Arms Race

by Nic Low

  Alex opened the door and stepped out. She was six foot one even before the spike heels, with hacked black hair and huge owl eyes. She towered over them.

  Bitch, the man said, backing away.

  Yeah, the other said. Suck my dick.

  Alex reached her check-in counter in time to see the screens change from now boarding to flight closed. Her fury rose another notch. Off-duty pilots still streamed through the personnel line, clutching bottles of bourbon and half-eaten roast chickens.

  What about them? she said.

  The prim young woman at Alex’s counter wouldn’t even look up from her screen. I’m so sorry, ma’am, she said again. The flight is now extremely closed.

  I’ll yell fire, Alex said casually, just to see what the woman would do.

  She finally looked up from her screen, and did a double take. Hey, she said. Didn’t you used to be famous? Like, on TV?

  Alex let her face slump like an undercooked cake. I wanted to be on TV, she said. But my boyfriend kept me locked in a shed.

  Uh, right, the woman said. Is he still your boyfriend?

  No, Alex said. Now he’s my husband. How about getting me on that flight?

  I’m so sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing I can do about that.

  Nothing at all?

  I’m so, so sorry.

  The woman didn’t look sorry.

  Oh, forget it, Alex said. You’re a peasant. Peasants have been powerless throughout history.

  The woman blinked in surprise. Well, I have the power to book you another flight?

  That’s better, Alex said. Get me on the next flight to Mongolia.

  Ha ha, the woman said.

  I’m serious.

  But—there’s a war on, you know? In Mongolia. It’s hell in there.

  What? No.

  Yes. Where have you been? Drone on drone? Support Our Boys Who Are Still Here? Work-From-Home Guard? We’ve been fighting China for the last—

  I know, Alex said sweetly. I’m making a documentary about it. Isn’t it a shame we don’t send peasants off to be slaughtered anymore?

  Um, I guess, the woman said. I’m really sorry about—

  Alex yanked up the handle of her case and headed for the exit.

  It took another two-hour taxi ride to get back into central San Francisco. The streets were still jammed with revellers. Alex hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The way she felt right now, even the war zone in Mongolia had to be better than this. She wound down her window and took a breath and screamed her frustration at the passing crowds. They cheered and waved right back.

  In Chinatown, Alex checked into a hotel, then walked through the crowds to a noisy flag-draped pub with the intention of getting blind drunk.

  Over a counter meal she sank a bottle of red and tried not to watch the news. Russia had finally sided with the US. With their support the 75th Deskbound had retaken the Mongolian capital in heavy fighting: two hundred drones lost, eight billion dollars wiped from the army’s stocks. The footage was spectacularly entertaining. Fighter drones spiralled through the concrete canyons of the Ulan Batuur financial district. Cluster bombs bloomed across the city grid. Alex eyed the drunks cheering along the bar.

  This damn war, said a lazy drawling voice. Everyone so fucking cheerful.

  Alex glanced at the man in the neighbouring seat. He looked like an off-brand pimp: flat-brimmed cap, puffer jacket and cheap gold chains. He was staring at the crowd with disgust.

  You’re a rare one, Alex said. I thought cynics were drowned at birth.

  Round here, maybe, the man said. Drop you on your head, where I’m from. He paused, narrowing his sharp almond-shaped eyes. Say, don’t I know you from someplace?

  Alex shifted her features into a look of delight. I fucked your mother, she said. Pass me a napkin, son.

  The man burst out laughing. Alex turned back to the screen.

  They had yet another new woman reading the news. She sat there sweetly reciting the body counts. Us, Them, Civilians. Zero, Zero, Zero. Half the bar chanted along in unison. Zero, Zero, Zero. They finished every bulletin with that mantra. The newsreader smiled at the camera. She was stunning. Alex ordered another bottle of wine.

  The door to the pub blew open and a herd of school kids in khaki overalls trampled in. They pushed in along the bar like suckling piglets. The nearest, a myopic boy with red hair and hunched bones, was practically climbing over Alex trying to get the bartender’s attention.

  Bit young, aren’t they? she said to the man next to her.

  He smiled. You make ’em fight—you gotta let ’em drink.

  What? They’re drone pilots?

  Ask him.

  The kid’s eyes were crazed with adrenalin and booze. Yeah, he said. Fighter drones. Just back from the battle for UB. It was…Hey, didn’t you used to be famous?

  Yes, Alex said. I just got out of prison for molesting children. How can you be a pilot? You’re not eighteen.

  They dropped conscription to fourteen on Tuesday, the kid said. Faster reflexes.

  Alex reached out and pinched the kid, hard.

  Ouch! Fuck!

  You’re not that fast, Alex said. Going to war at your age?

  We’re not hurting anyone, the kid said, rubbing his arm. Mongolia’s totally cleared of people. We’re just blowing up chink drones.

