by Nic Low
Who the hell are you? demanded a stocky, harassed-looking woman wearing a captain’s insignia.
Reporter, Alex said, flashing her press ID. This is my interpreter, Marlow. What’s going on?
Ain’t supposed to talk to reporters, the captain said. But say, didn’t you used to be famous?
That’d be my sister, Alex said. She died in a waterskiing accident. Can you tell us what’s happening, off the record?
Off the record? The captain ran a hand through her hair. Well, sure. You remember General Hurtz’s promise—every relocated Mong family gets a house of their own? Well, we brought every last motherfucker here a house, and guess what? They don’t want ’em. But look at ’em. They still standing here, screaming they want a house. Fools don’t make no sense.
Hey, sister, Marlow said. You got an interpreter?
Sure, the captain said, holding up a small screen. Google Translate. Ninety-eight per cent accurate.
That ain’t an interpreter, Marlow said. Let me ask what’s going on.
He exchanged a quick burst of Mongolian with the men, then turned away and erupted in a fit of coughing.
Jesus, Alex said. Are you okay?
Translator, Marlow gurgled. House.
What the hell’s up with him? the captain asked.
He’s just emotional, Alex said. Can I have a look at your translator?
Sure.
Alex took it and read. There, she said, tapping the screen. There’s your two per cent.
The captain screamed with exasperation.
What’s wrong? the soldiers asked, fingering their guns.
Translator got it wrong, the captain moaned. Not houses, horses. They’re fucken nomads. They all thought they were getting a horse of their own.
A volatile silence filled the car park. Alex bit her lip.
Come on, the captain said. We gotta send this upstairs.
They turned and walked dejectedly to their trucks. Alex rolled her eyes at the Mongolians. No English, huh? she said.
The men ignored her and stood quietly watching. The soldiers climbed into their trucks. When the last one pulled from the parking lot, the men screamed with laughter, howling and collapsing into each other like drunken wrestlers.
Plenty English, one of the men gasped. Do more horse, Ganzorig.
The young man set off again, trotting and neighing. He was laughing so hard he fell over in the snow. Another man staggered over and urinated on Ganzorig’s boots.
My horse piss on your house! he yelled.
They laughed together, and the men pressed forward to shake hands. The scent of vodka and wood smoke filled Alex’s nostrils. Ganzorig and Marlow spoke at length.
Have they heard anything about the rumours that General Hurtz is based along this stretch of border? Alex said.
Marlow translated, and turned back to Alex with a smile. That guy there with the belly says Hurtz’s a ghost who comes in the night to steal their children. Ganzorig says she’s a capitalist who comes in the night to steal their country.
Tell them I had no idea they were going to be so boring, Alex said. What about the body count? Do they know anyone who’s missing?
The men shook their heads in response to Marlow’s translation.
Try not to look disappointed, he murmured to Alex.
Sorry, she said. One more question—do they know of anyone crossing into Mongolia?
Again Marlow translated, and the men smiled grimly. Ganzorig said something that made the others smirk.
What’d he say? Alex asked.
The closest would be ‘kaboom’, Marlow said.
Come on, Alex said, miming the up-and-over action of crossing the border. There’s got to be a way.
Ganzorig copied her mime, but swooped his other hand down like a drone.
Like, totally kaboom, he said in English.
Alex wondered what it would be like to be strafed from the air—and a faint hissing sound rose into a deafening scream as a squadron of fighter drones tore overhead. She ducked, the drums of adrenalin commanding her to run. When she raised her head the men’s faces were stony.
Ganzorig nodded at Alex, and spoke in Mongolian.
He’s confused, Marlow relayed. Says you don’t look suicidal. Haven’t you seen the news? Mongolia’s a smoking crater.
Everyone’s seen the news, Alex said. Has anyone seen it with their own eyes?
They’ve seen plenty, Marlow said. There’s a lookout. Ganzorig says he’ll give us directions.
Alex pulled the truck onto the main road. They sped east to the sound of Mongolian hip-hop. The road grew steep, winding above a deep river gorge, and they found themselves stuck behind a line of stately black station wagons.
Oh my god, Alex said. No bodies? This looks like a mass funeral procession. Grab the camera.
Marlow leaned out the window to film as Alex pulled alongside. The drivers were ordinary Mongolians, the enormous car trunks jammed with turnips and lolling pigs. Marlow yelled something, and one of the drivers yelled back. Marlow roared with laughter.
What’s going on? Alex said.
This lot thought they were getting horses too.
And instead they got—
Ninety-eight per cent, baby! Left here.
