by Vance Huxley
“Until one hundred and thirty-seven years ago, the world used to be split into national blocs. These divisions were arbitrary, inefficient, and uneconomic, and squandered vast sums simply to curry favour with the electorate or fight for political beliefs or almost worthless land. The world periodically descended into depression and these countries would borrow vast sums, which were never repaid. The corporations developed into multinationals, and began to combine into conglomerates with more wealth and power than the countries themselves. Finally, when the national bodies once more came with their begging bowl, the actual creators of wealth said no. Since then the world has been run efficiently.”
Nobody spoke during the pause, which was supposed to be for any questions. “The elected representatives ceded the mechanisms of government and all government owned assets, in return for which the corporations cancelled the national debts. Portions of conglomerates recombined to concentrate on econo-geographical areas. The old countries of Germany, Austria, Greece, Poland, and a several smaller countries, for instance, became the Mid-European Economic Consortium or MEEC.”
The Line Manager sneered at the Timers. “You will never need to know all this unless any of you survive long enough to become Squaddies, so I will not list them all. You only need to know that more or less the old countries of the United Kingdom, Norway, Sweden, Denmark including Greenland, Holland, Belgium, Iceland and Ireland became this bloc, the United Kingdoms. Switzerland also joined, but only by transferring all the wealth and corporations because the actual real estate could not be defended. As citizens of the United Kingdoms you may still speak a historic language such as Norwegian, but everyone learns Anglic.”
Bobby started to glaze over, then jerked awake as his sore back touched the seat. The Line Supervisor couldn’t have seen that, but he did turn with a sour smile. “If I am boring anyone, please let me know. Am I boring you, Bobby B?”
“No sir.”
“Good. As Timers you may occasionally hear of the neighbouring blocs, because you may be fighting them as a part of contract negotiations. You may meet the MEEC, which I just mentioned, but your Supervisor will refer to them as the Krauts. Similarly, you may fight the Russ and the Frogs. Especially the Frogs, the FAC or Franco-African Corporation, as the UKs has a sensitive land border with them.” He looked around the room. “Any questions?” By now nobody was stupid enough to ask anything, ever. “Then we will carry on tomorrow. Dismissed.”
* * *
“Sarge, why do we have a Supervisor in charge? In the old black market vids there’s leftenants and,” Bells frowned, trying to remember.
“Lieutenants, Captains, Generals?” Sarge grinned. “They were inefficient. The army is run as a business, so we have Managers and Supervisors the same as any other company. If you ever meet a Director, kiss his or her shadow because you’ll be shot if your lips sully their shoe-shine.” Sarge looked around the Timers. “Someone will bore you for three hours explaining that, but you only need to know that a Supervisor is the Ultimate CEO’s personal representative in your miserable lives. If you piss him off, you’ll probably take a Gaza Taxi ride.”
“That’s twice you’ve used that.”
“That’s a shock, Fenton, you can speak and you can count. That’s a double first for you. I don’t know why, but a suicide mission is known as a Gaza Taxi. It’s an old thing and came down through the Squaddies or so I heard.” Sarge smiled at them all and pulled an object out from under his desk. “For the triple, Fenton, what’s this?”
Fenton leaned forward, inspecting the weapon. “A rifle Sarge.”
“Hellfire Fenton, that’s the most excited I’ve ever seen you. How many of you can use one of these?” Sarge looked around the room and nearly two score raised their hands. “Now we know who the bad lads are. This is not a rifle. A rifle is longer, as you will notice when a Squaddie finally deigns to wander past, and fires real bullets and not flechettes. This is a carbin.”
“What’s the difference Sarge?” Fenton’s eyes were riveted on the weapon.
“This is cheaper, and much more fragile than a rifle. The carbin is prone to jamming if abused, so treat it better than you did your girlfriend.” Sarge pulled a long blade from under his desk and clipped it to the firearm. “With this bayonet, the carbin will be your best friend for the next ten and possibly twenty years.” He stood so everyone could see better. “This clip holds thirty flechettes, very sharp darts made of either plastic or steel. The selector allows single shot, triple burst or automatic. Please be careful about using automatic, because the Supervisor will take the cost out of your wages.”