  Well, then, Alex said. You deserve a beer.

  You buying?

  You getting a pilot’s wage?

  The kid grinned. Yeah.

  Buy your own fucking drinks, Alex said.

  The kid slunk off, and Alex’s neighbour barked with laughter, his chains jingling like sleigh bells. Damn, he said. You just bitch-slapped a child.

  No drunk toddler fucks with me, Alex said with a dewy smile.

  Around them, the crowd simmered down to watch General Hurtz’s nightly address. Her authoritative soccer-mom face beamed out from screens on every wall. The woman looked uncannily like Sarah Palin, with gold-rimmed glasses and a neat brunette bob. Alex grimaced. She’d spent so many hours reviewing footage of Hurtz that the general’s face kept cropping up in her dreams.

  I think we all agree that the new warfare is expensive, Hurtz was saying, but it’s worth every cent. Take collateral damage. That used to mean drones, Hellfire missiles, dead civilians. Under my command collateral damage is just moving folk out of the war zone so they stay safe and sound. Every resettled Mongolian family’s guaranteed a house of their own. Eighteen months of fighting and we haven’t had a single casualty. Would you put a price on—

  Ain’t Hurtz a goddamn genius? Alex’s neighbour said.

  No, Alex said.

  The man’s eyes went mock-wide. No?

  No. She’s a rat-shit barber weasel.

  You can’t say that.

  Alex leaned in confidentially. Rat. Shit. Barber. Weasel. Fucked in the ass by a unicorn.

  Ha! the man said, pushing his cap back on his head. I just worked out who you are. You’
re that lady that had a freakout on TV! Got stuck into Hurtz. That was dope!

  Alex put her face in neutral. No one had reacted like that before. Dope? she said.

  Yeah, dope, the man said, eyeing her dishevelled Armani blazer. You still dress like a newsreader. But what’s with your face? If you don’t mind me sayin’, your expressions—they wrong.

  Alex let idiot sincerity flood her eyes. That better?

  Whoa, the man said, pulling back. How you do that?

  That’s the newsreader’s job, Alex said, making herself go cross-eyed. Always having the right reaction. Now I have the wrong reaction.

  Fair nuff. So what the fuck happened that night?

  From what I remember, Alex said, I poured my drink in your lap, smashed my glass on the bar and stabbed you in the eye.

  Right, the man said. Forget I asked. What you doing these days?

  Alex sighed. She raised her fingers into scare quotes. Being a ‘real’ journalist. Making a documentary about Mongolia.

  Oh, lemme guess, the man said, his face darkening. You another brave journalist doing another brave story ’bout the lucky Mongolians so you can win a prize for your brave-assed self. You should get a Pulitzer. You should be taken out back and given a good hard Pulitzering.

  Easy, tiger, Alex said. I’m making a serious film, about Hurtz and the war. You’ve heard the rumours, right?

  The man nodded warily over the top of his beer. I heard she has three breasts.

  Alex snorted. I’m talking about casualties. You can’t have war without bodies. Hurtz’s Zero Zero Zero thing’s got to be bullshit.

  Sorry, lady, the man said. Ain’t nothin’ left there to kill.

  What would you know?

  What would I know? the man said. The fuck I look like to you? Kazakhstani?

  What? You’re Mongolian?

  No, I’m Swedish. Go on, ask me about Genghis Khan.

  What?

  Nothing. Forget it.

  Shit, sorry, Alex said. But your accent?

  Baltimore, the man said. Went there to do fucken business studies, been there ever since. No home to go home to.

  Damn, Alex said. You got family here?

  Nope. In the resettlement camps, Chinese side.

  I’m really sorry. Can I—buy you a drink?

  Still wanna stab me in the eye?

  Only a little bit, she said, holding out her hand. Peace? I’m Alex.

  The man looked at her, and his broad face relaxed into a smile. Aight, peace, he said. Call me Marlow.

  Alex waved the bartender over. On screen, the president was handing out Purple Heart medals to wounded pilots. First Lieutenant Susan Wilkie, repetitive strain injury. First Lieutenant Bernard Wolfowitcz, repetitive strain injury. First Lieutenant Claire O’Neill, acute repetitive strain injury.

  So, tell me ’bout this film, Marlow said. What’s it called?

  You’ll love this, Alex said. My producers want to call it Truth, Accountability, Democracy: Zero, Zero, Zero.

  Sounds wild. When’s it out?

  I don’t know, Alex replied. Probably never.

  As she said it, something unpleasant fell into place. She’d officially finished filming, but with the footage she had there was no way she could make a credible documentary. No wonder she was so damn wound up.

  It feels un-fucking-finishable, she said. I’ve got nothing.

  Aww, Marlow said. You still got a country. Why can’t you finish it?

