N.E.W.-Korea [1/2]

efore we begin, I'd like to note that I have logged a complaint with the Budget Department. I can see cutbacks affecting field rations, or our ammunition supply. But when I'm forced to smoke anything other than Lucky Strikes, that's when they've gone too far.

I also have to report some technical difficulty with the body I was provided. The world came into focus like a loose A/V cable getting seated properly. First blue, then green, and finally red and sound other than bracing static.

And then I couldn’t breathe. Apparently the intern who walked me onto the plane hadn’t worried about the fact that he/she had flung my body face first into a cushiony seat.

Within a minute I could feel the nicotine addiction clawing at me like a monkey on my back. Muscle memory brought my right hand up to my shirt pocket, and came out with a pack of shitty East Bloc smokes. Almost by themselves, my hands tapped one out of the pack, and the tip of a thumb folded itself neatly out of the way for the business of lighting it.

On a brighter note, the airplane ride was fine. I had a class seat on Lufthansa Airlines, apparently. Yay, pencil pushers.

I signed onto the net to check my messages. Lufthansa had a pretty basic set-up, compared to what I was used to, but reading email wasn't exactly a data-intensive operation anymore.

Spent a couple easy minutes deleting lower-than-routine bullshit from the company auto-mailing list. No, I don't want to cash in my pension for a lump sum. No, I won't be voting for your inbred Senate candidates. No, I don't need my genitals cybernetically augmented.

Down at the end of the list was a message with the illuminating title of 'Directives.' Pretty standard, there were some briefers who acted like they had to pay for every word (they did, of course, satellite data fees being what they are, but come on), but my blood went to ice at the sender's name.

Mr. Versailles.

Triple-and-a-half overtime wasn't going to be nearly enough, I decided.

The CEO doesn't personally write your briefing notes. Not unless bad shit is going down.

I should not have taken the job. But I needed the money.

No need to spell out the email word-for-word, a lot of it was pure corporatese anyway. Told me I was assigned to some Third World backwater African country. A nasty authoritarian dictatorship, judging from the string of Great People's Revolutionary Democratic whateverthefuck in front of the name. Transliterated, the acronym spelled something rude in the local language.

Something major had gone down in the capital, according to Mr. Versailles, complete with a hi-res picture of the former Vice President's body staked to the lawn of the Presidential Palace. No information in or out, and what the report termed 'political turmoil' seeping through the cracks.

What a shocker.

It went without saying these days. Between the New Whiz Kids at State, and the fundamentalists coming out of Moscow, sub-Saharan Africa was a nightmare either waiting to happen, or unable to wake up. If it was guerrilla warfare leaking napalm and narco-terrorism all over everyone's shoes, or the UN doing thunder runs through the Congo chasing down the latest Randian enclave, it was being actively covered up and politely termed 'political turmoil.'

Versailles said that the Soviets were looking to get in on the action, whatever the action might be, and he didn't want them to be alone in capitalizing on the situation. He wanted Executive Action to have the first boots on the ground, and by boots, he meant my boots. Figures he'd throw me into a mess like this. You stabilize just one resource-rich non-aligned hell hole under budget, and they expect you to do it all the time.

I hit the news feed to see what the AP had on the situation. Rebel groups vying for power, national economic collapse, crime unchecked, 95% of UN aid vanishing into private pockets.

And me, going in headfirst with nothing but a sidearm, half a pack of bad smokes, and my brains.

Landing was accomplished with a minimum of trouble. Looking out the window, I could see that we were being shadowed in by a pair of export model MiG interceptors. Obsolete the moment they'd rolled off the production line. NATO air defense would have eaten them for breakfast. But you don't need to have laser-reflective coating in Africa, and any plane beats no plane. Just look up what Rhodesia did with some cropdusters and duct tape if you don't believe me.

An oppressive atmosphere hung over the terminal. Heavy humidity, and grim faced UN troopers inspecting me over their gunsights combining to provide a very unwelcoming feeling.

A mountain of sweaty fat masquerading as a customs officer stamped my passport without even looking at me. He was the exact opposite of the gorilla-like UN Tactical Response Team that stood off to one side, laden with enough firepower to level a city block, as opposed to the customs officer, who had a taser clipped to his bulging waistband. I had probably been one of the few people going into the capital in the last few days, as opposed to the mass-exodus that had been present during the revolution.

I was surprised to recognize my teal blue traveling case at Baggage Claims. It had a reassuring weight to it.

The nicotine addiction flared painfully as I passed an ancient cigarette machine in the lobby. It died again, hopefully for good, at the first taste of stale tobacco. Even calling it tobacco was too charitable by half. It was probably dried cabbage leaves and expired asbestos. I kept the pack, God help me. Maybe the East Bloc didn't have it so bad after all.

