Authors: Mark Kalina
"Right.
Well, the Arcadians have a different view of it."
"Oh,
right, of course," Ulla said, glancing up with a slightly nervous
expression. "I'm sorry. I should be more careful with what I..."
"No.
Nothing like that. We can talk freely. No monitoring at all. And no laws about
what we say, either. Almost no rules at all, really. The amazing thing is, even
with no rules, most Arcadians I've met are polite."
Ulla
frowned and furrowed her brow.
"But
as for history," Aran went on, "well, keep in mind that most of the
initial colonists, more than half, came from the Federal States of North
America after the Emergency Constitutional Amendments of 2047... or was it
still the 'United States of America,' back then? Anyway, I guess it was good
timing for them, since the Arcadia gate opened that year in the Mojave.
"A
lot of the others came from... well, from all over; anti-Euro-Federation types
from England, national independence hold-outs from Poland, people with
anti-unification family ties from Taiwan, Indian subcontinent separatists...
and probably a bunch more I'm forgetting. But all of them were the same basic
sort.
"The
people who went to Arcadia were the sort who were so desperate to get away
from... well, pretty much from what we would call modern life... that they were
willing to live on a new world that had nothing much except sand, rocks and
breathable air. Everything that we take for granted... government-managed
medical care, social behavior laws, universal public security surveillance,
government-supervised economics... they were trying to get away from it. I
doubt any of them could have passed a current mandatory mental stability test.
"You
have to figure, people like that aren't going to be asking for more government
programs."
The
hotel room's furnishings were a bit spare, and there were water-cost meters on
the shower and sinks, but it was still, Aran thought, quite nice enough; scrupulously
clean, spacious and with a comfortable bed. Which was a good thing.
It was hot, though, even inside, with
climate control. He remembered that it had been hot last time too. Still, it
was no worse than Northern Australia or Jakarta. Ulla was probably going to
feel it more. Frankfurt wasn't known for its hot weather.
"
Mein Gott
, it's warm," Ulla said,
from the bed. "I'm not sure I even want to get dressed again."
Aran
smiled. "Well, please don't on my account," he said.
Ulla
grinned, an expression that stirred Aran, even more than her nakedness did.
"You
planned to get me into bed from the first, didn't you," she asked, getting
up and walking, naked, up to him.
"Well,
yes," he admitted.
"Good,"
she said.
From
the hotel to the Government Mall was only a couple of kilometers, but neither
of them wanted to walk. Ulla had an appointment to speak with the first of her
biotech contacts that afternoon, and with time on her hands, she'd asked to
come along with Aran to help his research, and even offered to help. He'd taken
her up on that, of course.
Downtown
Redstone was nothing like a major city back home, but it was recognizably a
city of sorts, with an estimated population approaching half-a-million. It
showed no real signs of urban planning, but none the less managed to look
fairly tidy, in a sprawled-out manner. Oddly, it had no visible slums.
The
buildings tended to be a mix. Some were low and sprawling "malls,"
acting, to all intents and purposes, like indoor streets, each one with many
individual shops, houses or offices. Others were simple, smaller, isolated
structures, with the slightly round-edged look of rammed-earth construction.
Almost all of the buildings were painted a brilliant white and roofed with
solar power arrays. Very few buildings were more than two stories tall, and
from his previous visit, Aran knew that a house was more likely to have an
underground level than a second floor.
Shade
palms and acacia trees —what he would have called wattle trees, back in
Australia— lined the streets, along with borders of bright, colorful
flowers, often planted in structures that looked like fountains, save that they
had sprays of flowers instead of water.
The
streets themselves weren't paved in any conventional sense. Instead they looked
to have been made by grinding shallow routes into the exposed, reddish-colored
bedrock on which the town stood. The result was smooth and even, but looked
odd. Aran suspected that red color of the bedrock stone probably explained the
city's name.
There
were a fair number of cars; mostly off-road electrics of an older vintage, but
some alcohol burners as well; the sort of vehicles you'd expect to see in
Africa or Central Asia, though these looked to be much better condition than
he'd expect to see in places like that; few looked new and many looked
hard-used, but none looked dilapidated.
