Just Compensation

by Robert N. Charrette

  It was decision time. Did he cut short his run against the Vilanni mainframe and lead his team in an intercept of the thump about to go down, or did he stay in the system to take advantage of his penetration and go after incriminating evidence that would put an end to all the thumps? If he pulled out, the system would be tougher to crack when he got back—but if he didn’t, people would be hurt, maybe killed. Then again, more would be hurt and killed if he didn’t get what he needed out of the Vilanni mainframe, and he might not get this good a chance again.

  The datastore’s walls shimmered and a crystalline spider oozed through—Vilanni IC had found him. First things first. He engaged his Claw Hand attack program. The battle against the IC was short and sharp, but the outcome was never in doubt. Maybe FastJack could have taken the spider down quicker. Maybe.

  But the spider was just the first of Vilanni’s defenses. There would be worse soon.

  FLASH!

  Cyberspace around him winked from its normal image to a negative version.

  Sooner than soon.

  FLASH!

  Frag! Not now! Clearly, he’d lost track of time. There was nothing else Andy could do now but bail. He’d be hosed if he didn’t get out.

  He hit Save. He’d pick up his adventure later. Feather and Buckhead would wait for him. They always did. Vilanni would wait too. It wasn’t like they were real-world.

  The real world had its own imperatives. And right now was one of those. No more games. Time to go to work.

  >NEWSNET DOWNLINK

  -[05:10:31/8-14-55]

  NORTH VIRGINIA STATEHOOD CONTROVERSY

  A new bill apportioning voting districts in the former North Virginia counties of Fairfax, Alexandria, and Arlington is moving through the North Virginia General Assembly. The legislation is an undisguised challenge to the constitutionality of 2024’s Federal Capital District Act, by which the UCAS government annexed those counties, removing them from North Virginia’s jurisdiction.

  Commented State Senator Wendell North (Arch-PW): “Like all of this bill’s sponsors, I am gratified by the strong support the Senate has shown in its swift passage of our bill. We have every confidence that the measure will pass with an equally overwhelming margin in the House of Delegates. UCAS made a mistake thirty years ago. The people of this region have had time to see where their interest lies and, believe me, the people are ready to act. We have a lot of good folk here in North Virginia; people who know their minds, know their hearts, and know where their loyalty belongs. You’ll all be seeing that soon enough.”

  COMP ARMY UPDATE

  Senators Gorchakov (Dem-MN) and Drinkwater (Lib-ME) introduced a bill today calling for the immediate payment of all overdue displacement compensation. [Crossref Financials: CAU.] To the cheers of assembled Comp Army soldiers, Drinkwater made the announcement from an improvised podium. “There is no question about it.” he said. “We must pay this debt of honor.”

  Reactions on the Hill have been mixed. Speaker of the House Betty Jo Pritchard (Rep-ONT) led the opposition. In a public statement made today, she said:

  “As I stated when the first of these ‘marchers’ showed up on the Capitol steps, with our country running a fifty-billion-dollar deficit annually, I don’t see how responsible legislators can justify any measures designed for the special benefit of only one segment of the population. It makes no practical sense.”<<<<<

  2

  Major Tom Rocquette poked his head out the commander’s hatch of the Ranger command car to scan the urban landscape with his unaided eyes. His vision was blurred by fatigue, and he considered taking another wideawake. Could he afford any further degradation of his reflexes? More importantly, could he afford a microsleep during which he’d miss something important? Unwilling to disgrace his new leaves, he dug a tab out of his kit and popped it. He had to stay alert. His unit had already gotten caught once by relying solely on their helmets’ augmentation visors; he wasn’t about to let that happen again.

  From the east came the sound of weapons fire. That should be Santiago’s task force. He wished he knew what was happening over there, but the battalion recon drones weren’t feeding anything to his tac computer; they hadn’t for more than twelve hours. Olivetti, in command of the battalion’s tele-operated assets, had nothing but excuses every time Tom called for data or support. This time Tom didn’t even bother.

