Live Free or Die, Second Edition, page 14
“The Horvath have kinetic bombardment systems and heavy lasers,” the National Security Advisor said dryly. “That area is going to take a pasting.”
“How much can they do without seriously affecting the maple crop?” the commandant said. “And we’re talking about a dispersed population, dug in. Think how much trouble we’ve been having in Afghanistan. Furthermore, that ship looks big to us. But if you actually do the tonnage and make a good guess on engine size compared to the Glatun ships we’ve seen, they can’t actually be carrying that many KEW. Our estimate is, what? Sixteen city killers, max? What, exactly, are they going to do with sixteen nukes, that don’t even spread radiation, against that area? Bomb Manchester? It’s almost entirely evacuated. Lasers? Footprint of a meter. They can get the woods burning. Oh, boy. Let them bomb the area. Encourage it. That’s Vernon’s whole plan.”
* * *
“Mr. Vernon,” the reporter said. “We’re very pleased to have this opportunity to interview you. Given that the Horvath have ordered you be delivered to them, there is a warrant out for your arrest for high treason and you are under continual threat, isn’t this just a little risky?”
“Risk is part of life, Jamie,” Tyler said. “Given the situation, I’ll admit I don’t have a lot of freedom of movement. But freedom is a philosophy, not a condition. No truly free man can be made a slave. I will not be a slave to the Horvath or to a tyrannical government of socialists.”
“You have some hard things to say about the residents of cities, Mr. Vernon,” the reporter said. “Since we all can’t hide, is that particularly fair?”
“Jamie, I’ve been fighting the tyranny of you lefty jerks my whole life. If you want to submit to the Horvath, that’s up to you. I’m not willing to…” He paused at a raised hand.
“I’m not sure how much of that got out,” Ryan said as the room rumbled and dust fell from the roof. “And we’re losing transceivers.”
“And it’s pretty much harvest time,” Bruce pointed out, packing up the gear. Time to move again.
“I’m not a big fan of maple syrup, anyway,” Tyler said. “How many people have we lost in this charlie fox?”
“Not nearly as many as we should have,” Bruce said. “The biggest lost was a ‘Peace Now!’ demonstration in Burlington. They’d gathered around a big old historic maple figuring the Horvath couldn’t possibly hit them. Wrong. Dead wrong.”
“I’ve had times when I’d find that really funny,” Tyler said. “Somehow, though, it’s just not as funny as it used to be.”
“You’ve got a call coming in,” Ryan said. “Hypercom.”
“Bet Osama wishes he had one of these,” Tyler said, picking up the link. “Tyler Vernon.”
“Mr. Vernon, this is Saenc Mori with Hypernet Network News!”
“Hi, Saenc. Kind of busy at the moment.”
“You’re going to be busier soon,” the reporter said. “The Horvath have sent their final demands to your President. Stop the resistance and execute Tyler Alexander Vernon or Washington, Philadelphia, New York and Boston will be destroyed. Their ship is coming up from the south. Then they will take up stable positions over the maple producing regions and use their lasers to reduce them to ashes. That’s as soon as their ship completes this latest orbit which is now in…forty-seven minutes.”
“I guess I got them a little riled,” Tyler said, his heart sinking. Petra and the girls were outside Boston. “Guess this is it. Can you get a word to the Horvath?”
“We’ve sort of taken over your broadcast system,” the reporter admitted. “I mean, it’s just sitting there…”
* * *
“We might as well get out of the news business,” the CBS producer snarled.
“We’d better get out of Washington, first,” the anchor replied.
* * *
“…so the Horvath should be listening.”
“Fine,” Tyler said. “They want me? I’ll be at the summit of Mt. Moriah when they come back around. I’ll be nice and easy to spot.”
“Isn’t that suicide?”
“I’m tired of hiding anyway,” Tyler said, jumping on one of the ATVs parked in the cave. “Let’s do this thing.”
* * *
There were hardly any trails, much less roads, in the area. And what trails were accessible by ATVs did not make it to the top of Mt. Moriah. The last two hundred meters had really sucked.