And
it was hot. The orange-red sun —Ravi, the locals called it, after a Hindu
solar deity— loomed vast overhead and the air felt like a blow-torch.
"
Mein
Gott
,
es ist wie
ein Ofen
,
" Ulla hissed, as the outside
heat struck them.
Both
reporters were wearing loose shirts and shorts, and broad sun hats, but even so
the heat was like a hammer.
They
made it to a taxi stand, an open-sided structure with a solar-panel roof that
gave welcome shade, and looked for a call button or an interface call-code for
their wrist-phones. As Aran had half-expected, there was none, but a
knobby-wheeled car —a little, white Toyota styled like something out of
the 2030s and not in any way marked as a taxi— pulled up almost
immediately.
"Where
are you heading?" asked the driver, a pretty, freckle-faced young woman
with short red hair, dressed in shorts and a halter-top. Aran couldn't help but
notice the vivid hazel eyes, or that her body was toned like an athlete's and
marked with several extensive tattoos.
Ulla
seemed to notice him noticing, which made him wince a bit behind his smile, but
the German reporter's gaze suddenly snapped to what the red-head had in a rack
between the two front seats of her car; a short but bulky looking gun, with a
military-style look to it.
Ulla's
eyes went wide.
"Hey,"
the woman asked again, "where are you headed? Do you two need a lift or
not?"
"You
have a gun," Ulla managed to say.
"Oh,
the zipper? Yeah. You two must be Earthers, huh? Well, if it makes you feel
better, I'm in the Defense Force," the redhead said, which seemed to relax
Ulla a bit.
"Now, do you need a lift or
not?"
"Name's
Bernie," the red-head girl said as they climbed into the back seats. "Sergeant
Bernadette Polawski, if you want to get all formal. I was going to ask standard
taxi rates, but since you're Earthers, I figure you're kinda like guests.
Besides which, I'm headed for the Government Mall myself. So, no charge."
"But,
you're not a taxi, are you?" Ulla asked.
"I
am now," Bernadette —Bernie— replied with a grin as the car
pulled away.
General
Bannerman nodded as one of his aides handed him the code-stick and he plugged
it in to his data tablet. Everything about this operation was secret and as secure
as the UEN Peace Force could make it, and that meant reports came on discreet
code-sticks and not through the data-cloud, no matter how good the security was
supposed to be.
A
quick look through the report made him smile. For once, at least one part of
the plan was on schedule. All twenty-five of the requested heavy lift vehicles
had been handed over by the Chinese, and for a wonder, twenty-four of them
checked out in working condition. Since the plan needed a minimum of twenty-two
launchers, he was two ahead.
His
mind recoiled a bit from the shear cost of launching twenty-four of the huge
Chinese cargo-rockets. But that cost was no business of his. He had his orders.
The
loading operation would be tricky, he mused. The Peace Force troops selected
for the operation were not going to be bringing their own equipment. Instead,
they'd be using equipment from stock-piles closer to the launch sites in China.
But Bannerman knew that, even if he used as much equipment as he could from
stockpiles in China, a substantial overseas transfer of equipment would still
be needed. Another factor that would have to be hidden from prying eyes.
Surprise was going to be utterly, utterly crucial if the mission was to have
any chance of success.
The
UEN Aerospace Command would, of course, be in charge of the launches and
orbital maneuvers. For that matter, one of their precious "orbital
security vehicles" —space warships in all but name— would be
going along on the mission.
If
the mission succeeded, Bannerman mused, it would be one of the greatest
military operations in history. The chance to command it was something that no
military man worth his salt would pass up. If it failed, he knew, he'd be dead.
One way or another. At this level of endeavor, the Permanent Oversight Council
of the UEN was simply not going to accept a living scape-goat.