Alex swung the Hummer onto a rutted dirt track. Windows down, stereo booming, the truck climbed out of the valley to reach a lookout high on the ridge. Through a break in the trees they saw a jumble of saw-toothed hills receding south. The land was black and burned: a postcard defaced by war. One range still smouldered with fires.
Alex shut off the truck, and there was just the sound of the wind.
And there she is, Marlow said. Our fair smokin’ motherland.
How long since you’ve been back? Alex asked.
Three years. Look at it—those motherfuckers.
Marlow jumped down and slammed the door. Alex filmed as he crossed to a cairn of heaped stones draped in brilliant blue rags. He stood for a long time, then pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and tossed it onto the pile.
Quitting? she called.
An offering to the sky gods, he said, removing his hat. The old ones. Here come the new ones.
The blat of a surveillance drone ricocheted across the valley. The tiny unmanned aircraft turned and circled overhead, its cross-shaped shadow passing back and forth over the clearing. Alex stared up at it, fascinated to see a drone in the flesh.
What’s it doing? she asked.
Won’t know till it’s done it, Marlow murmured. Don’t move.
For several minutes the drone hovered. The whine of its rotors defeated all thought. Alex’s fascination faded, and she felt fear and obedience building in her chest. She watched the sun dropping in the west, the sky thickening with high cloud. Distant fires took on the arachnid gleam of eyes. Another drone came in fast and low across the valley, then two more in quick succession. The four craft circled like buzzards.
This don’t feel right, M
arlow said.
A searchlight snapped on, and Alex’s stomach shrank. A speaker mounted beneath the first drone crackled to life. ATTENTION, ATTENTION, a voice commanded.
Alex and Marlow craned up, squinting against the light.
MA’AM, the voice said. didn’t you used to be famous?
Alex blinked in surprise. Yes, she shouted. I did.
DID WE MEET IN THE PUB IN SAN FRANCISCO?
What the hell? Alex shouted. That you, kid? With the fast reflexes?
SEE, TOLD YOU GUYS IT WAS HER!
The drones’ rotors slowed, and the four craft drifted down into a bobbing semicircle. Alex narrowed her eyes against the stinging downdraught. The fading sun was reflected in each drone’s front camera.
MA’AM? the kid said. I HAVE A REQUEST FROM OUR FLIGHT COMMANDER.
There was a pause, then a snigger.
SHOW US YOUR TITS!
Alex seized a rock from the pile and hurled it as hard as she could. Piss off! she yelled. You little shit! All of you. Get the hell out of here!
The searchlight snapped off and the four craft lifted away, trailing obnoxious laughter. Marlow was bent double.
Oh, you too? Alex demanded. Hilarious.
Sorry, sister, Marlow wheezed. Peace. I’m just laughing ’cause I’m scared.
They camped at the lookout. Alex gathered firewood in a rage. Marlow sat out of the wind with his hood up, watching her and smoking. Every few minutes a drone flight scorched overhead.
You still want to walk in there? Marlow said.
Alex ignored him. She lit the kindling.
Marlow grinned. You do, don’t you? He crossed to the truck and returned with his pack. He dug out a bottle of vodka. They got a name for people like you in Baltimore.
What’s that?
Dead. Here.
Alex unscrewed the cap and took a shuddering mouthful. I’m going to find that kid and spit roast him, she said, coughing.
No doubt. But out there? Who’s gonna survive that?
The wind was gusting now, bringing a brutal chill from the north. Snow flurries settled into the fire with a wet hiss. Alex chewed her salt-flavoured army rations and swigged from the bottle in silence.
First real snow, Marlow said. If the drones don’t kill us, we’ll freeze. Or the wild animals’ll eat us.
The ghostly glow of another flyover lit the clouds. A series of flashes lit the valley below, and a rolling boom swept through the campsite.
C’mon now, girl, Marlow said. I wanna blow this wide open as much as you do, but we gotta stick to the camps. You’re too beautiful to get yourself killed out there.
Alex thrust out her front teeth like a beaver. And if I looked like this? Straight to the slaughter?
I’m kidding.
Yeah, yeah, can’t take a joke. Alex took another slug of the vodka. What the hell’s beauty got to do with anything?
It’s how you got your job on TV, right?
Fuck off, Alex said. I studied at Columbia.
Aww, Marlow said. Oppressed by beauty. FPW, girl.
What?
First World Problem.
Dumbass, Alex said. FPW would be First Problem World.
Whatever. You know, I was watching NTV the night you blew it.
Through the vodka and the cold, Alex felt her skin prickle.
What went wrong? Marlow said. You were looking so good. You made such a mess.
