Not many of the soldiers she knew thought of their country as especially noble or heroic. The Tin Men of Platoon A were not under any illusions about the U.S. government’s motives. If they forced peace into certain regions by force or intimidation, it was to make the world safer and the economy more stable for American interests, not out of any more honorable purpose. But over the years since the en masse deployment of the Tin Men, fewer civilians—fewer children—had been killed due to collateral damage or violent oppression, and Kate considered that a win.
Most days, the rest of the world didn’t see it that way. Early iterations of remote infantry units had been drawn into conflicts with insurgents whose entire purpose had been to goad the prototype Tin Men into killing civilians, and they’d succeeded. At least a dozen small conflicts had broken out for no reason save that the aggressor knew that the United States would send Tin Men to intervene and force peace before their enemies could muster a significant retaliation. Somalia’s invasion into Kenya had been especially bloody, and now that the USARIC had pulled out of western Africa it seemed likely the Somali dictator would do it all over again, eroding Kenyan resistance to Somali influence one attack at a time.
In truth, though, the growing worldwide resistance to American intervention had not sprung from concerns about casualties or the idea that the Tin Men were being used to shield bad behavior by dictators. The Tin Men had saved countless lives, but the backlash against them had always been centered on the idea of control. The right of self-determination. The idea that national sovereignty and individual voice no longer mattered infected the masses, a terrible poison that stirred first anti-Western sentiment and then outright anarchism. Terrorism and religious jihad had become secondary concerns. They were and always had been fringe elements, capable of doing great damage but with public sentiment against them.
The anarchists were different. Extremists controlled the core anarchist groups, but millions of people tacitly approved of their efforts to disrupt or destroy the robots as a message to the United States that their interference was unwelcome. Kate wished the whole world could see the Tin Men the way that she did. They were there to protect and serve on a global scale, often by the invitation of one government or another. Many people saw them that way, she knew, but far too many did not.
Now she scanned the platoon, noting the identifying markings most of the robots had on their shells. She spotted one with a large-breasted blond girl riding a rocket—a reproduction of something that had been painted on the side of a WWII bomber—and strode over.
“Travaglini, you’re with me,” she said.
The robot dashed off a quick salute. “Yes ma’am.”
At thirty-seven, Ernie Travaglini was by far the oldest member of the platoon, a fourth-generation soldier who had rejoined the military specifically to sign up for the USARIC. Like Kate, he was a corporal, but he had no interest in advancement—only service.
“Can you believe North?” Travaglini said. “Lieutenant’s going to fry his ass when this shift is over.”
“I knew he was an idiot,” Kate said. “I just didn’t know how big an idiot. I hope Morello has them leave the puke in his canister for tomorrow.”
Kate had always thought Thomas North a clown, but this latest display had pissed her off. Others in the platoon had come on duty hung over, but she’d never seen anyone miss a shift because of it. North had been sent to the infirmary like some little kid being sent to the principal’s office. He ought to have been humiliated, especially with the way Sergeant Morello had dismissed him. Instead, Kate had caught a glimpse of his face as he turned away and seen the smirk forming there. The asshole thought it was funny.
North would pay for his amusement, though. The members of Platoon A would be hesitant to partner up with him on patrol. Nobody would want someone so cavalier about his duties to be watching their back.
“Screw him,” Kate said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Around them the platoon began to break off into their assigned pairs and head out, each pairing having been given a section of the city to patrol. With the ground speed of the Tin Men, any one of them who came under fire would have to find cover for only a minute or two before they had backup. Kate caught sight of Kelso and Torres heading into an alley to the southwest and Kelso seemed to take notice of her as well. He gave a small nod, half-turned toward her, and she had another glimpse of the target that had been painted on his torso. It gave her the creeps.
“Corporal Wade,” Sergeant Morello’s voice crackled in her ear. “A moment, please.”
Kate frowned as she scanned the street and found him still standing with Lieutenant Trang. Stupid as hell, the two of them together like that. If there were Bot Killers or local snipers around, they could both be taken out in seconds.
“Hang on,” she told Travaglini. “Sarge is calling.”
Trav nodded and she crossed the square, taking one last look at the alley where Kelso had vanished a moment before. He’d be headed for Al-Buzuriyah Souq, the long market street that would be the heart of his patrol sector today. Kelso was one of the good guys, smarter and kinder than he himself seemed to believe, but he was hard on himself. Kate was pretty sure the sexual tension she felt between them was not her imagination but for some reason she found it hard to let it go any further. He would flirt and laugh, and he was easy on the eyes, but if the back-and-forth went on too long he would close down like a turtle drawing into its shell—like he didn’t believe he deserved the pleasure.
She could have gone to bed with him, but sometimes his mask would slip and she’d catch a hint of pain beneath, the confusion and loneliness, and she knew to keep away, that if she ever let things get physical with him it would lead to something more. People in pain were magnetic to one another, and in her experience that never ended well. So she never took Kelso home. Yet somehow, when they were piloting tin cans way out here in Damascus, it was harder to ignore what she had begun to feel. Why was that?
I’m more alive when I’m on duty than when I’m off.