Sour smiles greeted that because they’d already been given the list of charges for their food, board, clothing, and equipment but ammunition seemed to be the only thing not on it. “Why is the ammo free?” Bells leaned forward. “Can we try one?”
“You will really wish you’d never said that, while you sit with a blindfold trying to strip this and fix a jam. The ammo is not free but is charged against the operation, not you personally. Use too much and your Super really will be upset.”
Bells frowned. “Why plastic and steel, why not just steel? Won’t that make it harder to kill the enemy?”
“Yes Bells. But the idea is to kill other Timers without damaging property, and plastic will go through your uniform or flesh but not doors. If there is property damage your Super will be held responsible and he’d better have a solid gain to show for it. Steel flechettes are issued on the front lines, but not always used.” Sarge looked very serious for a moment. “One reason for plastic is that they will not go through a Super’s jacket, so don’t get creative. I suppose I’d better give this one to Fenton to play with since he’s the biggest.” While several were eyeing the big man up and debating having a go to get the carbin, the door opened and a Corporal brought in the rest.
* * *
“Bells, do you fancy a fight?”
Bells looked at the man, slightly taller than him but not as heavily muscled. “With you Beebi? Not particularly.” He grinned. “But if you insist?”
“Not me you bledrin eedjit. A few of the others are pissed at Fenton for showing them up on the range. They’re all blokes who were in the gangs and don’t like a quiet type like that beating them. Snowman is taking it personally.”
“Why would I care?” Bells cracked his knuckles. “I don’t mind the fight but I want something in it for me.”
“How about someone who can shoot better than both of us together owing us a favour when the shite hits the fan?” Bobby shrugged. “I can’t hit a wall from inside the room.”
“All right, I’ll risk it. I’m bored anyway.” Bells cracked his knuckles again and followed Bobby along the beds until Bobby stopped and kicked one.
“Siflis. Do you fancy giving Snowman a smack, as payback?” Sarge had named Snowman after his waistline and very white skin, but the ginger-headed arse came from a gang and definitely wasn’t fluffy.
“I’d love to but the other four will black my other eye at least.” Siflis looked at Bells, and a little smile appeared. “Are you in, Bells?”
“Yeah, and they’re picking on Fenton. He’s not exactly tiny so if you can take one, we’ll take the other four.” Bells frowned at the little man. “Maybe we need another.”
“No, not if you can keep the rest occupied. I’ve got just the thing for Snowman.” Siflis fumbled under his bedding and put a rolled bundle in a pocket, then stood. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Fenton stood in the bogs, the toilets, his back against one wall and poised ready as the five men closed in cautiously. Three held lengths of wood while Snowman held a small piece of pointed, sharpened steel with a roughly made handle. Bobby pointed at two of them and raised an eyebrow at Bells, who remembered just in time not to crack his knuckles.
Fenton hadn’t paid any attention to the three of them since anyone coming into the bogs carefully ignored the little tableau. Getting involved in someone else’s strife wasn’t alwa
ys smart. Though as the three moved up closer the big man realised, possibly by the grin on Bells’ face, and made sure he kept everyone’s attention. “So what do you want, Snowman?” Fenton raised a big fist. “You can’t shoot, you won’t fight me and none of you want to speak, so why not just piss off?”
“I’m gonna cut you a little, just so your hand don’t work so good and you can’t shoot, smartarse.” Snowman waved and two of those with wooden clubs moved in closer. Bells hit them from behind, grabbing the scruffs of their necks and pushing so both staggered forward towards the wall. Fenton sidestepped, lunged, grabbed the unarmed man by the shirt front and lifted him off his feet. A long step and Fenton straightened his arms, propelling the man backwards across the room to stagger into one of the stalls and trip over the toilet bowl. The other Timers who had now paused to watch the action scattered just in time.
