"Firethorns!" she whispered hoarsely to herself, then lay still, wincing in pain as the patch finished coiling. It dragged at her wounds, scratching across the fabric of her pants as she closed her eyes against tears of agony. Once she was sure it was done, she carefully drew out a folding tool and commenced cutting herself free.
She cursed as she did so, both in pain and because she could smell the dank, rotten stink of the decay beneath the patch where other, less fortunate creatures were slowly turning into fertilizer. Even in the chill night, insects buzzed about, feasting on the refuse. It was a stupid greenhorn mistake and she should have known better. The other two had skirted this area, but she'd cut across to avoid following an existing route and to save time.
Free at last, she sat back gingerly and began dumping anesthetic and disinfectant into the wounds. Her legs looked as if a large cat had shredded them, with scratches and seeping punctures all over. At least tetanus hadn't gotten much of a foothold here, although she was immunized. She wasn't sure when she was due for a booster. Maybe Vikki had some.
She rose painfully to her feet, feeling the wounds begin to inflame already. She pushed sorely on and hoped the swelling wouldn't impede her too much.
They did reach their objective before dawn and waited nervously for the first gray tinges across the broad coastal plain. She'd spent a long time convincing the others that UN doctrine would hold through almost anything—at dawn and dusk, everyone "stood to" and prepared for attack, that being the most likely time, according to doctrine. Dak had argued that one div, or 3 A.M. was most effective, since biorhythms were at their lowest. "Dak, you're arguing logic with tradition and bureaucracy. Trust me," she insisted. He shrugged and went along with her schedule.
They quickly dug a hole at the edge of the roadbed, buried the large bomb and ran the sensor wire across the road. Mud and dead weeds camouflaged the scar on the ground and they retreated as Io began to show. Now they had to get far enough away not to be detected when the device detonated.
The rest of the trip was anticlimactic. They hit the next road over, ten kilometers away, that night, spread out to wait for the truck that was their pickup and hoisted themselves into the bed. They were back at the farm, Kendra soaking her calves in saltwater to take the swelling down as the blast hit. They heard about it secondhand and from intel reports two days later. One truck had been destroyed, plus its cargo of a generator, and two casualties. The psychological effect would be greater. "Wish we could have watched that," Kyle commented. Kendra nodded, not really sharing the feeling.
"What should we come up with next?" she asked as she rubbed her burning, itching legs.
* * *
Adding to the UN's problems was a serious logistical error. During the first month of operations, twelve Guardian vertols had been shot down or blown up by "terrorists." Replacements were requested and the files were munched by the usual bureaucracy. Nine new ones were sent. In the meantime, three more had been destroyed. General Huff tried to order excess numbers to allow for projected losses and ran into a twofold brick wall of a bureaucracy that couldn't provide more than the current table of operations allowed, and soundly critiqued him for having a negative attitude toward operational capabilities. It was simply not politic to admit that any losses would occur. He gritted his teeth and requested fifteen, waited through four more losses for them to arrive . . . and was sent eleven. This was not the way to run a war, he decided, with bean counters tabulating the cost of ammunition versus body count and land area.
He demanded, and got, a visit from an oversight committee to discuss methods. This concept of nonlethal warfare was popular with the gutless types who were terrified of every vote and every tax mark in case it was held against their bureau at review time, but it was not how wars were won. His men and women were paying the price because, naturally and as always, the enemy saw no advantage to playing the same game. To them, the psychological advantage came from splashing as much UN blood as possible on as many news vids and Peacekeepers as possible. They'd even taken to mailing anatomical parts to comrades after battles. The only result of this would be a long, bloody war, and he sought a quick end from pragmatic and ethical considerations.
The committee that visited was the typical collection of stodgy types who saw admin as more important than people. He ensured they were driven through some of the messiest areas of conflict in Jefferson, where body parts and fresh blood made a queasy impression on them. A quick pass through the hospital with ad lib screams of pain added to the effect. Then he took them to a cold, dark hangar for his pieces de resistance.
Even before they arrived, they'd agreed to some of his demands, but they drew the line at initiation of lethal force. Under no circumstances would that be tolerated. He made a pro forma objection before springing his trap.
"You have the other concessions, General. You may operate as you would in any other disputed territory and use nonlethal bioweapons. But we can't condone deadly force initiatives based on hearsay reports of weapons that are more than likely nonexistent, nor can you shut down civilian power," the spokeswoman insisted.
"Let me display for you some of the 'hearsay' and 'nonexistent' weapons the locals have," Huff said, sarcasm dripping. He nodded and the escorting guards opened the hangar door.
He led the entourage into the dark cavern and stopped at a shape emerging from the shadows. "This is a twenty-year-old, but still combat effective Tee Dee Twenty-Three tank destroyer we confiscated from its civilian owner. Over here," he said as he walked, hammering his points home, "is a Vee Six Bison, civilian model, retrofitted with six autocontrolled rotary cannon for gunship operations. Here," he waved at a pile of rifles, "are seventeen thousand and more military rifles we confiscated from a town of less than one hundred and fifty thousand residents. This is a pile of grenades made from pipe fittings, publicly available commercial explosives and common hardware and fusing. They also had these," he indicated a stack of rocket launchers, "these," a heap of machineguns, "and these."