And
the plan was already inexorably in motion. The reinforcement divisions had been
relocated to the FSNA and the cover of training exercises was not going last
long. And special operations troops had already been infiltrated among the
refugees, putting the irregular forces portion of the plan into motion in a way
that would be almost impossible to call back.
Bannerman
wondered briefly what this operation would come to be called, when it was
written down in the history books. The formal name, Project Marble, was
meaningless and without feeling. If it worked, Bannerman thought... or even if
it didn't... a proper name might well be something like "The First
Interstellar War."
Bernie
parked her car and stepped out into the pleasantly stinging heat of the winter
day along with the two Earthers. They hadn't said much, except that they were
reporters, which made her both curious and suspicious.
She
sometimes read articles from Earth news services. Articles on technology or
entertainment could be OK, though there were always the obligatory nods to
whatever political correctness was being enforced that week. Articles on
society or politics tended to be indistinguishable from UEN propaganda.
On
the other hand, the man, Aran, he was called, was from the Pacific Alliance, a
group that was, if not an ally, then at least on speaking terms with Arcadia.
Since its member nations were still part of the UEN, the Pacific Alliance
couldn't formally recognize Arcadia, but informally, there was trade and even
diplomatic contacts... in the guise of "academic envoys" and
"private trade representatives."
The
woman, on the other hand, was from Germany, in Federal Europe, a place that
refused to recognize Arcadia's existence at all.
Not
that it mattered. Bernie had a pretty simple job to do at the Government Mall,
before she reported back to her infantry unit for another month of refugee camp
patrols and operational training. She was there to pick up the latest
Diplomatic Branch briefing for the latest political situation among the
southern refugee camps. As was the usual practice in the Defense Force, the
data was hard-copy only; the UEN's info-warfare resources and technology were
taken very seriously in the Defense Force.
Given
that fact, the sudden appearance of two Earther "reporters" seemed
more than a bit suspicious to her. The Diplomatic Branch operative she spoke to
agreed.
"Very
well, Sergeant. Good work bringing me this. I'm not in your chain of command,
but if you'll take a suggestion, I'd like to make one," the man said.
"Sure,
sir," Bernie replied. "I can listen, anyway."
"Right,"
the man smiled. He was white-haired, but still not bad looking. Too old for
her, she judged, but not by so much as to make his obvious appreciation of her
looks unpleasant or insulting.
"What
I'd like to suggest is, you keep these two 'reporters' under observation. Offer
to drive them around. I'll have this briefing sent over to your commanding
officer by someone else. And I'll have my messenger tell your C.O. about why
you're late, too."
"You
want me to play spy?" Bernie asked.
"Yes,"
the man replied, looking not the least embarrassed. "It's pure luck, but
you're in the right place at the right time. Make friends with these two. Show
them around. You said the German was reporting on biotech? Fine. Drive her to
whatever biotech-company offices she wants. But keep them away from the
Government Mall, and keep an eye on who they talk to."
"I've
got zero training as a spy, you know," Bernie replied
"Understood,"
the old man said. "But you're in the right place at the right time, and
that's worth everything in this sort of game. Besides which, they might not
even be UEN agents. They could just be reporters."
"And
you'll clear it with my C.O.?" Bernie asked dubiously.
"Yes.
For that matter, you mentioned that the Australian was doing a story on
Arcadian society? Well, you can offer to show him the social influence of the
Defense Force on our way of life. That might spark his interest. I'll have my
messenger warn your C.O. to expect foreign civilian 'guests,' and you can take
both of them with you into the field. If they are spies, I doubt they came here
to spy on an Infantry Corps framer company."
Bernie
took a deep breath. She could, she knew, tell this Diplomatic Branch operative
to take a hike. But... well, she'd joined the Defense Force to protect Arcadia.
Some recruits joined just because it was the thing to do, or because they
wanted to avoid the shame of being an opt-out, but for her, protecting Arcadia
meant something. Unlike most Arcadians, she'd been born on Earth. Her family
had made it over by means of guile and bribery, and had never looked back.
Arcadia had given her family freedom, and she saw her service in the Defense
Force as a chance to give something back. Which meant, if this spy-game
bullshit was what needed doing....
