"It is important to note that members of ruling bodies usually fall in the upper point one percentile of individual wealth and wield power all out of proportion even to that extreme. When they talk of 'taxing the rich,' they are never referring to themselves. The laughingly called two-party system of the United States in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries consisted of two groups of predominantly inherited millionaires, one claiming to help the poor, one the middle class. In both cases, the taxes were disproportionately leveled on the lower and middle classes, not on the rich or themselves. Ironically, the party claiming most to care about the poor, whom we now refer to as neo-feudalists, had a thirty-percent higher ratio of millionaires than did its opponents.
"So the UN will attempt subversion of the Citizens, promising wealth and power under UN aegis, if they will help tax the 'rich' middle class to support the 'poor,' defined fluidly as anyone who can look and see others financially better off. In such a system, most of those 'poor' will wind up poorer, but because the 'rich' are being punished for the sin of being competent and successful, that injustice will be overlooked. The system is simply class warfare. A popular phrase from the late twentieth century US reads, 'Tax the rich to feed the poor, until there are no rich no more.' Stripped of its awkward grammar, this translates as destroying the wealthy who supposedly must support the poor. It was apparently forgotten that the original goal was to feed those poor.
"Such hatred is easy to foment, even in a system such as ours. Few people ever think of the differences in culture between themselves and those in other wealth brackets. It is always assumed that others lead essentially the same life, just with finer or poorer trappings associated with it. The extremely wealthy cannot visualize the relative expense of basics such as food to someone on a subsistence-level income and the poor view the rich as having more disposable income without any additional operating expenses, social obligations or risks.
"So the UN will attempt to create a class war here, then apply military force to 'abolish' the classes and set up its own governors, most of whom will be corrupt and sent to this 'remote' assignment as punishment. They will embezzle and defraud what they feel is due them for 'tolerating' the local population.
"The only question is 'when?'
"Official estimates range from four to twenty-five years. The Strategic Staff all agree that politico-diplomatic relations are heading that way. The UN Forces are changing their training to add more rural engagements. There have been several researchers and 'observers' from various technical and leadership branches of the UNPF here."
A soldier in back stood to attention and asked, "When do
you
believe it will be, Commander?"
Grinning slightly, Naumann replied, "I'm at variance with the Strategic Staff and I've been told not to express my opinion as a prediction. So my
opinion
is that we will engage here within the year."
Kendra sat up. Several others looked shocked, also. War within the year? With Earth? She had more reason than most to fear that. She'd been told her whole life on Earth that war was impossible. Her current training made her see the lie in that theory and her thoughts whirled. Where would she wind up?
The concept of war continued to bother her the entire way through school, but she managed a decently passing grade anyway. If Naumann was right, what would happen to her? They couldn't trust an expatriate from the future enemy. Her friends were loyal, but fiercely patriotic and dedicated and if they were forbidden contact she was sure they'd comply with the order, however reluctantly. She decided not to raise the issue with them. She'd rather not confirm her fears of what they'd do.
The combat sim was almost familiar by now. It differed in that Kendra was a fireteam leader. She took her fireteam out under the squad leader's direction and promptly got most of them, and herself, "killed." Then it happened again. She realized just how hard it was to coordinate six people at once in what was accurately called "the fog of war." At least she knew which side she was on now. The losing side. She recalled a comment Naumann had made, to the effect of "If your plan is working perfectly, you are about to lose." She smiled at the truism.
She took the entire weekend to relax after her return, spending lots of time soaking in the tub, being massaged and doing nothing. The strain had been awful. She was elated despite her worry, though. She was finally a fully-trained soldier and felt confident of her ability to handle anything.
The war started two weeks later.
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."—Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus"
The watch at Station Ceileidh was usually a hectic but routine matter of shipping. Gigatons of material, data and people moved between Earth and Freehold daily.
That routine was suddenly broken when a traffic technician yelled, "Holy
shit
!"
"What is it, Sergeant?" asked the watch commander.
"Six ships, Lieutenant, and you'd better look at this," the technician said, gratefully handing the situation over.
The Citizen's Council held an emergency meeting by vid, those not present insystem represented by proxy. Treasurer Griffiths had the most recent update on the station and explained the situation.
"We have six ships, barely functional, computer-piloted. Minimal support. They were loaded up on the Earth side of the point and sent through to us. Occupants are over one hundred thousand political deportees. We have to come to an immediate decision on what to do."
"Observer Naumann, military. Send them back."
"Griffiths speaking. Not possible. The drives need repair, the life support is failing. They were stuffed in and shipped. Several thousand are casualties already. They're here to stay."
"Naumann speaking. Scuttle the damned things and be done with it."
"Great Godde—Uddin speaking. Who let you in here, Naumann? Just murder a hundred thousand people out of convenience? And who are you to speak?"
