Charles Stross - Warcrime

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3: War Crimes

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I'm going downside on Miramor Dubrovnic. It's my first field mission, and I'm tense as a

wire. This is no great treat. They weave me into a dropcap with a quick briefing on local

mores and taboos and a GP knife for emergencies and the right costume so I'll blend in,

only if you think it's a costume they'll click on you're a hostile and burn you before you

can say 'flatline'. Repeat, this is normal , this is what you go to work wearing, this is the

way you live, this is who you are -- for a while. They're going to drop me right on the

outskirts of a town, which would be big trouble except that the army has cordoned off the

countryside around it, which is worse. If we do an external insertion I am going to be very

dead by the time they get through raping and burning anything that comes their way. So ...

The dropcap is not a nice experience. It bounces about like a dying man on the end of a

rope as I drop through the stratopause, shedding bits of molten heatshield and jinking

about to break radar lock. I've only ever ridden these in sim before and I'm so shit-scared

it's a good thing I've had no food for a day. I lie flat on my back and stare at the colours on

the inside of my eyes as the giant fist of deceleration settles down across my body and

then there's a THUMP from outside the cap that rattles my teeth in my jaws. Shit if that's

a proxfuse they've locked on got range I'm dead -- but no. The status log in my left eye is

coiling green, no angry red flare of hostile sensors bouncing off my skin. Well, they said

the ratfuckers were primitive --

There's another Thump, and this time I recognise the sound of my aerobrake cutting loose

and beginning to burn. That means we're nearly down so I check my display and see the

last kilometre unreeling like a broken spring. There's more deceleration, savage this time,

and a final BANG as the dropcap grounds. I'm down and so dizzy that I can barely see. I

think I bit my tongue, and I can't smell anything ... I scrabble for the release button and

then I'm free and the pod exit light is on and I can push at the front of the capsule. It falls

away in a wave of silent heat to let the groundside night in. Yes, I've landed.

Welcome to Miramor Dubrovnic.

I'm standing beside the dropcap in a patch of derelict land. It's night. Trees bulk huge and

ominous to either side. Rubble, a stink of decaying garbage, something torn that flaps in

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3: War Crimes

the wind. I take a step forward, my heavy woollen greatcoat dragging, then turn round: the

dropcap is already disintegrating, silently melting into grey cobwebs of self-digesting

ceramic. Right. Now is the time to move: that's critical. If they don't come for me in the

next three minutes --

I get going, nervy and on edge, left hand curled round the pommel of my powered knife,

deep in one pocket. I scurry from broken wall to dying tree, hunched low, relying on

passive sensors to tell me if anyone approaches. But they don't. And I stumble onto the

road almost by accident, and take a moment to look up past hissing gaslights to the strange

stars above.

This is real. I'm somewhere else. On an alien planet.

At this moment, even if the whole of the fucking Stasis descended on me like a ton of shit,

I wouldn't be able to resist. I probably wouldn't even notice. It's a magical moment,

something I can't explain. For the first time I am dirtside on another world and it is bitterly

cold, my breath pooling in the wintry air, and I can feel leaves crunching underfoot and

see heaps of rock and mud lying about and it's like I understand what it's all about, and it

all makes sense at last.

I stand like that, mouth hanging open, for an indefinite span of time -- and then I

remember where I am and go for ground as fast as my legs will carry me. Shit! You want

to get zapped? Or just captured beaten raped and carried off to a destructive-labour

camp? Idiot! There's nobody about and I figure that this side of the town is derelict, black-

out husks standing jagged against the skyline. I twitch my eyes to heatlight and look

around. Infra-red sense makes the grass glow puce and the sky turn dark and hazy.

Nobody moves in the wasteland. I check bearings and click on where I am. It's a former

industrial suburb called Vladigrad, ploughed over by incoming shells something like two

years ago. The war heated up and enemy artillery got within ten kilometres of the city for

long enough to turn it into a real mess, leaving only blackened memories where once there

were factories and homes.

I start walking because it looks like I came down two kilometres off base and I've got to

get there, avoiding patrols, before my reception party bugs out and goes to ground again.

Maintaining signal silence all the way, in case the Stasi are listening. So I start walking

along the rubble-strewn road, listening to the distant rumble of engines in the night,

occasionally glancing up at the searchlights that pencil the clouds with a yellow glare. My

boots clatter no matter how carefully I walk, and they pinch my toes -- they're stitched

animal-hide and wooden soles, laced halfway to my knees. Everything I wear is black,

drab as the culture that made them; greatcoat, dress, hood. It's one of those neoprimitive

colonies founded by lunatics with weird ideas, atavism trapped in an ideological feedback

loop. Or maybe it's something to do with their eugenics program. I shiver and check

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3: War Crimes

bearings against my wisdom map, cached in the back of my head.

I'm about half a kilometre away from the rendezvous when I hear footsteps behind me.

