The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge

by Vernor Vinge

  He glanced around the van. Strong was a high presidential advisor. Was that worth anything? Wil tried to remember. In Aztlán, with its feudal setup, such a man might be very important. The safety of just a few leaders was the whole purpose of that government. The New Mexicans were different. Their rulers were elected; there were reasonable laws of succession, and people like Strong were probably expendable. Still, there was an idea here: Such a state was something like an enormous corporation, with the citizens as stockholders. The analogy wasn’t perfect—no corporation could use the coercion these people practiced on their own. And there were other differences. But still. If the top people in such an enormous organization were threatened, it would be enormously more effective than if, say, the board of directors of MSP were hassled. There were at least ten police services as powerful as MSP in the ungoverned lands, and many of them subcontracted to smaller firms.

  The question, then, was how to get their hands on someone like Hastings Martinez or this General Crick. He punched up an aerial view from somewhere south of the combat area. A train of clouds had spread southeast from the Schwartz farm. Otherwise, the air was faintly hazy. Thunderheads hung at the northern horizon. The sky had that familiar feel to it. Topeka Met Service confirmed the feeling: This was tornado weather.

  Brierson grimaced. He had known that all day. And somewhere in the back of his mind, there had been the wild hope that the tornados would pick the right people to land on. Which was absurd: Modern science could kill tornadoes, but no one could direct them. Modern science can kill tornadoes. He swallowed. There was something he could do—if there was time. One call to headquarters was all he needed.

  Outside, there was pounding on the door and shouting. More ominous, he heard a scrabbling noise, and the van swayed slightly on its suspension: Someone was climbing onto the roof. Wil ignored the footsteps above him, and asked the satellite link for a connection to MSP. The black and gold Michigan State logo had just appeared when the screen went dead. Wil tapped futilely at emergency codes, then looked at the exterior view again. A hard-faced major was standing next to the van.

  Wil turned on the audio and interrupted the other. “We just got sound working here, Major. What’s up?”

  This stopped the New Mexican, who had been halfway through shouting his message at them. The officer stepped back from the van and continued in more moderate tones. “I was saying there’s no fallout problem.” Behind him, one of the troopers was quietly barfing into the bushes. There might be no fallout, but unless the major and his men got medical treatment soon, they would be very sick soldiers. “There’s no need for you to stay buttoned up.”

  “Major, we’re just about ready to go back on the air. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Ed Strong. Special Advisor to the President.” Wil spoke the words with the same ponderous importance the real Ed Strong might have used.

  “Yes, sir. May I speak with Colonel Alvarez?”

  “Alvarez?” Now that was a man the major must know. “Sorry, he got the corner of an equipment cabinet in the head. He hasn’t come to yet.”

  The officer turned and gave the sergeant a sidelong look. The noncom shook his head slightly. “I see.” And Wil was afraid that he really did. The major’s mouth settled into a thin line. He said something to the noncom, then walked back to the cars.

  Wil turned back to the other displays. It was a matter of seconds now. That major was more than suspicious. And without the satellite transmitter, Brierson didn’t have a chance of reaching East Lansing or even using the loudmouth channels. The only comm links he had that didn’t go through enemy nodes were the local phone bands. He could just reach Topeka Met. They would understand what he was talking about. Even if they wouldn’t cooperate, they would surely pass the message back to headquarters. He ran the local directory. A second passed and he was looking at a narrowband black-and-white image. A young, good-looking male sat behind an executive-sized desk. He smiled dazzlingly and said, “Topeka Meteorological Service, Customer Relations. May I help you?”

  “I sure hope so. My name’s Brierson, Michigan State Police.” Wil found the words tumbling out, as if he had been rehearsing this little speech for hours. The idea was simple, but there were some details. When he finished, he noticed the major coming back toward the van. One of his men carried comm gear.

  The receptionist at Topeka Met frowned delicately. “Are you one of our customers, sir?”

  “No, damn it. Don’t you watch the news? You got four hundred tanks coming down 01d70 toward Topeka. You’re being invaded, man—as in going out of business!”