"OK,"
she said. "I'll do it. But you'd better square this with my commanding officer.
I worked damn hard to earn my stripes, and I don't want to be busted down a
rank for missing a deployment order."
"It's
no trouble," the Arcadian woman told them, when she offered to drive Ulla
to the biotech companies. "It turns out I have some leave time, and a
chance to play tour guide is kinda cool. Besides, we don't get many Earthers
visiting here like this. And people on Earth have all kinds of crazy ideas
about Arcadia. So, it's actually pretty cool if I get a chance to show you
around. Maybe explain some things. It's not much like back on Earth, and people
who aren't used to it can misunderstand stuff real easy."
"Are
you from Earth?" Aran asked, picking up a hint in the redhead's words.
"Yeah,
originally. But I was a kid when my family left. I've grown up Arcadian. On the
other hand, I remember Earth. Poland, actually. Krakow. So I can maybe be sorta
like a translator, or something."
"That's
very kind of you, Miss... I mean Sergeant Polawski, but..." Ulla started
to say.
"Actually,
I think we'd be glad to take you up on it," Aran said quickly. "So
long as it's OK for us to ask questions."
"Questions
are fine," Bernie replied happily.
"Well,
here's one, if you don't mind" Ulla said, giving Aran a slightly annoyed
look. "Why did you pick us up at the taxi stand? You're not a taxi
driver."
Bernie
laughed. "We don't have taxi drivers... not like back in Krakow, anyway. A
taxi stand is just a place where it's clear you're hoping for a ride. Anyone
can stop and offer you a ride. You agree on the pay and off you go. There are
some people with cars who try to make full-time job of it, but it's not a great
way to make a living."
"What
about the gun?" Ulla asked. "Does the Defense Force require you to be
armed all the time? Even when you're on leave?"
"Well,
it's a good idea. Lots of people carry personal weapons. But we're not that
formal, in the Defense Force. I have a car of my own, so my commander sends me
to play courier sometimes, and lets me take along a zipper out of stores. If I
have to drive into territory near any of the refugee camps, the gun can be a
very good idea, and close-in, you can't beat a zipper."
Ulla
looked shocked, but before Aran could change the topic she went on.
"Why
do you treat those poor refugees so cruelly? Your government massacred them in
'61, and it seems you're still after them."
Bernadette
blinked and said nothing for a moment, though her pale skin (how did she avoid
being sun-burned to a crisp, Aran wondered irrelevantly) flushed.
"I
think," the red-head said, "you have the wrong idea about the
refugees. Really, really wrong."
"Would
you tell us about it?" Aran interjected, in as soothing a tone as he
thought he could get away with.
Bernie
heaved a sigh.
"Sure,
why not," she said. "Even if you don't believe me. I can only imagine
what sort of line you were fed back on Earth. OK, look; a lot of the refugees
are really in need. But do you know who feeds most of them? Arcadian charities.
The United Christian Alliance supplied over 40% of the camps last year. And the
Secular Salvation League is almost as big as the UCA. And there's lots of
little outfits too. I contribute to the UCA myself.
"But
the camps are run by armed gangs. You have to get that straight. They run the
camps like some sort of warlords. Actually, not like; they are warlords, just
like you hear about from Earth... in Africa or Central Asia... that sort. And
if it weren't for the UEN, the whole mess wouldn't even be here."
"The
UEN sent those people here in the hopes of a better life, though," Ulla
said.
"Everyone
who came here wanted a better life. Some of us worked hard and made one for
ourselves," Bernie said, her tone no longer quite friendly. "The UEN
sent the refugees here, starting in 2057, promised them free shelter and food,
and started confiscating people's property to feed them. Not even any compensation
or anything. Just taking people's stuff; food, water filters, solar arrays,
anything they wanted. Stuff we were working hard to make. We were a sovereign
nation by then, and not a member of the UEN, but no one could stop them.
"The
UEN never, ah, accepted your claims of sovereignty, you know," Aran said.