Snowman opened his mouth to speak but Siflis crossed his wrists, then dropped something over his head. Siflis uncrossed his wrists, pulled, and put a knee up into the big man’s back. The ex-poacher had to stretch to get his mouth near to Snowman’s ear, then he spoke very quietly. “Wire noose, basted. If you move, I’ll cut your head off.” Snowman, his hand up trying to scrabble at the thin metal already partly buried in his neck, froze.
Bobby didn’t try anything cute, he kneed his target between the legs. Even from behind that made the man bend and hunch his back in pain. Bobby clenched his fists together before hammering them down on the nape of the man’s neck, driving him down onto his hands and knees. Bobby picked up the dropped club and smacked the arse upside the head, before moving on to help Bells.
Bells didn’t really need help because he’d driven both men into the wall and got in a few licks before either recovered. Still, the men were noisy and nobody wanted the Corporals coming to look. One man crumpled when Bobby used the length of wood on him. “Let him fall over now, Bells.” The last man couldn’t fall because Bells had hold of his throat with one hand, alternating between kneeing him and bashing the man’s head on the wall.
“Spoilsport.” Bells let the man drop, looking round for another opponent. The one Fenton had thrown ran out of the bogs as Fenton headed for him, three men were out cold, and Snowman had now gone onto his knees. “Hey, that’s neat Siflis. Just hold him steady so I can punch the basted a couple of times.”
“Greedy. I’m keeping him for Fenton, in case Fenton thinks Snowman needs a little cut.” The crude knife lay on the floor nearby. Bells eyed it up but Bobby put a foot on it.
“No, or the medics get involved. We can’t make him unfit for duty.” Bobby turned to Snowman and slapped the wood into his other palm. “But Fenton can beat the shite out of him.” Bobby bent a bit to look Snowman in the eye. “If you give any of us trouble again Bells and Fenton will hold you down. Then I will beat your nuts to pulp before Siflis cuts off your head. If any of us gets hurt accidentally, Fenton can shoot you from a mile away or Siflis can sneak up and throttle you in your own bed. Understood?”
Siflis laughed. “I’d better ease off or nodding will cut his throat.” Moments later Snowman nodded, but carefully because Siflis didn’t ease off much.
“Do you want to cut him, Fenton?”
“No thanks Bells.” Fenton looked at the kneeling man. “I’ll let it ride this time just as long as there’s no more trouble. Let him go, Siflis.” The small man released the wire with one hand and flicked it to swing round the front and clear. Fenton punched the kneeling man in the face. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Now can I buy you three a beer?” They left without a backward glance as some of the other Timers started moving forward, towards the three prone men and the one clutching a broken nose.
“We should cripple him or he’ll come after us.” Bells glanced back, cracking his knuckles.
“No, he’s just lost his backup because the one that ran won’t be back and the rest won’t want to fight us again. Snowman will have his hands full keeping others from getting a bit of payback now so he’ll leave us be.” Bobby smiled happily. “When a few of the others join together and kick Snowman shitless, Sarge won’t be able to put it down to us.” Bobby had seen it in the housing complex time and again. Once a man like that was injured, anyone with a grudge would move in.
“So how come you three came to help me?” Fenton looked at the others. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Bobby slapped him on the back. “It crossed my mind that we can help each other to survive this shite, especially now I’ve seen Siflis with that wire.”
During the next week Snowman spent at least half the time unfit for duty because quite a few people took the opportunity for a bit of payback. Then he didn’t come back from the infirmary, and nobody ever knew why. Sarge gave the entire Mob extra drill but didn’t pick on anyone in particular. He did make a few comments about how the four of them always seemed to be together, asking if Bells had finally found a girlfriend or if Fenton had adopted Siflis as a mascot.
