Total Conflict

by Neal Asher

  I see the look on the sergeant’s face, that sheer animal joy, and I turn the camera away. That’s not what I’m after, but my hand turns back of its own accord. If I had time, I’d try and sketch it right here and now. There is something about the feelings of the moment, getting them down in pencil.

  The sergeant sees me looking at him, and he laughs. “So? Innocents get hurt. That’s what happens in war.”

  I make to answer him, but he’s concentrating on his console. The green light of the computer screen illuminates his face.

  “That’s St Mark’s church at the top of the hill,” he says. “There’s a square beyond it with a town hall facing it. We occupy those two buildings, we have the high ground.”

  He runs his finger across the screen.

  “Big rooms in there, wide corridors. A good place to make our base.”

  A woman screams. She’s pleading for something. I see a child; I see a lot of blood. A medic is running up, and I photograph that. The gallant liberators, aiding the poor civilians. That’s the problem with a simple snap. Taken out of context, it can mean anything.

  But that’s why I’m here. To choose the context.

  We make it to the top of the hill without further incident. The cries of pain are receding from my ears and memory. I focus on the scene at hand.

  A wide square, littered with the torn canvas and broken bodies of umbrellas that once shaded café patrons. Upturned tables and chairs. Panic spreads fast when people find their mobile phones and computers have stopped working. They’ve seen the news from other countries; they know that the rioting is not far behind. Across the square, a classic picture: the signs of money and authority, targeted by the mobs. Two banks, their plate glass fronts smashed open, their interiors peeled inside out in streamers of plastic and trampled circuitry.

  The town hall is even worse. It looks like a hollow shell; the anger of the mob has torn the guts out of this place, eviscerated it.

  This is what happens when a Denial of Service attack hits, wiping out every last byte of data attached to a country, smoothing the memory stores to an endless sequence of 1’s.

  Everything: pay, bank accounts, mortgages, wiped out completely. The rule of law breaks down, and armies are sent in to help restore order.

  That was the official line, anyway.

  “Funny,” says the woman at my side. “We seem to be more intent on securing militarily advantageous positions than in helping the population.”

  “Shut up, Friis,” snaps the Sergeant.

  “Just making an observation, Sergeant.” The woman winks at me.

  “Tell you what, Friis, you like making observations so much, why don’t you head in there and check it out? “

  “Sure,” she says, and she looks at me with clear blue eyes. “You coming, painter boy?”

  “Call me Brian.”

  “Aren’t you afraid he might get hurt?” laughs the Sergeant.

  “I’ll look after him.”

  I pat my pockets, checking my cameras, and follow her through the doorway, the glass crunching beneath my feet.

  A large entrance hall, the floor strewn with broken chairs. The rioters haven’t been able to get at the ceiling though, and I snap the colourful frescoes that look down upon us. The soldier notices none of this; she’s scanning the room, calm and professional. She speaks without looking at me.

  “I’m Agnetha.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  She has such a delightful accent. Vaguely Scandinavian.

  I’ve heard it before.

  I see strands of blonde hair curling from beneath her helmet. Her face is slightly smudged, which makes her look incredibly sexy.

  We move from room to room. Everything is in disarray – this place has been stripped and gutted. There’s paper and glass everywhere. Everything that could be broken has been broken.

  “Always the same,” says Agnetha. “The data goes, and people panic. They have no money to buy food, they can’t use the phone. They think only of themselves, looting what they can and then barricading themselves into their houses. They steal from themselves, and then we come in and take their country from them.”

  “I thought we were here to help!”

  She laughs at that, and we continue our reconnaissance.

  Eventually, it’s done. Agnetha speaks into her radio.

  “This place is clear.”

  I recognise the Sergeant’s voice. “Good. We’ll move in at once. There are reports of guerrilla activity down at the Via Baciadonne.”

  “Baciadonne.” Agnetha smiles at me. “That means kisses women.”

  She’s clever as well as pretty. I like that.

  The area is quickly secured, which is good because outside the random sound of gunfire is becoming more frequent. I feel the excitement of the approaching battle building in my stomach. The flier comes buzzing up over the roofs, turning this way and that, and I watch the soldiers as they go through the building, filling it with equipment bundled in pink tape.

  We find a room with two doors that open out onto a balcony with a view over the city beyond. Agnetha opens the doors to get a better field of fire, then leans against the wall opposite, her rifle slung across her knees. She smiles coquettishly at me.

  “Why aren’t you taking my picture?” she asks.

  I point the camera at her and hear it click.

  “Are you going to use that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Keeping it for your private collection?”

  She stretches her legs and yawns.

  “You don’t mind me being attached to your group, then,” I say, “not like your sergeant.”

  She wrinkles her nose.

  “He doesn’t speak for all of us. I don’t agree with everything the government says, either. We’re sent out here with insufficient equipment and even less back up, and when we get home we’re forgotten about at best. I think it’s good that we have people like you here.”

  She frowns. “So tell me, what are you going to paint?”