"So
what? Who asked them?" Bernie shot back.
"As
for the refugees," she went on, "no one makes them stay in those
camps. Well, at least we don't. If not for the gang-lords, they could leave
whenever they wanted to. Or they could rig their own irrigation and power and
filters and grow their own food. But they don't. Not that I can blame 'em,
since the gangs would just take it all. But we don't try to keep them there.
"And
some do get away and make decent lives for themselves. I've got a guy in my
platoon who was born in the camps, and if you think I'm hard on the refugees,
you should talk to him!"
"I'd
like to, if I could," Aran said, which made Bernie blink and then nod with
an expression that held a bit more respect.
"And
if we tried to clear out the gangsters," she went on, "the UEN would
scream 'massacre' again and shut down our gate access to Earth. We control the
activation station, but it takes both sides to actually let someone through.
"And
as for the 'massacre' of '61, that was a little before I got to Arcadia, but
I've heard of it. Refugee gangs used to raid towns and settlements. They'd ride
into a little town in 'commandeered' UEN vehicles and shoot the place up, steal
everything they could, kill, rape, take people for ransom. And it kept
happening. People would fight back, but the raiders always chose the time and
place, and they had numbers. And if we tried to chase them back to their camps —pretty
well fortified camps, mind you, if you've never seen them— then the UEN
would step in the 'control the violence.' Funny how the UEN was never on hand
to stop the raids, though.
"The
refugees are why we created the Defense Force. Had to, unless we wanted to just
huddle in fear of the poor refugees the UEN had shipped in. At first the
Defense Force was just irregular troops with whatever weapons we could gather.
Not too different from the gangs, except we had discipline and motivation. And
we didn't raid or rape people.
"And
what do you think happened then?" Bernie went on, her voice getting more
and more strident.
"Let
me tell you what happened," she said, not pausing. "The UEN stepped
in to disarm the Defense Force. That was when we realized we'd have to fight
the UEN. Have to, unless we wanted to be perpetually helpless victims.
"So
we started bringing in real weapons, bit by bit. And made a real army, right
under the UEN's noses. The big fight at Hope Springs in '61 was the first time
we used it. Smashed a big raid from an alliance of 'warlords' from the biggest
camps, then went in and cleaned them out. Took out the bandits, let the actual
refugees go.
"Turned
out not all of them wanted to go, though. Some are still in those camps, with a
new generation of gangsters to rule them. The UEN went ape-shit, of course, but
we finally had more firepower on planet than they did, so their attempts to
'disarm' us went nowhere."
"You
expect us to believe that?" Ulla asked, sounding none too calm herself.
"I
can't make you believe anything. But what I'm telling you is true.
Period."
"There's
usually two sides to the 'truth,' though," Aran said.
"Sure,"
Bernie replied. "But our side is true. No, wait, you know, there's two
sides to the story, but not two sides the truth. The refugees aren't helpless
victims... well, some of them are, but we're not the ones victimizing them, and
we'd kill the gangsters if the UEN didn't threaten to shut us off from contact
with Earth."
"And
I suppose," Aran said," that your... success... in '61 set up the war
with the UEN in 2070?"
"Damn
straight it did," the redhead said. "The UEN started to reinforce its
forces. So did we, though we had to do a lot of smuggling. Actually," she
added, looking at Aran, "your Pacific Alliance helped us out a lot doing
it. And then the UEN moved the gate generator to this side, and started pouring
in troops and refugees. At that point we realized that if they controlled the
gate, we were going to be swamped.
"So
we took it," Bernie finished, her voice clearly full of pride.
The
interview with the biotech executive was only somewhat less dramatic than the
conversation with Bernie had been. At first, Ulla asked technical questions
that Aran wasn't qualified to evaluate. The facility, though, was interesting
to him. It was... minimalist, he thought, but well organized and clean. There
was no security presence, no visible cameras, no slogans at the work-stations.
It made the place look alien, and a perhaps a bit illegitimate, though the lack
of grunge and decay mitigated against that feeling.