Her therapist would have a field day. All the work they’d done with trying to get her to come to terms with the loss of her legs and she still felt more whole, more like a person, a woman, while remotely piloting a robot body while lying in a tube thousands of miles away.
As she approached Morello and Trang she pushed those thoughts away, vowing not to think about Danny Kelso for the rest of the shift.
“What’s up, Sarge?” she asked, then nodded to Trang. “Lieutenant.”
On commlinks, they could use private channels to talk to one another or open communications to the entire platoon, no matter how far they scattered on patrol, but up close they mostly used external speakers, just as they would while addressing locals.
“You see any faces?” Sergeant Morello asked.
Kate arched a robotic brow, cocked her head to study the lieutenant a moment, and then turned around to scan the square. Only half a dozen members of the platoon were still in view. But no locals.
“None.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Morello replied.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Sergeant,” Trang warned.
“I’m not jumping, sir. I’m making an observation.” Sergeant Morello grunted quietly, then focused on Kate again. “Just stay alert, Corporal Wade. We’ve seen it quiet before, but not like this. I don’t like it.”
“Yes, sir,” Kate replied.
“It’s a war, Sergeant,” Trang said. “If the insurgents are going to take a run at us today, so be it. We’ve got techs in the platoon to make repairs, and if anyone’s damaged too much for repairs, we’ll gather the parts and bring them in to base.”
The faces of robots did not provide a full range of human expression but if one spent enough time around them they became easy enough to read, and Kate could see that Sergeant Morello was barely able to hold his tongue. He didn’t like Trang lecturing him about things that even the greenest private knew. The lieutenant should have
known better; if something was getting under Morello’s skin, it wasn’t just the fear of an ambush. If he worried, that meant there was something to be worried about.
Kate had been ambushed dozens of times and there had always been people around. Sometimes they fled just before the shitstorm, giving her some warning, and sometimes they took collateral damage. But Morello was right; she’d never seen Damascus this quiet. Birnbaum and Hartschorn were both techs—technicians who could repair Tin Men in the field—so she wasn’t worried about her own safety; she worried about the flesh and blood humans around her.
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Kate said.
“Maintain an open channel,” Sergeant Morello replied.
She snapped off a salute and turned to rejoin Travaglini, who awaited her at the northeast corner of the street. She told him only that the Sarge was spooked by the quiet, not that she herself was equally unnerved.
“Aren’t we headed toward Damneh Square?” Travaglini asked.
Kate nodded. “Eventually. But we’re gonna take the scenic route, up by the Umayyad Mosque first. Don’t ask.”
Travaglini shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
As they headed off into the labyrinth of this strange city, with its collision of the ancient and the modern, she kept looking through windows and at doorways. From time to time she would spot figures moving behind screens or in the cracks between shutters, but nobody came outside. Nobody watched them as they passed, almost as if they were invisible…or if there was something in the streets of Damascus today that they did not want to see. Something more upsetting than American robots patrolling their streets.
“Private channel, PFC Daniel Kelso,” Kate said.
A click signified that her commlink had been switched over to one-on-one. Even so, she knew her words would not be entirely private. The rest of the platoon wouldn’t hear, but all communications were monitored by Uncle. There would be a recording of whatever she said, so she had to watch her choice of words.
“Danny, you read me?”
A tiny burst of static. Weird, electrical buzzing that made her frown. Normally the lines were perfectly clear but today there seemed to be some kind of interference. The thought of it rattled her spine.
“I’m here. What’s on your mind?” Kelso replied.
“You seeing any locals out your way? Morello’s got me paranoid.”
“About what? Hell, I’m glad they painted a target on my chest. I could use a couple of beers and a few hours in some gamers’ realm where I don’t have to blow anybody’s head off.”
Kate chuckled. Apparently Kelso was counting on anyone monitoring Uncle’s audio back at the Hump to know he was joking. But as she saw it, military brass had a tree stump’s sense of humor.
“Seriously,” she persisted. “Are you seeing any activity where you are?”
“Am I seeing people on the street? Yes,” Kelso said. “I’m in the Souq. Obviously I’m seeing people. Am I seeing a lot of people? Definitely not. Most of the shops are open but there are no street vendors and only a handful of cars have passed us. A holiday?”
“It’s not a holiday,” Kate replied, thinking hard and not liking what she was thinking.
Wall-unit air conditioners whirred on the façades of buildings. The smells of cooking wafted out through windows, local spices and minced beef. But where were the taxi cabs and the children on their bicycles? Where was the music that sometimes played inside the grubby apartments and shops she and Travaglini were passing even now? The walls were crumbling and marked with graffiti, but Damascus had never felt to her like a ghost town until today.
“You’re getting me spooked,” Kelso said, his voice crackling in her ear, picking up some kind of interference.
“Listen up,” she said, “you still tight with the Watermelon Man?”
“On my way there now,” Kelso replied.
“All right. Report back to me on this channel.”
“Yes, Corporal,” he said, all business now.
Kate turned to Travaglini, suddenly all too aware of the gaudy painting on his chassis. “Eyes and ears, Trav.”