Outside, a number of transportation options made themselves available: unlicensed taxis, a groaning minibus, and a loose squad of more UN troops gathered around a jeep, trying hard not to look like an inviting target. Time to see if Dave in Technical Services was on the level.

 walked straight up to the leader and flashed the memetic paper at him. The sergeant, West German kid not clever enough to dodge the conscription, didn't stand a chance against the latest from MKULTRA's Derivative Products Division.

"Frank Pilgrim, WTO Special Investigator. I require transportation to the Presidential Palace." WTO inspectors usually had their way in places like this, I figured, and was not disappointed.

"Umm, I will have to check this with my superior, Herr Pilgrim. We were not informed-" he said, sweat gleaming off his forehead as he reached for his radio.

"Of course you weren't informed!" I shouted, interrupting. "What kind of snap inspection would it be if we told everyone we were coming? There'd be time to put all the price controls and welfare checks under the sofa if we did! Now get moving or I'll write you up for impeding the flow of commerce, Sergeant... Freihofer." I said, snapping a notepad out and making to write down his name.

"That won't be necessary, Herr Pilgrim!" He turned around and barked something in german. My HUD translated it as something akin to "Move, dipshits!"

As I climbed into the passenger seat, the sergeant discreetly handed me a small wad of cash. UN credit, usable almost anywhere in the world. Maybe this kid wasn't so dumb after all. "Have a good day, Herr Pilgrim."

"Everyone's watching- watching-watching-

The German kid kicked the busted up casette deck.

"Warum zum Teufel willst du nicht arbeiten!?"

-to see what you will do
Everyone's looking at you, oh
Everyone's wondering will you come out tonight
Everyone's trying to get it right, get it right..."

The German private who drove me into the city either had a good sense of irony, or a good taste for classical music. Hell, I listened to that stuff as a kid, and even then it was old.

My GPS kept trying to tell me that we couldn't possibly get into the city, because there were no roads. It was completely right. I can't imagine taking one of the beaten up taxis, or, God forbid, the minibus, down a winding and bumpy dirt footpath. It wasn't the fact that it would be uncomfortable. It was the fact that it was questionable whether I would survive.

I took another one of the shitty African cigarettes out of my pocket, but stopped when a text box popped up in my HUD:

"If you are looking for an alternative to smoking that abomination of a tobacco product, this unit would suggest discharging your sidearm several times into your chest. It would be easier to fix."

That would be Sam. She's my onboard AI. She's in charge of- well, everything, really. Smart as a whip, and absolutely adorable. Also acts kind of motherly towards me.

I miss her.

I turned to my right and saw the German kid looking at me, with the pack in my hand, like "You're kidding, right?"

"Even he thinks you're an idiot."

"Shut up, Sam." I subvocalized.

"Please promise you aren't going to smoke that shit. If you're going to smoke, at least smoke the Soviet stuff."

I did. The taste hadn't changed.

Now the kid was looking at me again. Eyeing my hardware, I guessed.

"Speak any English?"

"Ja."


"You wanna see?" I said, rolling up my sleeve to reveal the cybernetics underneath.

He laughed. "Ya, maybe if I save every check I get for ze rest of mein life, I'll be able to afford zem!"

"I got them for free."

He looked at me, eyes as big as dinner plates. "No vay."

"Well, once upon a time, when Seryogin was still in diapers-"

"Who?"

I hunted for the work in German. The translator was sluggish in responding.

"You might know it as das Hochladen. You know, the Czech kid, big breakthroughs in brain uploading?"

"Ahh, yes, continue."

"Once upon a time I too was an underpaid grunt patrolling a Third World hell hole. I took a bad step and woke up to find both my legs blown off by a landmine. I was patched up and shipped home."

We began to move into the city now. Rubble and burned out buildings surrounded us, accompanied by tents and shacks scattered around empty lots. The city was surprisingly populated. Not bustling, but a more than just few people now and then.

I could see more densely packed buildings and a handful of skyscrapers towards the city center. I hoped we could get there soon. Things around us were looking pretty sketchy, but that was to be expected.

"The company, Executive Action, who was sponsoring the 'military intervention' decided to make me a PR event. They gave me a choice: Pay to have me dumped in a 'veterans community' with someone to come by and wipe my ass once a day if I'm lucky, or a pair of new legs and a five year contract. Hard to say no to an offer like that. And, as they say, success breeds success; it became new arms, then new eyes, ears, cables in my head..."

The German conscript, fatally as it turned out, took his eyes off the road to look at me in surprise, and a little revulsion.

"Ze world is a fucked up pla-"

The first burst of gunfire stitched up his chest. He died in a shuddering dance of high-caliber impacts.