* * *
“Everyone wide awake?” The Line Supervisor found that funny and started every lecture the same way now. “Today I will explain why we actually need you enough to pardon your crimes.” He turned to his screen and picked up the pointer. “Timers fight on the borders, assisting with contract negotiations. The best surviving Timers become Troopers, to keep order in the housing complexes. The best Troopers eventually become Squaddies, and are used for serious disagreements between the blocs. In theory, all disputes between the blocs are settled at boardroom level but experience shows that a level of physical pressure is usually necessary to ensure compliance.”
Bobby groaned inwardly because the tone of voice meant more history. He palmed the sewing needle to jab himself when his eyelids started drooping. “The conglomerates within a bloc each hold shares, and will vote for or against any action to gain assets from another bloc. The first attempts at takeovers were similar to the old national wars, destructive and wasteful, so rules have been introduced.” The screen altered to show a chart with symbols of planes and boats and men, mainly men.
“Firstly, air power is almost obsolete because that invariably destroys assets, though each block keeps a few planes and anti-aircraft defences in case of emergencies. Most pilots now fly Copters which are used for riot and rebellion suppression in the housing complexes. The ridiculous waste of money on the space race meant the corporations stopped that, though you will all be grateful to the old spacemen if you earn metal since the bio-metal interface came from their research. The intention was to create an interface allowing a spaceman to switch limbs depending on what he needed, so now we can clip a new leg on in minutes. The only delay is while the Kwikheal encourages the actual flesh part to knit to the steel.”
“Recently there has been a small revival in space exploration.” The Line Supervisor looked around the room at the increase in interest and smirked. “But you will never be Space Marines. Small probes are searching for asteroids with very high quality ores so they can be mined but that will not increase the number of pilots. All the work will be carried out by automated craft directed via light-beams from Earth. Since each bloc is keeping their results private, we have no idea if anyone has found a worthwhile target.” The Line Supervisor sounded quite animated so maybe he hoped to be a Space Marine?
“The navy only retains sufficient ships to defend trade routes, or islands in the same bloc. Russ, the Chinas and Amazonia for instance have hardly any navy whereas SEPA, with all the South-Eastern Pacific islands, have as many sailors as soldiers.” He swung round. “Why does the UKs have a navy, Bobby B?” The arse stressed the “B.”
“Because we have islands, sir.”
“Near enough, though we also have trade routes to the Americas and must defend the oil reserves under the North and Norwegian Seas. Most disputes are on land, along bloc borders. The UKs have two land assets that are particularly vulnerable, the refineries around Rotterdam and the mining in what used to be Sweden. Russ, Krauts and Frogs try to gain control from time to
time by both negotiation and direct action. Timers are used in most combat because there is little or no investment in them so they are cheap.” He swept his gaze across the room. “Please understand that you are much less valuable than the assets you are either capturing or defending. That is why you will use plastic flechettes in most cases, and are only allowed carbins.”
He raised a hand. “Sergeant, if you will?” Sarge came forward and handed over a double-barrelled shotgun. “In combat the sergeant and your Supervisor will carry shotguns. Your Supervisor will also carry a grenade. These are weapons of last resort due to the property damage they can cause, and only a sergeant or Supervisor can be trusted to assess the situation properly. Any Timer found in possession of either will be executed immediately, using a firing squad from among his comrades to drive the lesson home.” Sarge took his shotgun and went back to the rear of the room.
* * *
“Once we are Troopers, we’ll have weapons and will be back in the housing complexes. We can go back to the gangs, but with serious firepower.” The Timer grinned.
“Don’t be a prat Sands. They never send you home.”
“They might, Google. At least some of us will end up in our home complex because we come from all over. We should all agree that the one who’s local helps the rest to get a good place with a gang.” Sands looked around the rest and a couple looked interested.
“You won’t be home.” Bobby didn’t like the way this bledrin prat kept on about deserting. “If you walk into the same housing block you used to live in, everyone will run and hide or take a shot.” He shrugged. “Chances are you’ll be dead by then.”