  “Actually, I don’t just paint. I use computers, software, all those things. It’s all about the final image.”

  “I understand that. But what are you going to paint?”

  I can’t keep evading the issue. For all my fine words about reflecting the war as it really is, the Sergeant had it right. I’ll paint whatever Command wants me to. I like to paint a picture of myself as a bit of a rogue, but, at heart, I know the establishment has me, body and soul.

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here. I need to experience this place, and then I can try and convey some emotion.”

  “What emotion?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  There’s a crackle of gunfire, sharp silver, like tins rattling on the floor. I ignore it.

  “You’re very pretty,” I say.

  “Thank you.” She lowers her eyes in acknowledgement. I like that. She doesn’t pretend she isn’t pretty; she takes the compliment on its own terms.

  “How did you end up in the army?” I ask.

  She yawns and stretches.

  “I worked in insurance,” she says, and that seems all wrong. So drab and everyday. She should have been a model, or a mountaineer, or an artist or something.

  “I lost my job when Jutland got hit by the DoS attack. Everything was lost, policies, claims, payroll. The hackers had been feeding us the same worm for months: the backups were totally screwed.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. Really sorry. So that’s why her accent sounded so familiar. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

  “Other people had it worse.” She shrugs. “We had a garden; we had plenty of canned goods in the house. My mother had the bath filled with water, all the pans and the dishes. We managed okay until your army moved in to restore order.”

  She seems remarkably unperturbed by the affair.

  “So you joined us out of gratitude?” I suggest.

  She laugh
s.

  “No, I joined you for security. This way I get to eat and I’m pretty sure that my salary won’t be wiped out at the touch of a button. If your army’s servers aren’t secure, then whose are?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “No, it’s not fair. It’s just life. Your army wiped out Jutland’s data. Just like it did this country’s.”

  I try to look shocked.

  “You think that we are responsible for the trouble here?”

  “It’s an old trick. Create civil unrest and then send in your troops to sort out the problem. You’ve swallowed up half of Europe that way.”

  “I don’t think it’s that well planned,” I said, honestly. “I just think that everyone takes whatever opportunity they can when a DoS hits.”

  As if to underline the point, the staccato rattle of gunfire sounds in the distance.

  “Aren’t you worried that I will report you?” I ask. “Have you charged with sedition?”

  She rises easily to her feet and walks towards me.

  “No. I trust you. You have nice eyes.”

  She’s laughing at me.

  “Come here,” she says. I lean down and she kisses me on the lips. Gently, she pushes my face away. “You’re a very handsome man. Maybe later on we can talk properly.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She looks back out of the window, checking the area. Little white puffs of cloud drift across the blue sky.

  “So, what are you going to paint?” she asks. “The heroic rescuers, making the country safe once more?”

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “No,” she says, and she pushes a strand of blonde hair back up into her helmet. “No. We all do what we must to get by. Tell me, what will you paint?”

  “I honestly don’t know yet. I’ll know it when I see it.” I look down into the square, searching for inspiration. “Look at your flier.”

  She comes to my side. We look at the concrete- grey craft, a brutalist piece of architecture set amongst the elegant buildings of this city.

  “Suppose I were to paint that?” I say. “I have plenty of photos, but I need a context, a setting. I could have it swooping down on the enemy! The smoke, the explosions, the bullets whizzing past.”

  “That’s what the army would like…”

  “Maybe. How about I paint it with you all seated around the back? That could send a message to the people back home: that even soldiers are human, they sit and chat and relax. Or should I evoke sympathy? Draw the flier all shot up. The mechanics around it, trying to fix it up. One of you being led from the scene, blood seeping from the bandages.”

  She nods. She understands. Then her radio crackles, and I hear the Sergeant’s voice.

  “Friis! Get down to the Flier! We need help bringing equipment inside.”

  “Coming!”

  “I’ll tag along,” I say.

  The whine of the Flier is a constant theme; the engines are never turned off. We join the bustle of soldiers around the rear ramp, all busy unloading the pink-bound boxes and carrying them into the surrounding buildings.

  “What is all that?” I wonder aloud.

  “Servers, terminals, NAS boxes,” says Agnetha. “I saw this in Jutland. We’re establishing a new government in this place.”

  “Keep it down, Friis,” says the sergeant, but without heat. I notice that no one seems to be denying the charge. The head of the soldier behind him suddenly spouts red blood. I’m photographing the scene before I realise what’s happening.

  “Sniper!”

  Everyone is dropping, looking this way and that.

  “Up there,” shouts someone.

  The Sergeant is looking at his console, the green light of the screen illuminating his face.

  “That’s the Palazzo Egizio. The Via Fossano runs behind it…”

  He’s thinking.

  “Friis, Delgado, Kenton. Head to the far end of the street. See if you can get into that white building there…”

  I raise my head to get a better look, and I feel someone push me back down. At the same time there are more shots and I hear a scream. I feel a thud of fear inside me.

  Agnetha has been shot.