It was also…bitterly cold didn’t cut it, in Tyler’s opinion. The recent cold front was yet to completely pass and the air was not only below freezing but, in one of those tricks possible only in a place as screwed up weather-wise as the White Mountains, humid. He was standing waist deep in snow in a thin, wind-driven icy fog. It was the sort of cold that didn’t just cut to the bone. It went through three layers of clothes, skin, flesh and bone so fast that it only stopped when it got around to freezing the marrow. Then it started to chill the body from the inside out. His parts that were in snow were the warmest parts of his body. The Horvath had better kill him quick or hypothermia was going to do the job for them.
Despite the thin fog it was a great view, though.
“I can see your house from here,” Mr. Haselbauer said, huffing up the last few feet to the summit. “Couldn’t you have picked a lower spot?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Tyler asked. “This is my big moment. Get your own.”
“So this is your plan?” Mr. Haselbauer asked. “Die? I figured you were going to use your secret ‘smelting’ lasers.”
“The Horvath ship has a shield,” Tyler said, sighing. “We couldn’t scratch it. So, yeah, this was my plan. Die. Sometimes it works. Heroic defeats have led to most of the great victories in history. Let somebody smarter figure out how to defeat the Horvath ship. Hopefully motivated by that poor, brave, doomed bastard Tyler Vernon.”
“Figured as much,” Haselbauer said. “Which is why I’m here. Couldn’t let the Rebs get all the credit.”
“You and your Rebs,” Tyler said, shaking his head. He took out his cell phone and loaded in the battery. It had been out for a couple of months and the charge was low but, what the hell, it wouldn’t have to last long. And with the carrier signal going there was no way that the Horvath could miss and hit some innocent. Hopefully, with him dead they’d back off on destroying the region. At least for a while. He fumed for a moment then couldn’t hold it in.
“The only reason you won was you outnumbered us ten to one! And had all the cannon foundries! And that might not have happened if Jackson hadn’t had his first bad day at Seven Pines! The Union’s as bad as the Horvath!”
“Shouldn’t start a war if you don’t have cannon,” Mr. Haselbauer said smugly.
“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it?” Tyler said. “The South wanted industries, and Northern monopolies, abetted by Northern congressmen, wouldn’t allow it. So when we started to sell our agricultural products to the British for, among other things, mill equipment, you went and put a block on that! An unconstitutional block given that it was essentially a one hundred percent export tariff. There’s a reason it’s called the War of Northern Aggression.” His phone rang and he pulled it out with a snarl.
“What?”
“Mr. Vernon, are you and Jason Haselbauer, a noted resistance leader, actually rearguing your country’s civil war in your last few moments? Oh, hi, this is Saenc Mori with Hypernet News Network. Your cell-phone network isn’t exactly secure, either.”
“Not much better to do, Saenc,” Tyler said, dropping smoothly into professional mode. “It’s pretty cold up here. Ask those Horvath to hurry, will you? A nice orbital death ray would feel good about now.”
“On that subject, the betting on your survival is one hundred to one, do you have any comment?”
“I’ll take a thousand credits on the nose,” Tyler said instantly.
“Isn’t that a bit of a risk?”
Tyler closed his eyes and wondered if there was some sort of lobotomy involved in becoming a newscaster.
“If I live I get a hundred thousand credits, Saenc,” Tyler said slowly. “If I die, I won’t really care that I’m out a grand. Think about it.”
“True. Well, your bid has been registered by a bookie called Ongotuli the Knife who says, ‘You’d better be good for it.’”
“Aware that these may be my last words: I’m good for it.”
“You have about three minutes. The moment of decision for Washington, however, has passed and the Horvath seem to have chosen not to fire.”
“Damnit,” Tyler said. “What does it take to get these guys to get rid of all our problems for us?”
“You really don’t care for city people, do you?”
“Hate ’em,” Tyler said. “Bombing’s too good for ’em. They need to be chopped into little bits and buried alive.”
“And Philadelphia. Apparently the Horvath disagree.”