Shit, I think, flexing my fingers around my knife. I glance at the buildings to either side,

but they're dark and cold and vacant, like bones in an ancient catacomb. I shiver and

increase my pace, hunch over slightly, try to thin myself to a shadow: like a little woman,

afraid, knows she shouldn't be out like this, where's my ID card -- cunningly forged --

hope it's just militia out on patrol ... in this land of mist and shadow anything can happen,

as long as it's unpleasant. The footsteps follow me and I know they're not echoes because

they don't vary in speed. They're steady, purposeful -- and there are too many of them.

Shit! I risk a blip of EM from my knife, trying to get a lock. Yeah, there's somebody

behind me. One or two people, radar's lousy at low-res -- I see it on the back of my right

eye.

"Hey! Stop!" My guts freeze in an instant at the call. It takes everything I've got to force

myself to stop, even though I figure I can't outrun them. I turn round, see them properly

for the first time. Two men, taller than me, boots split at the sole, trousers filthy, coats half-

open though the night is cold. Moustaches, stubbly beards, short hair, cold eyes. One of

them smiles. "Where are you going at this time of night, lady? Isn't it a bit ... late?"

I let my gaze slide past their faces as they approach, no direct challenge, my heart

hammering at my ribs to be let out, the knife buzzing and clicking like an angry wasp in

my left hand. They look like bums but who can tell? Deserters or police, anything is

possible in this wartime anarchy. They may even be regular army or Stasis, in which case

I'm in trouble. "I don't have far to go," I say, pitching my voice low and even. "And I'm

not looking for company."

"No?" says the one who's doing the talking: "but you never know who you might meet on

a dark night! This is a lawless time, little one. You shouldn't be out like this, your man

wouldn't like it if he found out, would he?"

Now I stare at him. "Leave me alone or you'll be -- " sorry I mean to say, but his

companion lunges forward and grabs me clumsily. He's big and I'm not expecting it so

suddenly and he knocks the breath out of me: moments later we're rolling on the ground

and the scumbag is on top of me with one knee as far between my legs as he can get it,

pinning me down. Shit! My left arm is trapped. He rubs his mouth against me, gnawing at

my jaw with a stink of sour saliva and beer and decaying meat on his breath, skin like

sandpaper. I'm half stunned because my left arm is killing me and there's a brick behind

my right ear that nearly brained me; but as the thug reaches down to yank up my skirt he

lifts off my left side and I manage to get my hand free.

"Easy, Pyotr! Be careful you big oaf, don't damage her!"

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3: War Crimes

It's his companion, coming close and leaning over as I feel a rough, hand grope up my

legs, yank down my woollen tights -- grabbing and pawing for my groin and I can smell

his stale sweat and hatred and if he gets me disarmed I am going to be dog food by

tomorrow ... I moan softly, feigning desperation, and he leans in over me.

"What -- " he grunts.

I bite his ear. I pull and pull, until it comes off. It tastes of stale sweat. A shower of metal-

hot blood spatters all over my face and he howls like a dog. Everything goes red and my

eyes burn. I bring my left hand up and open-palm him with the knife. It sits between my

fingers and whines like a circular saw, dicing and spitting: my hand is suddenly slippery

with gore, blood and splinters of bone. He convulses across me and his hand slides down

between my thighs and I feel wet stickiness across my legs. "What's happening Pyotr?

Hey!"

Shit! The corpse is a dead weight on top of me; no, not dead, still thrashing ... something

like a steel bar whacks me in the side and I completely lose my breath. There's a crunch --

dead Pyotr took most of the blow -- " you bitch!" screeches his friend. He sounds like my

uncle. He's dancing around in a frenzy of rage and frustration and kicking at me -- I roll

sideways, still unable to breathe for the crushing pain in my ribs, and the corpse takes the

next blow. Then I'm out from under and crouched around my burning lungs -- " you're

gonna die, bitch, and then I'm going to fuck holes in you -- " trying to get air in and track;

blood in my eyes so as I straighten up I rub my brow and weep tears of red and see:

Heatspoor. Footsteps echoing behind a wall. I can hear his livid breathing as he waits, the

coward, waiting for me to make a move. So he can lob a half-brick at me, or a knife. My

ribs are on fire, the inside of one leg is scratched, my tights are yanked halfway down to

my ankles and my outer garments are torn. Shit. And I'm covered in blood: trouble ...

I'm on the other side of the wall without blinking, without knowing how I got to be there. I

guess he doesn't hear me because he's too used to listening to the sound of his own mouth

to pay attention to the silence. Listen to the quiet woman. I'm going to teach you a lesson

you'll never learn. I'm angry as hell, now. I want to scream curses at the moon. I want to

hold his severed head up in front of crowds. I want to have him on the rack and turn the

wheels! I am so angry I stop breathing and wait, cold as any snake and twice as vicious,

for him to stir --

There's a rustle behind the wall. I drop to my knees as he stands up, a shadow looming

over the top, carefully looking about, then down as I stand up and bring my right hand up

into his face. He tries to block and flails at me and his fingers go straight into my left

hand, which is ready and waiting. The knife buzzes softly and a spray of red blocks out his

face as he howls. " Owwooo -- " I swing my hand again, and the knife screeches as it hits

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Charles Stross - Warcrime

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