He bent and retrieved one of the weapons in question. It was the same type of improv rocket launcher that Kendra had. He explained the device's operation and said, "Accuracy: terrible. Cost: about a day's local wages in materials. Effectiveness: you can blame this little terror for sixteen downed aircraft and forty-one vehicles. Their expense was about nine thousand marks in materials and eleven shooters. Our cost was one point six billion in aircraft and vehicles, eight highly trained pilots and fifty-six other personnel, plus morale loss and reduced strategic advantage."
The delegation was appropriately silent. Had he stripped naked and run screaming around the room he could not have disturbed them more. "I want lethal force," he said. "I cannot fight a war against these animals unless I can use the same weapons they do, which are all deadly."
It was necessary to defeat the military and the rebels quickly, he repeated, so as to minimize resentment among the civilians. Ironically, he'd learned this lesson on Mtali, observing a Freehold commander, one Naumann, doing exactly that to the factions there. There was nothing pretty about war, except its conclusion.
There were murmurs exchanged, but the glances at the captured weaponry assured him he had won at least part of this battle. Now to fight the real one against the rebels in the bush.
First, however, was the city. Rather than submit peacefully, the residents were fighting like cornered rats. The local gangs had plenty of weapons and were well trained. Despite any hype in the media, Earth gangs did not "outgun the police," nor did they have any real experience with their stolen weapons. The Freehold city gangs did. They would appear out of nowhere, through alleys and tunnels they knew well, swarm onto the surface level and hit a target, then retreat. In the sublevels, the UN had to maintain squad-sized patrols. Smaller groups had been tried and simply disappeared. It was one more stiff thorn in the side of the occupation. None of the usual methods would work against such tactics. Rationing, IDs or any other restrictions would only keep insurgents out, not
control those inside who had them. A steady stream of criminal investigators tried without success to identify terrorists. Regular patrols helped minimize the activity, but at least once a week, a UN body would be found, usually violated in creative ways.
The patrols ran into less obvious problems. One such patrol was creeping through the depths of Commerce Court, night vision lenses in place, as all the tubes had been smashed. The shadows made it awkward to discern anything. Sweat poured off them in the dark confines, as they gingerly crept through the cluttered passage. It had been a busy, high-end commercial operation once. Now it was a rubble-strewn labyrinth. They were probing for enemy activity with the only bait that would work: themselves.
Eventually, they returned to the less shattered sections and their mood lightened along with the increase in illumination. It was no less dangerous, but the light made it seem far friendlier. They tilted their lenses back and spread out slightly.
There was movement, and they focused on it, weapons ready. The two in rear faced outward, ready for any envelopment.
"Hey," a soft female voice said. Two of them moved in closer.
The woman, girl really, was alone. She was thin and a bit disheveled but healthy. The lead soldier said, "ID."
She produced it carefully, and it matched her computer scan. "Says here you're a student in biology."
"I was," she admitted. "Maybe again when the war's over."
"What are you doing down here?" the field officer asked.
"Sleeping. Working," she said.
"What kind of work?"
In reply, she hiked up her short skirt. "What kind do you think? It's all I've got right now."
"Hmmm."
"So . . . you want some?"
There were comments and chuckles all around. "What about it, FO?" one of them asked. "Seems harmless enough. A little recreation."
Signaling for silence, the officer had the troops fan out and search the wreckage nearby, then the back passage to the shops. "All clear," she was told.
Grinning, she said, "Okay, guys, if you need to get off." There were whoops.
The girl smiled slightly. "Do you all for two hundred."
"Two hundred?" the ranking sergeant objected. "Tenner apiece. That's seventy." There were two women plus the officer in the unit of ten. That left seven men.
"Not me," one NCO objected. He'd been kidded before for his puritanical stance, but he'd made it clear it was a religious concern and the comments had stopped at once.
"Nor me," said the youngest and newest. He was still shy, but give him a few weeks.
"One and a half," she said, shaking her head.
"Seventy," the sergeant insisted. "For five, that's a deal."
Shrugging, she said, "Okay. Who wants it?" After a few jokes, one volunteered. The others argued over position and precedence.
The third troop said, "How about a switch? Something fresh." Obliging, the girl licked her lips.
Ten minutes of catcalls and rude jokes later, the squad prepared to leave. "What about you ladies?" she asked.
"I don't do women," one of them said.
"Nah," her buddy replied. "She'll do you."
"Be a thrill for me!" another said. "Just wish I had a camera so I could send a pic to your mom!"
There was shoving and teasing and one of the women agreed to at least pose. She yelped when touched and said, "Ooh! Not bad! Maybe I can live without men!"
"Come on, FO, you too!" someone said. She shook her head. Not in her position. It would be too familiar with the troops. Shrugging, the girl collected another twenty for the show, thanked them and waved as they wandered back to the surface, grinning and howling.
As soon as they were out of sight, she scrambled back into the darkness and entered a utility room. "Antidote!" she snapped as she opened the door. "And mouthwash. Goddess, those apes need to shower more often. And lose the body hair. Yuch."