The bot nodded and they continued their patrol, checking down alleys and watching rooftops and open windows. Patrol was a walk-through, nothing more, just a way for the Tin Men to be a visible presence in the city, to let insurgents know that if they started any shit, the U.S. Army would shut it down fast.
It came as no surprise to Kate that the past seven years had pissed off almost the entire world. There were Remote Infantry units all over the world, now—in Korea and Pakistan and Iran and Venezuela and the Ukraine and a dozen other spots. What the Tin Men were mostly utilized for was meddling in the business of other nations. They ended civil wars, oversaw fair elections, removed dictators, and by their mere presence they ended regional conflicts. Nobody seemed to notice that Remote Infantry units had not invaded Russia or claimed the Middle Eastern oil fields for the U.S. or toppled any governments that weren’t involved in actively torturing or murdering their citizens. Oppression was being suffocated and the result was a more just and peaceful world, achieved through force and intimidation.
And more people hated the U.S. and its citizens than ever. Nobody wanted to be forced to behave with a gun to their head.
Little kids in Damascus came in two categories: the ones who wanted to play with them and the ones who would spit and throw rocks as they went by. That was why she loved Kelso’s Watermelon Man. There were friendlies amongst the local population, people who appreciated the benefits that came from the American interference and weren’t worried about the audacity of it. She knew a handful of people in Damascus she felt like she could trust—probably trust, because nothing was for sure—but if anyone would tell them what was going on, it was the Watermelon Man. He had always given Kelso a heads-up if there were insurgents or terrorists or Bot Killers—mercenaries funded by a conglomerate of foreign interests who hunted Remote Infantry units for cash—in the area. Kelso had saved the Watermelon Man’s daughter’s life, once upon a time, and the man had been indebted to him ever since. He believed in the Americans’ mission—that all this imposing of order would lead to peace and justice.
Truth was, the Watermelon Man believed in it more than Kate did.
~3~
Alexa Day sat in the plush back seat of a gray Mercedes, its tinted windows and struggling air-conditioning shielding her from the worst of the day’s heat. Flanked by a pair of formidable security officers, she felt small and alone. When she’d spoken to her friends about this trip they had alternated between being terrified for her and thinking she was walking into some kind of fairy tale. Alexa had rolled her eyes but deep down she had wondered if they might all be a little bit right, if visiting her father in Syria might be both dangerous and romantic in equal measure. He was the U.S. Ambassador, after all, and that had a certain regal air, even if it didn’t make her a princess.
Even if she didn’t like him very much.
Stop, she told herself. You promised mom you’d give him a chance. Give this a chance. Keep your promise. But that was easier said than done. Since the day he had moved out of the family home six years before, Alexa had seen her father only rarely and never for long. His work kept him away much of the time—she knew that—but she had never felt as if he made much of an effort. Now he wanted to make amends by bringing her halfway across the world. He couldn’t go to her so she had been persuaded to come to him.
Keep your promise, she thought again.
When her plane had been met by a pair of military vehicles mounted with guns and a sleek Mercedes with blacked-out windows, she’d had a moment of fear followed quickly by bliss. A handful of U.S. Marines—some of them distractingly good-looking and only a couple of years older than her seventeen—were going to be her escorts. It had saddened her when she quickly realized that she wouldn’t be traveling in one of the Humvees but would instead ride in the Mercedes with the two brutish guys who were obviously embassy security. Still, she had gazed
expectantly at the Mercedes. Despite her resentment, she had found herself excited to see her father. The last time had been the day after Thanksgiving—almost a year ago.
Her anticipation had evaporated the moment one of the security men had opened the back door of the sedan and revealed that it was empty. Her father had sent these men to fetch her but not bothered to come himself.
“Mr. Nissim, tell me again why my dad couldn’t meet me,” she said now, staring at the slim, darkly handsome man behind the wheel of the Mercedes.
Nissim glanced back at her. Like many Middle Eastern men she’d met, he had beautiful eyes with thick lashes that made her jealous. Alexa had watched a lot of Bollywood movies and if Bassel Nissim’s embassy job didn’t pan out, she thought he had the looks to be a film star.
“Please, call me Baz,” he said. “Your father truly regrets being unable to greet you in person, Miss Day. The delay in your flight caused a time conflict with a meeting he had scheduled with the mayor of Damascus. Not to worry, though, he should be no more than an hour or two and I can help you get settled into your room. I think you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“No worries,” she said. “He’s got other priorities. Story of my life.”
Nissim didn’t seem to know how to reply to that, and Alexa was glad to let it drop. As the Mercedes rolled through Damascus with its Marine escort she caught glimpses of buildings and parked cars, but she was surprised that she didn’t see more people.
“Is it prayer time or something?” she asked.
“No. Just quiet in the city today,” Nissim replied.
“Hunh. Maybe Damascus partied too hard last night.”
Nissim laughed softly. “I doubt that.”
Alexa focused on him. Maybe twenty-five, no wedding ring, obviously intelligent. She leaned forward and peered out through the windshield, then turned to get a better look out the left side of the car.
Tin Men Page 3