  At least something in Olivetti’s command was still functioning. Half a block away, the sprawled-starfish shape of a Steel Lynx wheeled drone squatted in the street, temporarily halted in overwatch while First Team advanced. This drone and its controller, call sign Gold Autumn, had proven themselves the best tele-operated unit in Tom’s task force, and it was the only one still running. The drone’s turret swiveled slightly, adjusting its angle of fire to clear the troops it was supporting. Or was there more to it?

  Tom opened the link to the task force’s rigger command vehicle. “Gold Autumn, this is Gold Count. Are you reading targets? Over.”

  “Negative, Gold Count. Area scans clear. Over.”

  “Affirm. Stay sharp. Gold Count out.” He didn’t want to be surprised again.

  “Major?” It was Captain Vahn, his second in command. “We gonna go help Santiago’s team?”

  “We haven’t been asked.” Tom said.

  Vahn didn’t look happy with the answer. Tom wasn’t happy either. It wasn’t easy going on with your job when your buddies had found a hot zone, but they were on a search-and-destroy sweep and if they abandoned their job to make like the cavalry and help Santiago’s team, they might be opening themselves and everybody else up to a strike by the hostiles. The brass knew what was going on; they would know if Santiago needed help. You had to trust them; it was part of being on the team.

  Right now his team needed his attention.

  First Team was moving forward past a building that belched smoke from every orifice. The roiling black clouds obscured the upper stories of most of the structures ahead of them. Dangerous. Unaided eyes couldn't pierce that gloom; he'd have to hope that the troops’ augmented vision would spot any danger from that quarter. He concentrated on the street level.

  It was good that he did. He spotted a flicker of movement in the rubbled building along which First Team’s right flank moved. The team was on point and almost on top of whatever it was.

  “Point Team, halt!”

  The scramble to cover started immediately and was completed quickly. Although he could locate all of them on his tac comp, only one soldier remained visible from Tom’s position. Even the Steel Lynx had scuttled sideways and found some rubble to shelter against. They were good troops. Tom wished he could take the credit for honing them so well, but they hadn’t been under his command long enough for that; he was happy enough to have them. Later, he would send a thank-you note to their former commander.

  Unfortunately more troops had gone to ground nearer the suspicious movement than made him comfortable, but nothing jumped out to get them.

  “What’s going on, Major?” Sergeant Omenski asked. Tom hadn’t seen anything he could characterize as a threat, but he felt uneasy. He’d seen movement, hadn’t he? He hoped it wasn’t wideawake-induced paranoia. Still, caution was better than stupidity. “You picking up anything ahead and to your right?”

  After a moment to confer with his Team, Omenski was back on the line. “We don’t see anything.”

  Had he been wrong? The gathering dusk and drifting smoke made it hard to be sure. He realized that the firing from Santiago’s position had stopped. It was very quiet. He didn’t like that. It had gotten quiet just before they were jumped the last time. “Watch your front, Sergeant. Special attention to your one through three. Stand by.”

  “Understood.” Omenski’s tone made it clear he disagreed with his commander’s order to stop the advance for no apparent reason.

  No apparent reason.

  Tom slipped back inside the command car, ignoring the questioning expression of his commo chief. He wanted to talk
to the man reclining, eyes closed, on the couch set against the armored outer wall. Tom tapped rhythmically on his arm. When the man opened his eyes, Tom asked, “You got anything, Hooter?”

  Hooter was the nickname of Lieutenant Carolstan, the task force’s magician. The small man had picked up the sobriquet because he wore thick-lensed glasses that made his large eyes, peering from within dark rings, look even larger than they were. The image had reminded someone of an owl. It didn’t help that Carolstan had a steady, unblinking stare. Those glasses marked Carolstan for what he was, even more obviously than his radiant sword insignia. The man had significant myopia, a defect that could be permanently and invisibly corrected with a minor implant, but he wouldn’t allow it. Like most mages, the refused any implants that would threaten the psychic integrity of his body. The Army wouldn’t permit contact lenses, so glasses it was, and “Hooter” was the result.

