Just Compensation

by Robert N. Charrette

  The mage aborted the spell he’d been constructing. “I thought you wanted me to attack the hostiles?”

  “Are you questioning orders, Lieutenant? In combat? You know what the rules say about that.”

  “No questions.” Hooter said sullenly. “Sir.”

  “Then earn your fragging specialist bonus! Protect Second Team!”

  Hooter shrank back from him, but he started a new spell.

  Whatever else was happening around them, the feelings Tom was getting from the hostile were very real. And they were growing stronger, weakening the walls of anger he threw up to steel himself. He feared he might succumb to the waves of overpowering dread emanating from the hostile. Second Team had already fallen victim. If he did, too, the task force was doomed. He ordered his driver to halt.

  The thought of this single, cheating, orange fragger beating his task force was like gasoline on the fire of his anger. Tom aimed the Ranger’s minigun toward where he guessed the hostile would appear next. That orange bastard wasn’t going to beat him! He was about to order his driver to advance again when the thing appeared at the edge of an alley. Tom’s thumbs came down and his weapon roared.

  Tom roared with it. Somewhere deep down he knew he was losing it, but he didn’t care. The days of butting through the urban wilderness and wiring himself with wide-awakes had pared away the insulation and left him a little raw. That was the enemy out there in his sights. His enemy. And he wasn’t going to let it win!

  The orange monster flickered.

  Tom didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. He kept firing. The heat from his weapon’s barrel washed back over him.

  Someone in Second Team started to fire. Then a grenade crumped next to the hostile. Though sporadic, the new attacks caused the orange monster to stumble. The team seemed to take heart at that. More troops brought their weapons to bear. Tom shouted encouragement to them and continued to rip at the thing.

  Their orange enemy seemed to shrink a little. Tom roared his triumph, seemingly louder than the sustained coughing roar of his weapon.

  The humanoid shape froze in mid-stride, then faded, revealing the drone beneath: a Steel Lynx variant. The drone folded away its sensor-projector array and relaxed its legs, sprawling into its breed’s characteristic star-shaped relax pose. Its job in this war game was done.

  Tom’s tac comp was flashing a message from battalion headquarters.

  “All units:

  Game terminated.

  Hold position until verified by an umpire.

  Stand down.

  All officers:

  Debrief 1830.”

  The same message would be showing on tac comps, datascreens, and helmet visors all over the unit. Tom slumped down in his commander’s seat and stared at the screen. The battle, never real, was over. The very real exhaustion of three days of field exercise asserted itself, threatening to overwhelm Tom’s chemically reinforced awareness. It seemed that every one of his bones ached with weariness. Tired as Tom was, his men would be no less weary; he had to get them squared away before he could let go. Part of him was happy the exercise was over, but part of him was annoyed. It hadn’t been exactly fair. He held onto that annoyance, using the anger to keep him going.

  What in one Christian hell, seven Buddhist hells, and an uncountable number of unpleasant afterlives did the designers of this scenario think the troops were going to be fighting?

  >WFDC FEED COVERAGE

  -[18:2 2:11/8-14-55]

  REPORTER: DERRY DALE [DALE-365]

  UPLINK SITE: FREDERICKSBURG, NORTH VIRGINIA

  Dale: “Governor Jefferson, what do you say now that State Senator North’s challenge to the Federal Capital District Act of 2024 has cleared the state senate?”

  Jefferson: “The honorable senator has his views. I have mine. I’m sure that Congress and the Supreme Court will have their own. I can’t stop the senator from setting up this challenge; that’s his right, indeed it is the right of any honest citizen. But I am the duly elected governor of North Virginia, and as long as North Virginia remains a part of the UCAS, I’ll be here in Fredericksburg doing my job.”

  Dale: “Do you attach any significance to the margin of passage?”

  Jefferson: “The margin isn’t the whole story in politics, as we all know. I think you might find that support isn’t as strong as the good senator would like you to believe.”

  Dale: “Eighty percent in favor seems pretty strong to me.”

  Jefferson: “Derry, you and I both know that not every senator votes his conscience every time a bill goes through. The story’s not told till we get to the end.”