  The young man shrugged in a way that indicated he never bothered with the news. “A gang invading Topeka? Sir, we are a city, not some farm community. In any case, what you want us to do with our tornado killers is clearly improper. It would be—”

  “Listen,” Wil interrupted, his voice placating, almost frightened. “At least send this message on to the Michigan State Police. Okay?”

  The other smiled the same dazzling, friendly smile that had opened the conversation. “Certainly, sir.” And Wil realized he had lost. He was talking to a moron or a low-grade personality simulator; it didn’t matter much which. Topeka Met was like a lot of companies—it operated with just enough efficiency to stay in business. Damn the luck.

  The voices from the exterior pickup were faint but clear, “—whoever they are, they’re transmitting over the local phone bands, sir.” It was an enlisted man talking to the New Mexican major. The major nodded and stepped toward the van.

  This was it. No time left to think. Wil stabbed blindly at the directory. The Topeka Met Customer Relations “expert” disappeared and the screen began blinking a ring pattern.

  “All right, Mr. Strong,” the major was shouting again, loudly enough so that he could be heard through the hull of the van as well as over the pickup. The officer held a communications headset. “The President is on this line, sir. He wishes to speak with you—right now.” There was a grim smile on the New Mexican’s face.

  Wil’s fingers flicked across the control board; the van’s exterior mike gave a loud squawk and was silent. With one part of his mind, he heard the enlisted man say, “They’re still transmitting, Major.”

  And then the ring pattern vanished from the phone display. Last chance. Even an auto answerer might be enough. The screen lit up, and Wil found himself staring at a five-year-old girl.

  “Trask residence.” She looked a little intimidated by Wil’s hulking, scowling image. But she spoke clearly, as one who has been coached in the proper response to strangers. Those serious brown eyes reminded Brierson of his own sister. Bounded by what she knew and what she understood, she would try to do what was right.

  It took a great effort to relax his face and smile at the girl. “Hello. Do you know how to record my call, Miss?”

  She nodded.

  “Would you do that and show it to your parents, please?”

  “Okay.” She reached offscreen. The recording telltale gleamed at the corner of the flat, and Wil began talking. Fast.

  The major’s voice came over the external pickup; “Open it up, Sergeant.” There were quick footsteps and something slapped against the hatch.

  “Wil!” Big Al grabbed his shoulder. “Get down. Away from the hatch. Those are slug-guns they have out there!”

  But Brierson couldn’t stop now. He pushed Al away, waved for him to get down among the fallen New Mexicans.

  The explosion was a sharp cracking sound that rocked the van sideways. The phone connection held, and Wil kept talking. Then the door fell, or was pulled outward, and daylight splashed across him.

  “Get away from that phone!”

  On the display, the little girl seemed to look past Wil. Her eyes widened. She was the last thing W. W. Brierson saw.

  THERE WERE DREAMS. In some he could only see. In others, he was blind, yet hearing and smell were present, all mixed together. And s
ome were pure pain, winding up and up while all around him torturers twisted screws and needles to squeeze the last bit of hurt from his shredded flesh. But he also sensed his parents and sister Beth, quiet and near. And sometimes when he could see and the pain was gone, there were flowers—almost a jungle of them—dipping near his eyes, smelling of violin music.

  Snow. Smooth, pristine, as far as his eyes could see. Trees glazed in ice that sparkled against cloudless blue sky. Wil raised his hand to rub his eyes and felt faint surprise to see the hand obey, to feel hand touch face as he willed it.

  “Wili, Wili! You’re really back!” Someone warm and dark rushed in from the side. Tiny arms laced around his neck. “We knew you’d come back. But it’s been so long.” His five-year-old sister snuggled her face against him.

