The group straggled in a line down the narrow beach below, half a mile away. Seven of them, their outlines hazy in the shimmering heat. They looked like just another Vietnamese refugee family fleeing the conflict in the north. But Aran’s regiment was hidden in the valley beyond, and command didn’t want any witnesses.
He whispered. “They don’t look like combatants.”
The voice—metallic, rasping. “[They are Viet Minh.]”
“One looks like a grandmother walking on a cane.”
“[They are an espionage unit.]”
“They’re using grandmothers now? I guess that’s some sort of close-combat pulse cane?”
“[Just follow your orders, corporal.]”
The Cochlear-Glyph implant behind his ear went silent. But he knew they were there, waiting for him to act, monitoring his vital signs and movements. Listening to his orders, looking for any unorthodox chatter between him and his squad.
The scout squad of five was spread amongst the boulders. Behind them the regiment was preparing for a surprise push into the south. Three thousand shock troops, one hundred mobile rail-cannons, even a plasma array. It was a bold manoeuvre, along the beaches of Da Nang and into Hoi An. His squad was linked together through their implants, able to hear every word, every murmur, every expletive each other made. They weren’t given wider comms access than that. Command didn’t trust the volunteer squadrons, they thought they’d warn the enemy or send out the truth about the war onto the freewave.
Aran aimed his rifle, tightened his gloved finger around the steel trigger. He looked over the group again through the sight and chose the most combatant-looking of the seven: a young man holding a machete, leading the refugees. He wore a large conical bamboo hat, reflective sunglasses, a singlet and long shorts. And that’s all. How the boy didn’t pass out from the maddening heat was beyond him. They must be desperate, walking in the sunlight.
Aran had been a reservist, back home, so he’d been promoted to corporal immediately. But he’d never fired at another human being before. He aimed at the boy’s shoulder. Maybe he could just wound him. “Ready men. Wait until I fire. I’ll take the lead combatant.” Four voices, more or less, grunted in response.
He focused the sight, licked the sweat from his top lip.
Aran sighed. He pulled the trigger.
The arm tore from the torso. Blood sprayed as the young man staggered back a few steps and stared, mouth open, at the spreading stain where his arm used to be. The refugee directly behind—an elderly man—fell to his knees, clutching his chest. The nano-hardened shell had punched clean through the boy’s shoulder. The rest of the refugees were being taken apart, bodies and limbs shattering under the unerringly accurate fusillade. Blood soaked the bone white sand, turned the foam at the edge of the water a cruel pink. The young boy walked a few jagged steps away from the group and fell forward into the thin undergrowth at the edge of the beach.
The shooting ended. The grandmother alone stood, looking down at the bodies. Her mouth was open, a soundless scream into the searing white.
Aran looked away, closing his eyes. His hand shook as he tried to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Okay, okay, we’re done here.”
Again, the whisper. “[The whole squad, Corporal.]”
“Huh? It’s done.”
“[Not all.]”
“The old woman? You’re kidding me.”
“[Your orders.]”
“Fuck you and your orders.”
“[Are you disobeying a direc…]”
Static.
Then the world caught fire.
Whitelight whiteheat bloomed behind him. Aran shut his eyes instinctively against the incandescence, covered his face with his forearm. Wind started to pick up, rushing past him, faster and faster back towards the source of the light. His throat closed up as the oxygen was sucked out of the atmosphere. He reached over his shoulder and put his hand into his backpack, grasping for his environment mask. He tried to scream an obscenity as he yanked at the mask, but no sound would come from his mouth in the dying air. His lungs burned.
Aran shrugged off one of the straps of his backpack and started to tug at the second, when the wind dragged him along the top of the boulder. He slid from the edge, landing heavily on the hard earth below. The world started to dim.
He felt an object wedged under his shoulder. He moved his hand to it and touched something smooth, almost slick. The environment mask, dislodged by the fall. He pushed it against his face and immediately the straps wrapped themselves around his head, the intelligent PVC moulding itself around his face and skull. The processor at the mouth of the mask started extracting oxygen from the thin air. He breathed in deeply, the burning in his throat receding.
Aran struggled to one knee and looked back down the valley. The Regiment was gone. The jungle was gone. The valley was gone. A crater, perhaps a mile in diameter remained, the raw earth glowing a soft red. The jungle beyond was blackened, shrunken, for as far as he could see.
The wind died down.
He gasped. “Was that a nova bomb? How the hell did the Vietnamese get that?”
Courtesy of the nanos attached to his optic nerves, a small, glowing green name appeared on the inside of his retina, identifying the squad member speaking, KRIT: “[I heard they were dealing with the Californians. It must be true. That’s the only place they could get one.]”
“Shit.” He slowly got to his feet. “Well, we need to move. This has to be the start of a counter-attack in this area. Everyone come to my position.”