  [Cut to courthouse steps; Dale standing alone. Inset: Teresa Lee (Rep), Regional Commissioner of Fairfax District, FDC]

  Dale: “There are those both north and south of the Potomac who question the Governor’s evaluation of the situation. To some, the scent of unrest and dissatisfaction is in the air. Commissioner Theresa Lee, had this to say: ‘Governor Jefferson is out of touch with the hearts and minds of the people. The area between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers has always been a unique and coherent region. Arbitrary lines on a map can’t change that. Those of us who live here know what North Virginia is, and where it belongs.’ ”<<<<<

  3

  Russ Sanchez was waiting for Andy at the entrance to the Track. Russ was Andy’s mentor, which wasn’t as stuffy as it sounded; Russ was an okay guy. The Track was the virtual arena where Telestrian Cyberdyne tested its new models, or rather their virtual analogs.

  “Running a little long, Mr. Walker?” Russ asked.

  Anybody else would have said “running late.” but the odd syntax wasn’t a mistake. Not with Russ. Andy had long suspected that Russ knew what was behind Andy’s tendency to tardiness, but it wasn’t something they talked about. So Andy said, “I got a little preoccupied. I’ll go late tonight if it’s a problem.”

  The computer resources Andy used for his runs weren’t exactly his to use. If he and Russ talked about Andy’s virtual pastimes directly, Russ would be obligated to ask after details of access and allocation, and Andy would feel obligated to give them. Which would have put another, different obligation on Russ—that of having to report Andy for theft of Telestrian’s computer resources. Neither of them wanted that, so they never talked about Andy’s adventures.

  Russ’s implicit condoning of Andy’s irregular activities was only one of the things Andy liked about Russ. Although Russ was officially Andy’s boss, he was more like a friend. Russ wasn’t as stuffed as the other Telestrian managers. He was an all right guy, not the corp stereotype at all. In a lot of ways, Russ was the father Andy had grown up without.

  Andy’s biological father was Matthew “Cruncher” Walker. Cruncher had worked security for Telestrian East, Cyberdyne’s parent company, but he hadn’t been just a shuffle-along prowl guard. Telestrian didn’t demonstrate the prejudice of Cruncher’s previous employer, the sanctimonious and hypocritical UCAS government. The fact that Matthew Walker was an ork wasn’t a problem at the big T. Telestrian’s bosses knew that the bottom line was performance, and they rewarded whatever metatype delivered. Cruncher had been a site supervisor with numerous commendations and bonus citations. He’d been on his way up in the Telestrian security force. It had taken death in the line of duty to stop Cruncher.

  Unfortunately, Andy didn't remember much about his father. The dust-up in which Cruncher died had happened when Andy was three. Andy knew what Cruncher looked like, and he remembered the strong, rasping grip of his father’s hardened hands and the fierceness of his hugs. There were other memories too; but they were more vague, less pleasant, so he didn’t try very hard to remember those. When it came right down to it, though, he had no real grasp on his father as a person, and all the pictures and recordings Andy’s mother had kept, even the stories she’d told him, didn’t tell him near enough about the person Cruncher had been.

  With Cruncher's death, the family had become corporate pensioners. Telestrian East
administered the estate and the not inconsiderable loss benefits. The big T ensured that Andy and his sisters got a good education. Telestrian had also arranged slots for his mother and his sisters. His mother Shayla currently worked as a senior receptionist for the Internal Marketing bullpen. Two of his sisters had slots in the admin pool and the third, Asa—who everyone knew was the smart one—was working an advanced study program-internship for a bigwig at Telestrian’s home office in Tir Tairngire.

  Even Andy had grown into the family business, as it were. Though he was still attending classes two days a week, working toward his advanced studies certificate, he held down a slot within Telestrian Cyberdyne as a test driver. When younger he’d worked with the teams developing entertainment simulators. What he was doing now was familiar stuff, not surprising since he’d been playtesting for the corp since he was a kid, since even before Telestrian had funded his datajack. These days he was getting more real development work and that was exciting. It felt good to be a contributing member of the corporate family.

  But even a paternal, caring corporation wasn’t a real father. Russ wasn’t either, but he was as close as Andy was likely to come. Maybe that was why Russ’s approval was so important to him.