  Shot protecting me.

  She’s coughing up blood.

  “Agnetha,” I begin…

  “Get back,” yells the Sergeant. “You’ve caused enough trouble as it is…”

  Agnetha’s trying to speak, but there is too much blood. She holds out her hand and I reach for it, but the sergeant knocks it away.

  “Let the medic deal with it,” he says. “Let someone who should be here deal with it,” he adds, nastily.

  The other soldiers have located the sniper now, and I’m left to watch as a man kneels next to Agnetha and takes hold of her arm. She looks at me with those brilliant blue eyes, and I don’t see her. For a brief moment I see another picture. Blues and greens. Two soldiers: a man and a woman, standing in front of a flier just like the one behind us. They’re surrounded by cheering, smiling civilians. A young child comes forward, carrying a bunch of flowers. A thank you from the grateful liberated.

  The picture I painted of Jutland.

  I push it from my mind, and I see those brilliant blue eyes are already clouding over.

  “We all do what we have to do,” I whisper. But is that so true? She joined the army so her family could eat. I’m here simply to build a reputation as an artist.

  The medic injects her with something. She closes her eyes. The medic shakes his head. I know what that means. The sergeant looks at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “So?” he says. “How’s that going to help?” He turns away. The others are already doing the same. Dismissing me.

  I take hold of Agnetha’s hand, feel the pulse fading.

  The picture.

  I wonder if Agnetha would approve of what I had done? I suspect not. She was too much of a realist.

  I included the flier after all. But not taking off, not swooping down from the skies.

  No, this was a different picture.

  The point of view is from just outside the cockpit, looking in at the pilot of the craft. And here is where we move beyond the subject matter to the artistic vision, because the person flying the craft is not the pilot, but the sergeant.

  His face is there, centred on the picture. He’s looking out at the viewer, looking beyond the cockpit.

  What can he see? The dead children in the square, sheltered by the bodies of their dead parents? We don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, because there is a clue in the picture. A clue to the truth. One that I saw all the time, but never noticed. It’s written across the sergeant’s face. Literally.

  A reflection in green from the light of the monitor screen, a tracery of roads and buildings, all picked out in pale green letters. Look closely at his cheek and you can just make out the words St Mark’s Church. All those names that were supposedly wiped for good by the DoS attack, and yet there they were, still resident in the Sergeant’s computer. And none of us found that odd at the time. We could have fed that country’s data back to it all along, but we chose not to.

  They say a picture paints a thousand words.

  For once, those words will be mostly speaking the truth.

  The Maker’s Mark

  Michael Cobley

  1. Ancient Eyes

  Cornelius Jamal, only son of Sophia and Ibrahim Jamal, first encountered the Grand Gestator Udroom while visiting Teqavra Zoo. It had ancient eyes. The glowing plate read, ‘GRAWF, gender indeterminate; semi-sentient; said to have once been used as food animals by the Shyntanil’, but Cornelius knew that the huge mound of a creature was a Grand Gestator. The old tablet book in their Suzerain’s library had detailed the species’ origins and appearance, as well as their fecundation/incubation process. The book also highlighted the degrading effect of great age on conscious intellect, while claiming that the gestation faculty remained unimpaired almost until death.

  Cornelius
was 19 e-years old, preciously intelligent and expected to follow his father’s lead by taking up an advisorhood to one of the Suzerains of Notamur, as did most of the Human descendants of the crew of the Morphia. The Grand Gestator Udroom was, by Human reckoning, 7,385 years old and had the persona of a dissociative child.

  2. Entropy’s Witness

  (Excerpt from ‘Early Human Settlements In Hyperspace’ by Saro128)

  Prior to the upheavals of the Darien Crisis, Humans were a rarity in the tiers of hyperspace, limited to a scattering of stranded groups. They ranged from a nine-strong team of scientists from Tharsis University to the 230 wealthy passengers aboard the advanced but doomed hyperliner, Joyous Spirit. The former wound up in the polyhedral, zero-gravity glass burghs of Ollenaita, a Hodralog city on Tier 24, while the latter found themselves down on Tier 58 and adrift on the Great Ring Sea, harried by Keklir raider clans. The scientists were made welcome and given comfortable homes, while the passengers were forced to adopt a warlike posture to avoid enslavement or worse.

  All in all, drone surveys of habitable tiers in the Uppers and Mids documented evidence of nineteen Human communities. A number had encountered strange intelligent species and adapted, some withdrew into paranoid enclaves, while the rest either died out or were slain. But few had stories as bold and colourful as the odyssey of Cornelius Jamal.

  3. The Art of Persuasion

  “Hello, my name is Cornelius. Who are you?”

  “… I am…. Udroom. Are you here to feed me? You don’t look like my feeder.”

  “I’m just a friend, Udroom, but I can get you some of your favourite food if you tell me something.”

  “Chelgo beans are my favourite. Have you got some?”

  “Yes, and you can have them all if you answer a little question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you make things? With your body?”