  As he lowered his arm to pat her head, a technician came around from behind him. “Wait a minute, honey. Just because his eyes are open doesn’t mean he’s back. We’ve gotten that far before.” Then he saw the grin on Wil’s face, and his eyes widened a bit. “L-Lieutenant Brierson! Can you understand me?” Wil nodded, and the tech glanced over his head—probably at some diagnostic display. Then he smiled, too. “You do understand me! Just a minute, I’m going to get my supervisor. Don’t touch anything.” He rushed out of the room, his last words more an unbelieving mumbling to himself than anything else: “I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get past protocol rejection.”

  Beth Brierson looked up at her brother. “Are you okay, now, Wili?”

  Wil wiggled his toes, and felt them wiggle. He certainly felt okay. He nodded. Beth stepped back from the bed. “I want to go get Mom and Dad.”

  Wil smiled again. “I’ll be right here waiting.”

  Then she was gone, too. Brierson glanced around the room and recognized the locale of several of his nightmares. But it was an ordinary hospital room, perhaps a little heavy on electronics, and still, he was not alone in it. Alvin Swensen, dressed as offensively as ever, sat in the shadows next to the window. Now he stood up and crossed the room to shake hands.

  Wil grunted. “My own parents aren’t here to greet me, yet Big Al is.”

  “Your bad luck. If you’d had the courtesy to come around the first time they tried to bring you back, you would have had your family and half MSP waiting for you. You were a hero.”

  “Were?”

  “Oh, you still are, Wil. But it’s been a while, you know.” There was a crooked smile on his face.

  Brierson looked through the window at the bright winter’s day. The land was familiar. He was back in Michigan, probably at Okemos Central Medical. But Beth didn’t look much older. “Around six months, I’d guess.”

  Big Al nodded. “And, no, I haven’t been sitting here every day watching your face for some sign of life. I happened to be in East Lansing today. My Protection Racket still has some insurance claims against your company. MSP paid off all the big items quick, but some of the little things—bullet holes in outbuildings, stuff like that—they’re dragging their heels on. Anyway, I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “Hmm. So you’re not saluting the New Mexican flag down there in Manhattan?”

  “What? Hell no, we’re not!” Then Al seemed to remember who he was talking to. “Look, Wil, in a few minutes you’re gonna have the medical staff in here patting themselves on the back for pulling off another medical miracle, and your family will be right on top of that. And after that, your Colonel Potts will fill you in again on everything that’s happened. Do you really want Al Swensen’s Three-Minute History of the Great Plains War?”

  Wil nodded.

  “Okay.” Big Al moved his chair close to the bed. “The New Mexicans pulled back from the ungoverned lands less than three days after they grabbed you and me and Jim Turner. The official Republic view was that the Great Plains Action was a victory for the decisive and restrained use of military force. The ‘roving gangster bands’ of the ungoverned wastes had been punished for their abuse of New Mexican settlers, and one W. W. Brierson, the ringleader of the northern criminals, had been killed.”

  “I’m dead?” said Wil.

  “Dead enough for their purposes.” Big Al seemed momentarily uneasy. “I don’t know whether I should tell a sick man how much sicker he once was, but you got hit in the back of the head with a five-millimeter exploder. The Newmex didn’t hurt me or Jim, so I don’t think it was vengeance. But when they blew in the door, there you were, doing something with their command equipment. They were already hurting, and they didn’t have any stun guns, I guess.”

  A five-millimeter exploder. Will knew what they could do. He should be dead. If it hit near the neck, there might be some forebrain tissue left, but the front of his face would have been blown out. He touched his nose wonderingly.

  Al saw the motion. “Don’t worry. You’re as beautiful as ever. But at the time, you looked very dead—even to their best medics. They popped you into stasis. The three of us spent nearly a month in detention in Oklahoma. When we were ‘repatriated,’ the people al Okemos Central didn’t have any trouble growing back the front of your face. Maybe even the New Mexicans could do that. The problem is, you’re missing a big chunk of brain.” He patted the back of his head. “That they couldn’t grow back. So they replaced it with processing equipment, and tried to interface that with what was left.”

  Wil experienced a sudden, chilling moment of introspection. He really should be dead. Could this all be in the imagination of some damned prosthesis program?