“Don’t care for Horvath, either,” Tyler said. “Especially if they’re not going to gut cities.”
“And New York is still there. The Horvath ship is about to clear the horizon, Mr. Tyler. Seriously. Last words.”
Tyler thought about it for a second and then shrugged.
“There is no joy without pain. No victory without sacrifice. This is my victory.”
“Very nice…”
“Sorry, cutting in here,” a new voice said. “Horvath ship: Take no hostile action in regards to the maple gathering regions or their polity or tribes. Say again, take no hostile actions or you will be destroyed.”
“This is unacceptable,” a metallic Horvath voice replied. “Who is this?”
“This is Commander Faeth Riang of the Glatun heavy cruiser Kagongwe and…”
Tyler was looking up and actually caught the sparkle.
“…not only are you about the size of my long boat, your shields are down. Power down your weapons and leave orbit so we can negotiate or I will finish what my secondaries just did with my main gun. Mr. Vernon?”
“Yes?” Tyler said.
“Could you ask your people to possibly begin gathering maple syrup? My sailors are about to mutiny.”
“Right away,” Tyler said, “Hey, everybody. Olly olly oxenfree! Time to get to work!”
“Thank you. I assure you, you won’t have any more trouble from your Horvath…benefactors.”
Tyler hung up the phone and shrugged.
“So, we froze our ass off for nothing.”
“Can’t say that,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “It’s still a fine view. Take it the cavalry arrived.”
“Yep,” Tyler said, feeling strangely depressed. And badly in need of a drink. “And now we’ve got to actually, you know, work.”
“Been workin’ my whole life,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “Best make some calls.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, looking at his phone. “Me too.”
He hit speed dial.
“Hi, Petra. Can I talk to the girls?”
* * *
“Mr. Vernon,” the CNN reporter said to a background of a boiling pan of maple syrup, “things seem to be progressing well in the maple syrup harvest.”
“Quite well, Courtney,” Tyler said. “Despite some reports to the contrary, the weather is cooperating very well and it looks to be a bumper crop.”
“So all’s well that ends well,” the reporter said. “Mr. Vernon, you said some very harsh things about the people of our great nation’s cities. Surely you weren’t serious.”
“Courtney,” Tyler said seriously, “I’m an American patriot. All of America. I don’t care for certain strains of politics, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give my life to save the lives of others. Other Terrans even. I just wish that those who disagree with me could at least agree on that.”
“So you weren’t serious,” the reporter said, confused. “Why in the world would you say those things? You really upset a lot of people. Not to mention making yourself and the people of this region a primary target! Were you crazy?”
“Oh, I don’t like city folk,” Tyler said. “Don’t care for their politics, don’t care for their attitude, which is more ignorant and provincial than they can possibly understand since they’re ignorant and provincial. But it doesn’t mean I wanted anyone to die. Quite the opposite. As to why I said it? I’ll leave you with the words of the smartest rabbit I know: ‘Please, Br’er Fox! Don’ throw me in dat br’ar bush!’”
SAPL
ONE
Tyler looked around the extremely empty personnel bay 41816-B of the Glalkod Commercial Transfer Station One in annoyance. His eyes lit on what was clearly a hypernode terminal and he walked over. He’d been looking forward to savoring the moment of his first steps onto a space station. But since his local guide was conspicuously missing it would have to wait.
“Connect to Fallalor Wathaet, please,” he said.
“There are six hundred and eighty-seven thousand Fallalor Wathaets on the hypernet network,” the terminal replied. “Could you com his registry number?”
“I don’t have a com link,” Tyler said. “He should be somewhere on this station. He is probably in a bar and he’s probably drunk on maple syrup.”
“Searching, searching…Fallalor Wathaet eight-two-alpha-two-four-kilo-zero-one-hotel-november-dash-one.”
“Like I’m gonna remember that,” Tyler muttered.
“Tyler!” Wathaet slurred. The background was clearly, as Tyler had guessed, a bar. “Hey, man! How’s it going?”