Her assistant, a professor of biochemistry, slapped a tube against her arm and let the counter-virus seep into her skin. She had been contaminated with a short-lived, but fast-acting nano and was cutting her safety margin on infection close.
Above on the surface, the squad, field officer and observer made their way back to billets, secure behind a double perimeter. They were safe again, or so they thought. None of the six noticed any symptoms and were soon asleep, exhausted from the day's efforts.
Three days later, fourteen people were dead. The order to avoid local prostitutes was mostly unenforceable and did further damage to morale.
Chapter 34
"The real destroyer of the liberties of the people is he who spreads among them bounties, donations and benefits."
—Plutarch
The convoy was four vehicles with UN markings. One was a Mk 17 Infantry Light Armored Wheeled Assault Vehicle, the others simple multipurpose vehicles with heavy weapons mounted. They stopped in front of the farm and several people dismounted. They approached the door and met Dak at the steps as he came out.
"Yes?" he asked, bluntly and without any friendship.
The one in civilian clothes spoke, "I am Lynet Krishnamurti with the United Nations Readjustment Task Force. I am here to give you an informational package on the recent improvements we are implementing."
"Thanks, but we don't need any improvements. I have the latest gear I can afford," Dak replied. He wanted them to leave quickly.
"Well, that's the point," Krishnamurti said. "One of the benefits the UN offers is investment capital to buy better equipment. We also guarantee reparations not covered by insurance, accident insurance . . . many benefits. This package is on hard copy and on datachip, compatible with most systems."
"And what does this cost me?" Dak asked, trying to sound like a suspicious bumpkin.
"It's free. The UN provides it as a service to all agribusiness operations."
"Well, if I need it, I'll call you. Thanks. Is that it?"
"I'm also here to assess your hectareage," Krishnamurti admitted.
"Not sure. Probably six or seven thousand." He knew to the millimeter what he planted, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Why?"
"We need an accurate measure to assess commercial property taxes. The package also contains information on tha—"
"Property tax?" Dak acted confused. "It's my property and a gift from the Lord. Why should I pay tax on it?"
Krishnamurti looked exasperated. Was every one of these peasants utterly ignorant of basic principles?
They wrangled for long segs, while the troops looked amused. They'd seen it all before.
"So let me get this straight," Dak was trying desperately but successfully to avoid hysterical laughter at his guest's discomfort. "In exchange for taxing the property the Lord gave me to clear and use and taking a whopping chunk of my income from said property, and dictating what I grow, how I grow it, what equipment to use, and how to wipe my nose most likely, you'll grant me a 'free' loan at interest to buy the equipment I wouldn't need without your regulations? And I'll have to spend an extra four divs a week, unpaid, doing bookkeeping to prove it to you?"
"Uh, put that way it sounds stupid," she said.
"Of course it's stupid!" Dak replied. "The only thing worth anything in any of that would be the accident insurance, if we didn't already have it and if my sister-in-law wasn't a nurse."
"Nurse?" Ms Krishnamurti asked, making notes. "Is she licensed from an accredited school and is her license current?"
Dak paused for just a moment. Vikki had worked her way up in a major hospital, using the texts recommended by the physicians and attending classes as needed to maintain her proficiency. She was also a qualified veterinary surgeon and close to being qualified as a human surgeon. As far as "license," there were none this clown would recognize. The university had granted her a degree based on proficiency exams and an instructor's assessment in leiu of classes. How to explain it to this character who probably used a manual to have sex?
He didn't bother. "I want you off my property now," h
e said. "The Good Lord doesn't allow taxation of His workers and you must respect that." He made a solid attempt to sound like one of the Mennonite or Traveler sects.
"Religious objections, huh?" she replied, smirking. "I've heard that one before. If you are actually a Primitive Christian practitioner, you would be exempt . . . but I don't suppose you can name the Gospels?" That usually stopped them. There were almost no Christians at all out here, much less PC sects.
Dak snorted. He was educated and Kendra had briefed him also. "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John."
"Hmmmph," was the reply. "If you fill out the proper documentation and can prove preexisting membership in an approved sect, the board will consider your exemption."
"Fine," Dak replied. "Then please get off my property, and may the Good Lord bless you, ma'am. You need it."
"I thank you for your blessing, sir," she replied and turned, sighing. Every one of these hicks was going to be trouble.
One of the soldiers cut in, "If you will give us just a moment, sir, we need to take a census count of everyone resident here. We need to be able to provide proper protection and emergency services. And we need to give everyone a quick analysis." He held out a scanner comp.
"Devices like that are the work of the Adversary," Dak continued loudly, looking at it with contempt. "I will allow no violation of my body."
"It's completely nonintrusive, sir," the soldier assured him. "We simply scan your skin." And compare to seized military records to nab any reservists or veterans who were still at large. They were becoming a serious threat.
Some of the troops were doing a slow perimeter of the cleared ground around the house as the argument continued. Vikki stepped to the door and said, "It's all right, Dak. We'll trust the man." Kendra would be hidden, then. Dak nodded.