Arms Race (15 page)

At the end of the beach I climb the steps to the headland. I sit and rest my bones,
and light a cigarette—a great pleasure, as for some reason or other few of us used
to smoke. The view over the Gulf of Mexico is wonderful from here. The ruin of the
Deepwater Horizon stands majestic against the fading sky. These days people think
it's a public sculpture, donated by BP. I know better.

I take a drag and sit forward, hands on knees, and stare out at the ocean. I'm very
patient. If I stare long enough, and hard enough, like I was looking at a magic-eye
picture, something begins to emerge from the chaos of tide and wind. There's something
out there in the water, coating the waves from the horizon to the shore. It absorbs
all light, and all life. When I close my eyes, the darkness behind my lids is not
so dark as what's out there. I open them again, and it's gone.

ARMS RACE

SAN FRANCISCO sparkled with life. Crowds of uniformed men and women poured through
hooting, gridlocked streets. The cable cars were a heave of teenage drone pilots
and good-time girls smashed on pheromones and Coke Zero Zero Zero. Flags flew from
every house. Fireworks blossomed over the glassy reach of Mission Bay. Russia had
joined the Allies, and it was official: the war was global. Everyone was in a great
mood.

Alex Davidson felt like killing someone. She had a flight in an hour, and her cab
had been stuck in traffic for so long that she wasn't far off walking to the airport.
That, or setting fire to the enormous billboards of General Hurtz lining the roads.
It'd be the most productive thing she'd done all week. Her film crew was heading
home after
spending one last, infuriating day cornering drone pilots outside Sweeney
Ridge Base. The pilots had turned it into a game.

Alex: What do you say to suggestions that General Hurtz is covering up civilian casualties
in the conflict zone?

Pilot: That's an important question, and we've been discussing it a lot on the base.
In all honesty, I believe—that you should show us your tits.

Six hours of that, and the shooting budget for her documentary was finally gone.
The producers expected her home the next day to begin editing. She pressed a hand
to her temples.

You all right? the cabbie asked, eyeing her in the mirror.

Headache, she said. Nothing a bullet wouldn't fix.

Do what you feel, the man said.

Up ahead, a crowd of drunken pilots came capering through the stopped traffic, singing
and drumming on car roofs. One of them stuck his head through Alex's cab window.
Hey, baby! he yelled. You're gorgeous!

His friend jostled in beside him, and his face lit up. Hey! Didn't you used to be
famous?

Alex screwed up her face like she was sucking a lemon. She'd mastered the expression
for these situations. Maybe I look like someone else?

Yeah, maybe, the man said uncertainly. You look a bit like that newsreader. You know,
the one that had a meltdown on air?

Beats me.

Said all kinds of crazy stuff about General Hurtz? Called her a traitor? Wanted to
stop the war?

Wrong woman, Alex said. I prefer to start wars.

Cool, the man said, grinning. Well, just so you know, you're easily beautiful enough
to be on TV.

Thanks, Alex said, turning her widescreen smile on the man. That's very kind. And
just so you know, you guys are easily dumb enough to be castrated.

The man's grin vanished. Come here and try, he said.

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.