After a couple of minutes a lone solider approached him. He wore a green chillcloak and an environment mask, the lifeless gold-reflective lenses staring back at Aran.
“Where’s the rest?”
“[They weren’t wearing environment masks. You said they weren’t required. They’re all dead.]”
Aran winced and looked away, down at the glowing crater. He winced again as he realised he was relieved that only Krit remained. Not only was he smart, he was the only one in the team not a common criminal. Krit was some sort of political dissident. Aran hadn’t taken much notice when Krit explained his reasons for opposing the war, he was just glad to have one person in his squad unlikely to stab him if he gave unpopular orders.
Still, Aran was pretty sure Krit didn’t much approve of him. He had a way of squinting at Aran out of the corner of his eyes like he was waiting, just waiting, for him to say something stupid.
“Okay, we need to move,” Aran said, “the locators on our c-glyphs will be disrupted in this area. We’ll be off the radar and assumed dead. Now’s our chance to get to the Laos border and out of this war.”
Krit removed his mask, hunkered down in the shade underneath the boulder. He shook his gaunt face slowly. “[Laos isn’t even a tributary state like Thailand. It’s part of the Chinese Economic Union. Even if we could make it that far, which we won’t, they’d lock us up as soon as we crossed the border. The best option is to make it to the rear command base. Let them know what happened. It’s probably a day’s walk. We’ll live if we keep on our cloaks and masks.]” Krit spoke Thai; Aran only English. His c-glyph translated the words directly into his eardrum, but it was always a couple of seconds behind. It made Krit look like he was in one of those ancient, badly dubbed spaghetti westerns.
An icon in the corner of his retina told him sufficient oxygen had returned to his immediate surroundings. Aran removed his mask as well. “Why not take our chances here? It’s better than being cannon fodder in the Chinese Army.”
Krit squinted towards the crater. “[There is no here here, corporal. Every town for two hundred kilometres has been bombed into oblivion. No food sources either. The Chinese air-force dropped genetic-scramblers on all the major crop formations. The whole area is crawling with either Viet Minh or Chinese army regulars. The first will shoot you on sight; the second will imprison you for desertion, make you confess your crimes on the freewave, and then shoot you. It is fifty degrees out here during th
e day and thirty-five in the evening. If a bullet or starvation doesn’t kill you, then the sun will.]” Krit looked over at him. “[There’s nothing here to take a chance on. This is the end.]”
Aran rested his head against the warm boulder, looking out at the desolation. The great crater crackled gently in the distance. Lines of sweat ran down his neck. “I shouldn’t even be here.” He looked over at Krit. “Haven’t they learned from the Vietnam War? The one the Americans fought—when was it—nearly a hundred years ago?”
Krit smiled a small smile. “[The Chinese invaded Vietnam dozens of times over the past three thousand years. Unlike the Americans they won a few of those wars and occupied this land, from time to time. They see this as a tributary state, at the minimum.]”
“No one lives here? None at all?”
“[No. Not any more. Except a handful of the people of the sort we… encountered today, just passing through the wasteland.]”
Aran pulled at a small tube at the neck of his cloak and drank from it. His chillcloak gathered moisture that was in the air through synthetic pores, absorbing it into a small reserve built into the cloak. The water was warm. He drank deeply.
He choked, water sprayed from his mouth. He bent forward, his body taut as he coughed.
“[You okay?]” Krit was patting him on the back “[Water went down the wrong way?]”
Aran sat back. Face flushed. “Yeah,” he breathed deeply. “Fuck.” He blinked at the sunlight and sighed. He could do with a cool beer and a spliff. Right now that would almost feel as good as a ticket home.
He turned back to Krit and sighed. “You’re right.”
The small man sat in the shade, watching Aran through squinted eyes.
Aran grabbed his mask. “Let’s move.”
§
Aran and Krit stood on a low stage in front of the Thai and Chinese dignitaries. The medal presentation was in one of the gleaming function rooms of the Banyan Tree Hotel in central Bangkok. Red-and-yellow bunting shone in the bright lights, bottles of Johnny Walker Black stood at each table, efficient Thai waitresses glided around the room with steaming plates of noodles and tempeh and vegetables. At some of the tables near the front it looked and—suspiciously, tantalisingly—smelled like they were serving meat. Directly in front of Aran he noticed a vaguely familiar figure with an impressive bouffant of hair and a gleaming traditional collarless shirt, watching them from a glitter of Chinese generals. Krit whispered in his ear that it was the Thai prince.
The low buzz of conversation in the room halted as the medal ceremony began. The faces all turned towards him, remaining impassive as the medal was placed around his neck. An announcer to one side spoke of their bravery in the face of an attack with weaponry prohibited under the Hong Kong Accords. A Chinese media team filmed the proceedings, no doubt to be cut and re-cut for broadcast onto the freewave. Inspiring music would underlay the ceremony, pictures of soldiers who had fallen in the battle would intersperse the vision of Krit and Aran, as would some product placements of the latest military hardware being paraded through grey Beijing streets. Pictures of the military eating real meat would of course need to be cut, as would the prince knocking over drinks while trying to pull a waitress onto his lap.