“You were supposed to meet me at the ship, Wathaet,” Tyler said. “Remember?”
“Oh, yeah, man,” Wathaet replied. “Sorry about that. Hey, just catch a cab over to Kulo’s. I’ll meet you here!”
“Fine,” Tyler said, sighing. “Net, I need a cab.”
“There are over…”
“Just pick the closest one and tell me where to pick it up.”
“Very well,” the terminal replied snippily. “Proceed down the corridor to the passageway. That’s the hallway to your left until it comes to a bigger hallway, since you’re a primitive. The cab will meet you there. That will be five credits.”
“Tyler Alexander Vernon,” Tyler said. “You should have only one of those.”
“Registering. Please obtain a full registration package at your earliest opportunity. Thank you. Have a nice day.”
* * *
The “cab” turned out to be a floating compartment with seats for two. Small seats for two. It was smaller than a Terrestrial “Two-Fer” car and didn’t look as if it should be able to stand upright.
“Uh,” Tyler said, fumbling where he figured the door should be. “I don’t know how to…”
“I’ll open it,” the cab said. The entire transparent top collapsed into the rear. “Get in. New, are you?”
“Primitive world,” Tyler said, sitting down. The top quickly popped back up. “Earth. The maple syrup planet.”
“Oh, yeah, heard of that,” the cab said. “Destination?”
“Kulo’s?” Tyler said.
“Right,” the cab said, pulling out smoothly. “Who’s that maple syrup guy? Verggon or something?”
“Tyler Vernon?” Tyler asked. The cab maneuvered skillfully through some light pedestrian traffic, mostly Glatun but a few other species Tyler didn’t recognize, then slid into a compartment like an elevator. The door closed.
“Yeah,” the cab said. “You think he meant the Horvath should waste the cities? Seems pretty, I dunno, cold.”
“No, actually, I don’t think he meant it,” Tyler said. There was no sensation but he was either trapped in a room with an apparently sentient cab or he was in a very smooth piece of transportation technology. He was banking on the latter. There were no flashing lights to tell him he was going anywhere, though. Not even a bank of numbers. Just walls and a lack of sensation of movement. “He was just saying that so the Horvath wouldn’t waste the cities. If he could get them to think the maple sugar gatherers didn’t care, that took the cities off the table as hostages.”
“Guess you might be right,” the cab said. “He sure kept consistent, though.”
“Thank you,” Tyler said. “I’m Tyler Vernon.”
“Oh,” the cab said. “Then I guess you’d know.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are all cabs AIs in the Federation?”
“I’m not an AI. I’m a replicant program. I just have a set of queries and responses. Sounds like an AI. And if somebody gets outside my programming I can call Athelkau, which is the station’s AI, to get its help. Happens so fast you wouldn’t notice.”
“So…” Tyler said. “Was that a standard response?”
“Yep,” the cab said as the door opened. It was clearly a different passageway since the light was lower, mostly from blown light panels, and the pedestrians were…different. It was amazing how universal a “bad part of town” could look. Graffitti, it turned out, was another universal. The cab slid out of the compartment smoothly then started weaving through the pedestrian traffic. Someone threw something at it that thunked off the plastic top and left a green, drippy stain.
“Not the best part of town,” Tyler said.
“Nope,” the cab replied. “Have to get a wash after this. You’re registered on the hypernet banking system. That’s five credits.”
“Authorized?” Tyler said. “Does that work?”
“Yep,” the cab said, dilating the top. “Have a nice day. Keep your credit chips hidden. But Kulo’s is pretty safe.”
Tyler walked over to the nearest door and looked at the marquee. It was in garish letters but he couldn’t read them so he wasn’t even sure if he was in the right place.
“Look confident and as if you’re not a yokel,” Tyler muttered to himself. “Open?”
The door refused to budge.
“Hey,” he said, turning to ask the cab. But it was gone.
“Damnit,” he muttered. He could hear dissonant music from inside and the sound of an occasional yell. Sounded like a bar. “Hello?” he said, rapping his nuckles on the door. “Open sesame?”