  It was an approval he was likely to lose if he didn’t stop daydreaming.

  As usual, Russ was one step ahead of him.

  “Welcome back.” Russ said. “Shall I go over the brief again or did you record?”

  Fortunately, by force of habit, Andy had set to record. He liked being able to see if the postbrief matched the prebrief, which it didn’t always do, especially when someone other than Russ handled the session. Russ’s briefing was stored in his headware memory. “I’ve got it.” he said.

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to think I was totally wasting my time.” With a wave of Russ’s hand the entrance dissolved, and he and Andy were standing in the open. Bright sunlight flooded down all around them. “You ready to get down to work?”

  Andy was still taking in the scenery. Today the Track was configured for a badlands setting, with lots of mesas and buttes, and not a road in sight. The land forms were low res, sketchy shapes with minimal modeling and bland, flat surface modeling. There were no clouds in the sky. All of which suggested that the Track’s resources were focused on vehicle parameters and full-feedback monitoring. Andy knew that meant he’d be rigging one of the newer models. Real work today.

  “Montjoy?” he asked. The Montjoy Project was Telestrian Cyberdyne’s latest foray into cybernetic vehicle-control systems. It was cutting-edge stuff, and very, very secret. Andy had test-driven early versions of the vehicle. Partials, to be sure, but an honor nonetheless.

  “It’s not like you earned it.” Russ said. “But you’re right.”

  Two dark shapes winked into existence beside them. The Montjoy vehicles were sleek and tapered, reminiscent of broad-headed sharks without dorsal fins. Thrust-vectoring nozzles made slight bulges at strategic points along the vehicle’s surface. The canopy over the cockpit was blanked this time. For this run the Montjoys would be relying purely on their sensor suites. Andy’s name hung in the air above one of the vehicles, the dark letters beckoning him forward. He took a slow tour around the Montjoy, admiring its looks.

  “I know a dozen test drivers who’d kill you if they thought it would let them take your place.” Russ said.

  “But they didn’t have my test scores, did they?” Russ had once let if slip that Andy had shown an early aptitude in cybernetic control, with higher scores than anyone in his age group. Andy liked to think about it as his special edge. Andy quoted the corp’s motto, “At Telestrian we go with the best.” Russ shook his head. “Let’s just say they didn’t have your availability.”

  Andy let Russ’s ego-checking comment roll past him. He didn’t really care about the reasons. What mattered was that he was here and going to rig the Montjoy. But there were two vehicles, and the other had no name over it.

  He looked at Russ. “You’re rigging today, too?”

  “We’ll be playing tag, remember?” Russ gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose you’ve also forgotten that if you get more than five hundred meters off the deck, you get tagged out. Triple A or something like that. In any case, you lose the run and make certain engineers very unhappy. Got it?”

  Andy didn’t remember, but he supposed the details had been in the brief. Those details were important or Russ wouldn’t have mentioned them again, so he said, “Got it.”

  “Okay, in you go.”

  Andy’s viewpoint shifted. He was no longer standing on the open field of the Track. Instead he was sitting, reclining actually, in the cockpit of the Montjoy testbed. The Montjoy vehicle wasn’t real, and he wasn’t really in its cockpit, but it was awfully hard to tell.

  Russ had told him that back in the previous century, manufacturers had actually had to build physical prototypes to test their designs. Andy found it hard to imagine building something before you knew whether it would work or not. Physical manufacturing was a lot more costly than computer time, making such a venture a big investment gamble. Even if the design was mostly good, any unanticipated flaw could result in expensive retooling before production could start. Manufacturers were a lot smarter these days; they’d learned that it was a waste of good money to build something just to see if it worked.

  Stiil, there was a certain allure to such a way of doing business. It must have been terribly exciting to strap yourself into a vehicle, not knowing if it would work, but completely assured that you were betting your life that it would. Medical tech was pretty primitive in those days. You couldn’t count on the docs rebuilding you if something got hosed and you cracked up.