  Carolstan, also like most magicians, didn't much care for the nickname the troopers hung on him. “The name's Carolstan, Major.”

  Tom didn’t care. Troops didn’t much like magic or magicians. Such animosity—though fear played a part, too—was why they coined demeaning nicknames. Years of working with the specialists of the Army’s Thaumaturgic Corps had taught Tom that there were magicians who deserved both animosity and fear; Tom hadn’t worked with Hooter long enough to know if he was one of them. One thing was certain: troops especially didn’t like people—magicians or officers—who let them down. “It’s Dogmeat if you’re not doing your job.”

  Hooter pursed his lips, drawing his face down into an expression that suited his nickname. “I have nothing to report from the astral.”

  “Go take another look. Pay attention to the building anchoring First Team’s right flank.”

  Instead of going back to his command station, Tom crawled up into the command car’s turret. He wanted to get his own eyeballs back on the terrain while Hooter did his astral recon. Whatever he’d seen wasn’t visible now. He kept searching anyway.

  He routed his tac feed to that station, so that from time to time he could glance down at the turret’s bank of monitors. No sense losing touch. One displayed the positions of his men, each marked with a blue symbol; no red showed. Neither did the input relayed from the troops’ helmets or the M-6 Ranger’s own sensors indicate the presence of any hostiles. Yet something still made Tom hesitate to resume the advance.

  Another display showed the interior of the command car, where the magician lay still as a dead man while he did his arcane scout. Hooter was taking longer than he should, but he showed no signs of distress. Maybe he was just being thorough. Tom wished he knew the magician better, so that he could make a better informed guess about why he might be taking so long. Finally Hooter stirred, indicating that he was coming out of his trance.

  Tom was on him at once. “Well? What did you see?” The magician’s eyes shifted into focus. “There is nothing to be seen.”

  “Then it’s all clear?”

  “You have my report.” Hooter said brusquely. Mages were notoriously touchy about people questioning their competence. Apparently Tom had insulted this one.

  Tom had more important things to do than nursemaid Hooter’s ego. The task force still had a mission. He returned his attention to the street just in time to see a half-dozen squat green shapes emerge from the ruins. The hostiles were little more than silhouettes with the raw, rough-hewn shape of trolls, but shorter and broader. The trollish hostiles moved fast—very fast—bounding in among First Team’s position. Small-arms fire erupted as the Team recognized their danger. One of the green things went down, but the rest surged forward.

  “Active magic.” Hooter announced. He had popped up in the commander’s hatch.

  “So get active yourself and try to knock down some of those things.” Tom told him.

  “Don’t expect much.” Hooter snapped back, but he did start to mumble a spell.

  Tom didn’t have time to figure out what Hooter was trying. A larger shape, orange this time but still vaguely humanoid and no better defined, rose from the rubble and lumbered forward. The orange hostile stormed past First Team and headed straight for Second Team’s position. No one in Second Team fired at it.

  Why hadn’t the team opened up on the thing?

  Questions later; now, they needed help. “Gold Count to Gold Autumn, shift support to Second Team.”

  The drone’s rigger didn’t reply, but the Steel Lynx rolled out from behind cover, its turret swiveling to bring its weapons to bear on the hulking target. The drone scooted into the monster’s path. Rolling backwards down the street in front of the hostile, the Lynx opened up. The stream of fire appeared to hit the target, but to no effect.

  Some kind of displacement illusion?

  Tom swiveled the turret’s minigun around to bear. He depressed the firing stud. The gun rumbled as a fiery stream of tracer poured out, raking the air to one side of the monster. Slight aim shift, then the other. No visible effect. Hell with that! Tom shifted his aim and speared the thing. The orange hulk staggered, but didn’t stop.

  The smaller green hostiles rampaged through First Team’s position. On Tom’s tac comp, blue lights started flashing everywhere as one of the hostiles reached his troops. One by one, the blue lights winked out. First Team was being annihilated.

  Tom called for help. “Gold Count to Tin Leader!”