  The film’s about General Hurtz but I can’t get near her. She only does pre-records by satellite; no one even knows where she’s based. And the footage I’ve got that suggests bodies on the ground? Blurry freeze-frames from official army feeds. There’s no independent coverage.

  For real, Marlow said. I heard they shoot the news drones down.

  Reuters, AP, boom. I’ve got experts, conspiracy theorists, all the usual junk, but editing that’s deckchairs on the Titanic. Without on-the-ground proof the film’s a joke. I’m going to humiliate myself.

  Again, Marlow said nonchalantly.

  Alex laughed. You’re about as charming as I am.

  Marlow took a swig of beer. So why don’t you just go?

  Go where?

  Mongolia.

  Oh, sure, Alex said. I’d love to be the first casualty of the whole damn war.

  Go on then.

  After the day I’ve just had? Why not?

  Great. Need an interpreter?

  No, my Mongolian’s perfect. But come anyway—you can get killed, I’ll film.

  It’s the western way, Marlow said. At least get your ass to the Russian border, take a look around. From today they’re allies, right?

  True, Alex said. Nothing better to do. Finish our drinks and go?

  Aight. Cheers.

  Cheers.

  They clinked glasses, and Alex downed her wine in a gulp. She looked along the bar, and found General Hurtz looking back at her: from the banners around the walls, the TV screens, even the beer coasters. Alex put a drunken hand on Marlow’s shoulder.

  You’re kidding, aren’t you? she asked. About going to Mongolia?

  Not really, Marlow said.

  Alex smiled. Neither am I.

  Three weeks later, as they headed down the corridor towards the plane, Alex was terrified. It reminded her of her first day at NTV, walking from hair and make-up to the set. She hadn’t even finished her journalism degree and she was about to go live in front of millions of people. The psychotically cheerful faces of staffers drifted past. You look amazing! they kept telling her. She’d beamed, but had to keep telling herself: That’s not why they hired me.

  Things went smoothly with Russian immigration. Alex had told the visa office they were going to interview Mongolian refugees along the border. She’d told everyone else she was taking stress leave in Hawaii.

  Fantastic idea, her executive producer had said. Take a week or two for yourself. You’ve been a little—wound up of late.

  You’ve been a right bitch, her elderly mother had said. Give this Hurtz business a rest; you’re wasting your youth. Go lie on a beach and find yourself a man.

  Sure, Mom, she’d replied. I’ll send you his head.

  On the ground in Vladivostok they found an army-surplus store and loaded up with serious snow gear, rations, flak jackets and steel helmets. Then they took a connecting flight to Irkutsk. At Marlow’s insistence they hired an ancient white Hummer. He opened the rear passenger door and climbed in.

  What am I, your fucking chauffeur? Alex said.

  Play with me, he said, handing her a CD. Put this on.

  What is it?

  Music, Moneypenny. Crank it.

  Alex slid the CD into the changer. A banging hip-hop beat filled the airport car park. The guttural harmonics of Mongolian throat-singing floated over the top.

  Nice, Marlow drawled. Real nice. He wound down the window and gave the parking attendant
an imperious nod. Now drive.

  They rumbled south down the B32, past the smoke-stacked skylines of industrial towns, then turned at Ulan Ude onto broken back roads. Even here the highways were lined with billboards of General Hurtz, smiling beneath the slogan ZERO ZERO ZERO. They began to see distant drone flights shuttling across the horizon. The whine of engines reached them on the chill breeze.

  So, how you wanna play this? Marlow said. There are about a dozen camps along this stretch of border.

  Alex shrugged. Start by asking around. If there’s a way across, someone here’ll know.

  The First Mongolian Neighbourhood Resettlement was a rough encampment strung along the road like an impoverished strip mall. Skinny dogs scattered and regrouped behind the Hummer. Children watched from doorways with wary curiosity.

  In the centre of the settlement was a muddy car park, bordered by rows of houses built from shipping containers. Three American army trucks were pulled to one side. A shouting match was in progress. Half a dozen soldiers faced off against a crowd of Mongolian men with tired faces and proud bellies.

  What the hell do you think these are? one of the soldiers was shouting. He scythed his arm at the shipping containers. Exactly what you were promised: a house of your fucking own!

  No! the Mongolians chorused back in thick accents. House! House of your own!

  Yes! For Christ’s sake. House of your own!

  No! House of your own! the Mongolians shouted.

  One of the younger locals set off around the car park in a skipping trot, his hands raised like rabbit paws. He made strange high-pitched sounds.

  The soldiers groaned and swore and threw up their hands. Why do you keep doing that? Would you please stop fucking doing that!

  Marlow and Alex jumped down from the cab. The group paused to watch them approach: Alex in snow fatigues and combat boots, her short black hair in a severe twenties part; Marlow in a full-length fur coat.