Alex closed her eyes. She’d been fighting with the producers for months. They vetoed every story she put forward about conflict with China. They were happy to broadcast the president speaking of peace when, to many, the signs pointed to war. There was constant friction over air-defence zones in the Pacific and North Asia. General Hurtz, a complete unknown, was appointed CEO of the Armed Forces, and military spending went through the roof. Preschools received donations of ultra-realistic flight simulators. Both the Americans and the Chinese began drone exercises in Mongolia. Then it was more than exercises; Mongolians began flooding over the Russian border. How could the network not run stories about going to war?
Because we haven’t gone to war, the executive producer shouted. I don’t want to hear another fucking word about Hurtz and the coming apocalypse. I do not pay you to speculate. I do not even pay you to be a journalist, because you are not a fucking journalist. I pay you to sit, look good, and read exactly what we put in front of you. Ex-act-ly. So let’s get to it.
Alex took her place on set. One minute until she was live in front of sixty million people. All her friends and family, every stranger she was ever likely to meet. Sit. Look good. Read.
There was commotion in the control room. She could see them flapping in her peripheral vision. Not a fucking journalist, huh?
Thirty seconds. Cameras one and two fired up. Could she just recite a story about Hurtz and the coming war from memory? She would choke if she ad-libbed. Once they went live she was on autopilot. She was a drone.
Ten seconds. Brassy theme music flooded the set. There was sudden chatter on the crew-only channel. The cameramen were listening intently. One of them choked on his coffee. Two seconds. The autocue began its relentless glide. Alex blanked her mind and lit her smile. They were live.
Good evening. Welcome to NTV News, I’m Alexandra Davidson. President West today returned from day five of joint friendship talks in Beijing—
She read without registering a word. It took total concentration to maintain her composure, her famous sparkling eyes. Her voice was a bottomless well of empathy. She read about the mid-term run-off in Maryland. She read about firestorms in Australia. She read about fears of a viral outbreak in the Pacific. The next story rolled up on the autocue.
Speculation is mounting that America and China are preparing for large-scale drone hostilities in North Asia. Following tension between Washington and Beijing over resource allocation, trade tariffs and cattle exfoliation, sources in the Department of Defense point to a threefold increase in spending on unmanned aerial circus, in response to China’s expansion of military cutlery into their northern steaks.
There was something wrong with the autocue. Alex dimly noted that one of the cameramen had fallen over. She pushed on.
China has responded by erecting a series of preposterous tents, including the desecration of a bilateral mermaid, and the retooling of US wing nuts held by Chinese foals. Department sources name General Hurtz as the traitor behind this—
They were sabotaging her. People would forget she was reading an autocue and assume she’d lost her mind. The second she choked they’d cut to a commercial break and fire her on the spot. But her training was good: the expressive dance of her eyebrows never faltered, and her voice ran true. An incredulous silence took hold on set. Alex calmly read on, even as the autocue gave up all pretence of a news story and collapsed into a foul swill of Celine Dion lyrics, fragments of Hitler’s speeches, rejected dialogue from Avatar and jokes from far-right chat rooms, before disintegrating into a string of binary code that seemed to run forever.
Zero.
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One.
One.
Zero.
One.
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
One.
Zero.
One.
Zero.
One.
One.
Zero.
One.
Zero.
Zero.
One.
One.
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
Alex snapped.
You pigs, she screamed into camera one. You pigs! We’re going to fucking war!
The lights went out.
Alex stood unsteadily. She dropped the vodka bottle. She felt like she’d swallowed a fistful of dirty snow. Cold, she mumbled. Putting up the tent.
Better sleep in the truck, yo, Marlow said. Warmer.
She stumbled over to the truck, and flung open the back door. All yours, she said. I’m tenting by myself.
You wanna freeze to death? Marlow said.
No, that’s your job, Alex said. She yanked her heavy pack down from the Hummer and slammed the door. I’ll be camped over here.
She stalked off into the trees. The snow was coming in thick and soft now, the dark earth turning to an even white.
ATTENTION, ATTENTION.
Alex froze.
EXCUSE ME, MA’AM.
She turned back to the fire. It was Marlow, drunk, helpless with laughter.
show us your tits!
Hey! Fuck you! Alex shouted, but the wind snatched her voice away. She turned and walked faster. Screw that bullshit ghetto nomad prick. She hoped he froze to death. And screw that runt kid and his pervert mates and whoever put children in charge of that sort of firepower, and the whole insane war—and screw the NTV producers: not a fucking journalist, huh?—and screw her friends, the bastards, telling her to stay home, keep her head down, vanish, die, as if being embarrassed was the problem, and while she was at it screw her parents too, making half-assed soothing noises like demented pigeons when it was obvious, it was so fucking obvious, they hated that she wouldn’t leave it alone. Screw every last goddamn one of them.