  Al saw his face, and looked stricken. “Honest, Wil, it wasn’t that large a piece. Just big enough to fool those dumbass New Mexicans.”

  The moment passed and Brierson almost chuckled. If self-awareness were suspect, there could scarcely be certainty of anything. And in fact, it was years before that particular terror resurfaced.

  “Okay. So the New Mexican incursion was a great success. Now tell me why they really left. Was it simply the Schwartz bomb?”

  “I think that was part of it.” Even with the nuke, the casualties had not been high. Only the troops and tankers within three or four thousand meters of the blast were killed—perhaps 2,000 men. This was enormous by the standards Wil was used to, but not by the measure of the Water Wars. Overall, the New Mexicans could claim that it had been an “inexpensive” action.

  But the evidence of casual acceptance of nuclear warfare, all the way down to the level of an ordinary farmer, was terrifying to the New Mexican brass. Annexing the Midwest would be like running a grade school where the kids carried slug guns. They probably didn’t realize that Schwartz would have been lynched the first time he stepped off his property if his neighbors had realized beforehand that he was nuke-armed.

  “But I think your little phone call was just as important.”

  “About using the tornado killers?”

  “Yeah. It’s one thing to step on a rattlesnake, and another to suddenly realize you’re up to your ankles in ’em. I bet the weather services have equipped hundreds of farms with killers—all the way from Okemos to Greeley.” And, as Wil had realized on that summer day when last he was truly conscious, a tornado killer is essentially an aerial torpedo. Their use was coordinated by the meteorological companies, which paid individual farmers to house them. During severe weather alerts, coordinating processors at a met-service headquarters monitored remote sensors, and launched killers from appropriate points in the countryside. Normally, they would be airborne for minutes, but they could loiter for hours. When remote sensing found a twister, the killers came in at the top of the funnel, generated a 50-meter bobble, and destabilized the vortex.

  Take that loiter capability, make trivial changes in the flight software, and you have a weapon capable of flying hundreds of kilometers and delivering a one tonne payload with pinpoint accuracy. “Even without nukes they’re pretty fearsome. Especially if used like you suggested.”

  Wil shrugged. Actually, the target he had suggested was the usual one when dealing with maraudi
ng gangs. Only the scale was different.

  “You know the Trasks—that family you called right at the end? Bill Trask’s brother rents space for three killers to Topeka Met. They stole one of them and did just like you said. The news services had spotted Martinez’s location; the Trasks flew the killer right into the roof of the mansion he and his staff were using down in Oklahoma. We got satellite pics of what happened. Those New Mexican big shots came storming out of there like ants in a meth fire.” Even now, months later, the memory made Big Al laugh. “Bill Trask told me he painted something like ‘Hey, hey Hastings, the next one is for real!’ on the fuselage. I bet even yet, their top people are living under concrete, wondering whether to keep their bobble suppressors up or down.

  “But they got the message. Inside of twelve hours, their troops were moving back south and they were starting to talk about their statesmanship and the lesson they had taught us.”

  Wil started to laugh, too. The room shimmered colorfully in time with his laughter. It was not painful, but it was disconcerting enough to make him stop. “Good. So we didn’t need those bums from Topeka Met.”

  “Right. Fact is, they had me arrest the Trasks for theft. But when they finally got their corporate head out of the dirt, they dropped charges and tried to pretend it had been their idea all along. Now they’re modifying their killers and selling the emergency-control rights.”

  Far away (he remembered the long hallways at Okemos Central), he heard voices. And none familiar. Damn. The medics were going to get to him before his family. Big Al heard the commotion, too. He stuck his head out the door, then said to Wil, “Well, Lieutenant, this is where I desert. You know the short version, anyway.” He walked across the room to pick up his data set.

  Wil followed him with his eyes. “So it all ended for the best, except—” Except for all those poor New Mexican souls caught under a light brighter than any Kansas sun, except for—“Kiki and Schwartz. I wish they could know how things turned out.”