  "This is Tin Leader.” Olivetti’s voice was calm, almost detached. “We’re a bit busy here.”

  "Olivetti!” he screamed over the tac commo. “We’ve been jumped. Get your fragging mechanical birds down here!”

  “Wilco.” replied the rigger commander.

  Tom could only hope that Olivetti was telling the truth. It wouldn’t be the first time he had promised support he didn’t have.

  What they really needed were a few Yellowjacket light choppers, or even one Destrier close-support ship, but Tom’s Special Resources battalion hadn’t been assigned any heavy aerial assets. All the task force had was their share of the battalion’s integral rigger company with its MCT-Nissan Shadowhawk rotor drones. The Shadowhawks were lightweight, but his mission briefing had said that those assigned to support this mission would be armed with antipersonnel weapons.

  Could their opposition be considered personnel? The orange and green shapes looked humanoid, barely, but they acted more like relentless killing machines. They sure as hell didn’t go down like men.

  An unnaturally loud homet-buzz announced the arrival of Olivetti’s drones. A pair went by the command car, too fast for Tom to get a good look at them, but the tac comp flashed stats on them. Both Shadowhawks packed miniguns, rotary tri-barrels like that on the command car, which could spit out a stream of lead that would cut a man into bits.

  The orange monstrosity advanced through the drones’ fire without stopping. Its outer edges flickered a little. It was taking some effect from the weight of fire pouring down on it. The thing sought cover. But it wasn’t stopped; the drones’ firepower only made it take a longer route to Second Team’s position. That was all.

  That was wrong. Nothing living should be able to withstand such a volume of fire.

  The orange hostile disappeared from Tom’s line of fire as it continued its approach to Second Team’s position. The thing was almost on top of the troops and they still weren’t firing in their own defense. Tac comp showed them all unwounded. So why weren’t they firing? Tom knew they were better trained than their performance was showing. Second Team’s nonreaction was wrong too. No one responded to his calls on the team’s frequency. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “The scenario’s screwed up. What the hell’s going on here, Hooter?”

  Hooter raised an eyebrow. “You know the rules, Major. Stick to the scenario. You want to discuss context or simulation parameters, you save it for debrief.”

  Tom gave the mage his best junior-officer-frying glare, but Hooter didn’t wither. The magician knew something he wasn’t telling Tom. Like most mages, he was proba
bly looking out for his own hoop and couldn’t be bothered worrying about his teammates. Didn’t he understand that the team came first? If the team didn’t win, nobody won. But here the little fragger was, keeping secrets and standing on the rules.

  “All right then. By the rules. Give me a situation evaluation, Lieutenant Carolstan. What is the magical threat?”

  “The details are obscured, but as I said, there’s active magic. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I’m not the one supposed to be a mage.”

  “Look at the hostile.”

  Hooter pointed to where the Shadowhawks buzzed around, hovering and picking their shots. The orange hostile continued to move through the rubble, rarely exposing itself for long, and the drones didn’t get off many shots. Always, inexorably, the hostile moved closer to Second Team’s position.

  The rubble through which the hostile was moving was bad going for the Steel Lynx. Tom ordered the drone back to support what was left of First Team. He also ordered his driver to take the command car in closer to the fight. He needed clearer fire lanes to support Second Team. The M-6 Ranger command car wasn’t a panzer or even a tank, but it was the heaviest piece of equipment the task force had left. Concrete grinding under its wheels, the armored command car moved forward.

  As they approached the hostile playing hide-and-seek among the rubble, Tom began to feel something. There was a strangeness that radiated from the monster, something that touched deep wells of loathing in Tom’s soul and woke the small animal spirit in him. That spirit cried out and urged him to run away from the thing stalking ever closer, to hide and cower, to do anything but confront it. Now he understood what had happened to Second Team. Magic-induced fear was suppressing them. He’d been annoyed by the hostile before, but now he hated it for what it had done to his men and was trying to do to him.

  “Counter the thing’s spell.” he ordered Hooter.