Aran stepped up to the podium and began the short speech his minders had made him memorise. The usual pap: the four bonds of the Union, the generosity of the Chinese empire, something about greatness. They had been angry at first when they discovered he could not speak Mandarin. But he was from the West, so that could be used both an excuse and a publicity coup. Aran blinked in the glare of lights, trying to remember the closing lines.
“This is not freedom…” he blinked again and looked out at the audience. In silence they watched. Even the prince had put down his glass for a moment, looking up at the stage with dull watery eyes. The camera crew loitered nearby. Aran wiped at the sweat beading under his bottom lip, trying to recall the line. “I mean: this is not a jungle war, but a struggle for stability and freedom on every activity… on every front of human activity.”
The colonel who had awarded the medals walked from the side of the low stage clapping. The crowd took the cue and began applauding, while Krit and Aran were ushered away.
Aran consoled himself with the knowledge that his verbal stumbling would be edited down to something coherent. The Chinese were desperate to spin the losses of Da Nang into a positive. To hold up Krit and Aran as heroes, as volunteers fighting for China, the only ones who’d inflicted any casualties during an overwhelming defeat. Aran tried to tell them during the debriefing that the espionage squad was probably refugees, but they wouldn’t listen.
Aran looked down at his medal. The Third Order of Mao. The Chairman, in bronze, looking resolute towards the horizon. It felt heavy around his neck. Aran thought about booming rifle fire and pink foam in the sea. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to blink out the memories. He needed a drink.
They’d been given a nights leave. The freewave would no doubt show them celebrating before ‘voluntarily’ deciding to head back into the war. He wandered past the tables of dignitaries eating and drinking. No-one paid him any heed. When he got to the bar he noticed a row of expensive single malt whiskies on the top shelf. Rare, unavailable for most of the population. He doubted he’d have a chance to drink something this good again.
One of the Thai waitresses behind the bar saw him staring and reached for one of the bottles. She smiled as she poured, flashing small white teeth from a small round face. She wore a white collarless shirt pressed tight against her breasts.
He took the glass. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She put the bottle down, glanced around to see if anyone was standing nearby, and spoke quietly, “You are quite famous Corporal. You have been on the news service for many days.”
Aran smiled. “Really?”
She nodded.
“Please, call me Aran.”
She smiled, brighter this time, her head bowing as she blushed.
“Your English is very good.”
“Thank you. I take night courses.” She tilted her head to one side, eyes fixed on his. “Do you speak Thai?
He grimaced. “No, sorry.”
“Oh. Strange.”
“Strange?”
She blushed again.
Aran shrugged. “Don’t worry—most people just assume that I do. My family left here when I was very young.” He sipped his scotch, savouring the honey and peat of the single malt, the warmth of it in his chest. “Anyway.” He smiled, trying to approximate some charm. “I have the rest of tonight free before they send us back.”
She watched him, waiting.
Aran took a longer chug of the scotch. He coughed into his hand. “I mean… I’m sure we’d be allowed to have a drink together when this function is over.”
“You’re staying here?”
“Yes. I have a room right at the top of the hotel. Fiftieth floor—a luxury suite. Three rooms, latest model Tai screen, marble everywhere. Um, have you eaten?”
She shook her head. “Staff are not allowed to eat here.”
Aran nodded, “Sure. I understand.” He finished his scotch, gave the glass to her so she could pour another. “Well, I don’t have to stay here much longer, now that the presentation is done. I’m allowed anywhere in the hotel. We could go now, order some dinner. They wouldn’t know it was you in my room. We could get some more drinks, download the latest holofilm.” He held his glass high. “All courtesy of the Government of China.”
She shook her head. “No. I cannot leave with you. Come through the staff door.” She motioned with her eyes to a plain white door on one side of the room, her voice low. “Two hours. I know a way to your room where we will not be seen.”
§
The corridor was dark. Slats of light shone sideways from a handful of doors left ajar down the long corridor, function rooms, or kitchens, or bathrooms beyond. The thrum thrum thrum of music from a bar somewhere in the building echo
ing down the corridor. Aran followed the service entrance the waitress had shown him. It continued for some time, away from the function room. He swayed as he walked, head light and feet numb from the alcohol.
He’d probably been seen, but it didn’t matter. The hotel was in lockdown: bioscans, ballistic detectors; the electromagnetic deflector had even been switched on for the prince and the generals. Squads of security personnel in polished black storm armour walked the perimeter, peering at passing river traffic through rifle scopes. There was no way in or out.
“Hi.”
Aran started. The waitress was there, in the shadow of the doorway, a few meters further down the hallway. He peered into the darkness. “I didn’t see you there.”
Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction Page 9