  Andy had no worries about dying on the Track. If he wiped on the Track, he wouldn’t get hurt, not physically anyway. Mistakes still had their costs, in computer time to determine whether a crash was due to vehicle design or operator error, but either way the techs just reset and he could take the vehicle out again. He would take a hit on his evaluation, though, and that would hurt his chance of doing this kind of work all the time after graduation.

  He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the Montjoy’s control banks. The surface would extrude whatever buttons or toggles were needed for positive touch interface control. So slick. His fingers rimmed the chrome surface of the dataport. So sleek. The Montjoy was the most sophisticated vehicle he’d ever test-driven. Much tougher to master than any of the panzers or LAVs he rigged in his shadowrun simulations. But then, the Montjoy was better than any of those.

  “You asleep in there?” Russ’s voice came over the cockpit speakers.

  “Just orienting.”

  “Oh? Well, tag, you’re it.”

  Time to go to work. Cocking his wrist, Andy willed the emergence of the dataspike.

  The docs weren’t ready to do the replacement on his real-world hand and install one. They said they were waiting for his bone-growth rate to slow a little. But it must be getting close. Last week they’d had him in for some preliminary work. His arm had almost immediately started to itch fiercely, and it still did. Psychosomatic, they’d told him when he called in, worried. Not an uncommon reaction, they said, nothing to worry about. He really couldn’t feel the nanobots laying the circuitry under his skin. No one could do that.

  In the Matrix that didn’t matter. Andy’s persona icon, the visual image that would represent him in cyberspace, was whatever he told it to be, and in this regard he told it to be what he would one day be. Here he had the sharpest, chilliest interface going. He snugged the spike into its receptacle and the Montjoy came alive for him. Its sensors became his eyes, its engine his heart. Man as machine. Glorious! The power was incredible. Eat your systemic fluid pumps out, street samurai!

  He looked around. The other Montjoy was gone. No heat trail, which was something of a cheat. Russ’s vehicle must have been computer-teleported to some other location on the Track. They would be playing hide-and-seek as well as tag.

  “Sooner don
e, sooner done.” Russ liked to say. Andy agreed. He revved his turbines to optimal and leapt into the sky.

  His confidence proved to be overconfidence. Andy lost all four of the morning’s matches. Hardly the performance he’d wanted to turn in, but flying the Montjoy was tricky.

  After the lunch break, Russ reviewed his performance with him, pointing out the weak spots. Andy did better in the afternoon, but it wasn’t until the fourth run that he managed a clean tag on Russ. The success made Andy eager for another chance. Russ was hesitant—it was pretty late in the day—but finally caved to Andy’s insistence. Sure that he’d tag Russ easily this time, Andy watched Russ’s Montjoy disappear among the buttes while he waited for his “go” signal. To Andy’s annoyance, the controllers gave Russ a good long lead. The heat trail was too cold to be useful by the time Andy got permission to launch.

  Andy headed straight to a spot he’d noticed in the last run. It had looked like the perfect ambush spot, and he was sure Russ had seen it too. Russ might not be there, but at least it was a place to start the hunt. And if Russ was there, Andy figured he could get the jump on him by coming in with cannons blazing. Which was exactly what he did—to no effect. Russ wasn’t there.

  Russ had been there, though. The air was contaminated with fresh exhaust. Andy went on looking. For a long time. He was beginning to wonder if Russ had left and turned the run into a flying exercise when he spotted the other Montjoy. It was backing from the blind canyon where Russ had caught Andy on the second run of the day. Andy put a shot across Russ’s rear just to say hello.

  Russ vectored down and his Montjoy shot up like a rocket, right out of the path of Andy’s second burst. There were still a few tricks left in the old master. Russ’s Montjoy scraped belly dropping behind a ridge and out of sight. Andy throttled up and went after him.

  The ride was wild. They screamed past rockfaces and hurtled over the broken terrain at far greater speeds than Andy would have dared in a real-world machine. The human mind could guide a terrain-following program only so fast. They pushed the envelope, weaving among the buttes almost too fast for even the powerful Montjoy engines to keep inertia from smearing them on a rockface. Andy hadn’t expected Russ to jam things so hard, but he wasn’t going to complain. The only thing better than what they were doing would be to rig one of these babies over such a course for real. Andy was having the time of his life.