, but he was an old-time movie freak, and he had seen plenty of war stories. Assuming the aggressor had to satisfy some kind of public or world opinion, there had to be a provocation, an excuse for the massive violence that would masquerade as self-defense. The New Mexicans had cleverly created a situation in which Wil Brierson—or someone like him—would be contractually obligated to use force against their settlements.
“So. If we hold off on enforcement, how long do you think the invasion would be postponed?” It hurt to suggest bending a contract like that, but there was precedent: In hostage cases, you often used time as a weapon.
“It wouldn’t slow ’em up a second. One way or another they’re moving on us. I figure if we don’t do anything, they’ll use my ‘raid’ yesterday as their excuse. The only thing I can see is for MSP to put everything it can spare on the line when those bastards come across. That sort of massive resistance might be enough to scare ’em back.”
Brierson turned from the window to look at Big Al. He understood now the shaking fear in the other. It had taken guts for the other to wait here through the night. But now it was W. W. Brierson’s baby. “Okay, Big Al. With your permission, I’ll take charge.”
“You got it, Lieutenant!” Al was out of his chair, a smile splitting his face.
Wil was already starting for the door. “The first thing to do is get away from this particular ground zero. How many in the building?”
“Just two besides me.”
“Round ’em up and bring them to the front room. If you have any firearms, bring them, too.”
WlL WAS PULLING his comm equipment out of the gunship when the other three came out the front door of Al’s HQ and started toward him. He waved them back. “If they play as rough as you think, they’ll grab for air superiority first thing. What kind of ground vehicles do you have?”
“Couple of cars. A dozen motorbikes. Jim, open up the garage.” The zoot-suited trooper hustled off. Wil looked with some curiosity at the person remaining with Al. This individual couldn’t be more than fourteen years old. She (?) was weighted down with five boxes, some with makeshift carrying straps, others even less portable. Most looked like communications gear. The kid was grinning from ear to ear. Al said, “Kiki van Steen, Lieutenant. She’s a war-game fanatic—for once, it may be worth something.”
“Hi, Kiki.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Lieutenant.” She half-lifted one of the suitcase-size boxes, as though to wave. Even with all the gear, she seemed to vibrate with excitement.
“We have to decide where to go, and how to get there. The bikes might be best, Al. They’re small enough to—”
“Nah.” It was Kiki. “Really, Lieutenant, they’re almost as easy to spot as a farm wagon. And we don’t have to go far. I checked a couple minutes ago, and no enemy aircraft are up. We’ve got at least five minutes.”
He glanced at Al, who nodded. “Okay, the car it is.”
The girl’s grin widened and she waddled off at high speed toward the garage. “She’s really a good kid, Lieutenant. Divorced though. She spends most of what I pay her on that war-game equipment. Six months ago she started talking about strange things down south. When no one would listen, she shut up. Thank God she’s here now. All night she’s been watching the south. We’ll know the second they jump off.”
“You have some hidey-hole already set, Al?”
“Yeah. The farms southwest of here are riddled with tunnels and caves. The old Fort Riley complex. Friend of mine owns a lot of it. I sent most of my men out there last night. It’s not much, but at least they won’t be picking us up for free.�
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Around them insects were beginning to chitter, and in the trees west of the HQ there was a dove. Sunlight lined the cloud tops. The air was still cool, humid. And the darkness at the horizon remained. Twister weather. Now who will benefit from that?
The relative silence was broken by the sharp coughing of a piston engine. Seconds later, an incredible antique nosed out of the garage onto the driveway. Wil saw the long black lines of a pre-1950 Lincoln. Brierson and Big Al dumped their guns and comm gear into the back seat and piled in.
This nostalgia thing can be carried too far, Wil thought. A restored Lincoln would cost as much as all the rest of Al’s operation. The vehicle pulled smoothly out onto the ag road that paralleled the HQ property, and Wil realized he was in an inexpensive reproduction. He should have known Big Al would keep costs down.
Behind him the police station dwindled, was soon lost in the rolling Kansas landscape. “Kiki. Can you get a line-of-sight on the station’s mast?”
The girl nodded.
“Okay. I want a link to East Lansing that looks like it’s coming from your stationhouse.”
“Sure.” She phased an antenna ball on the mast, then gave Wil her command mike. In seconds he had spoken the destination codes and was talking first to the duty desk in East Lansing—and then to Colonel Potts and several of the directors.
When he had finished, Big Al looked at him in awe. “One hundred assault aircraft! Four thousand troopers! My God. I had no idea you could call in that sort of force.”
Brierson didn’t answer immediately. He pushed the mike into Kiki’s hands and said, “Get on the loudmouth channels, Kiki. Start screaming bloody murder to all North America.” Finally he looked back at Al, embarrassed. “We don’t, Al. MSP has maybe thirty assault aircraft, twenty of them helicopters. Most of the fixed-wing jobs are in the Yukon. We could put guns on our search-and-rescue ships—we do have hundreds of those—but it will lake weeks.”
Al paled, but the anger he had shown earlier was gone. “So it was a bluff?”