"Dyson speaking. The commander is here at my request to provide a purely tactical input. I agree that the presence of these persons is intended as provocative. I recommend we find a way to get rid of them. Preferably alive."
"Uddin speaking. 'Preferably,' Marshal? If they're here, then we have to do what we can to help them. It's not their fault the UN is using them as pawns."
"Chinratana speaking. The problem I see is that these are malcontents and troublemakers. They are not psychologically suited to our system. They are predominantly untrained and the few who are trained will be reluctant to work. Their numbers are great enough to be a problem anywhere we settle them. I don't want to kill them, but we don't have the resources to support them, either."
It was agreed that the refugees not be killed. The wrangling on any further action took hours. Some suggested forwarding them to another system or back to Earth even if it was necessary to provide ships. "No good," Griffiths advised. "The news in Sol System is that we agreed to take them. They'll make a PR slaughter out of this if any of them die."
"Uddin speaking. When did we agree to that?"
"Hernandez speaking. Apparently, they are claiming it under the old Colonial Code."
"Uddin speaking. But we aren't a colony anymore."
"Hernandez speaking. I know that, Citizen, and you know that—"
"Understood."
The final decision was to allow them in and disperse then throughout the Freehold's cities and habitats. It may have been the most humane decision possible. In the long view, it was not the best.
The crowd was roaring and almost moblike. The sergeant needed the amplifier to be heard. "Listen up! . . .
Listen up!
. . . All right. We are about to start processing everyone for admittance to the Freehold. You will proceed through these doors," he indicated them to either side of him, "and will be mediscanned. You will then board shuttles and be transported to various cities. Families will be kept together. If there are any problems, please be sure to let someone know and we will do what we can to help you."
The noise rose again and the crowd surged toward the doors. The guards there found it necessary to use minor force against the angry, demanding throng.
The processing would take several days and would not be without its delays. The first of those came within segs.
"Lady," the corporal medic insisted politely but firmly, "in order to be allowed access to the Freehold, you and your children
must
be treated to assure no diseases are admitted. We can make no exceptions."
"God does not allow his faithful to become ill, except as part of His Plan," she replied. "I refuse to let you interfere," she said, angry but with forced calm. "I have freedom of religious expression."
They argued for several segs, until finally the corporal called a superior. The problem was bumped up to a lieutenant before it could be resolved. He drew the corporal aside and said, "We'll check for contamination and quarantine her for two weeks. If it checks out, we'll admit her. But keep it quiet; we don't need several thousand idiots doing it just to avoid a nano."
The woman argued mightily against having blood, exhalation, urine or any other test. After multiple assurances that only observation would be performed and nothing given to her, she relented.
There were immediate problems as the malcontents were landed or docked in various cities. They'd all been shipped from Earth for various infractions, from multiple "petty" assaults and thefts, to rioting, looting and political offenses including protest and political rebellion.
Most were either unsuited for or utterly unwilling to work. This was not a problem that the Council would normally worry about. They'd either adapt or die and neither was an issue relevant to the minimal powers of the Freehold's government. What made it important was the foreign press, who were sure to publicize any "oppression" across space. There'd been a lot of wrangling, but the final decision was that any exception to the existing system, besides being unconstitutional and outside the legal bounds of the Council, was a bad precedent for the future. Integrity was decided, not without protest, as being more important than appeasement even on a galactic scale. Everyone held their breaths as the newcomers landed, demanded their "rights" and were told that the only right in the Freehold was to work or starve. Some laughed, others complained, most assumed the threat was a bluff. It was neither threat nor bluff, being merely a statement of fact.
"Arms discourage and keep the invader and plunderer in awe, and preserve order in the world as well as property . . . Horrid mischief would ensue were the law-abiding deprived of the use of them."
—Thomas Paine
The three young men wandered into the bazaar and separated slightly. They had long practice at being far enough apart to deny involvement and close enough for backup. They kept an eye on a table of jewelry. It was not even cased, but lying out on a table. There were no cops visible anywhere, the nearest had been across the street at a restaurant. These people deserved to be robbed. Two of them edged closer as the third wandered away.
The first one idly pushed the second, who caught himself on the edge of the table, surreptitiously sliding a necklace off. He regained his balance, snapping at his accomplice and making a show of pushing back while pocketing the stones. They continued walking.
"Excuse me!" the table's owner, a small, slender woman shouted. "That's my necklace!"
The two gangers slipped easily into Plan B. The thief whirled, stepped toe-to-toe with her and screamed down at her. "Ya callin me a thief, snatch?"
The second one viciously pushed her into her table. It collapsed, spilling sparkling metal and stones across the grass. He drew back his foot to deliver a kick, only to notice the crowd moving closer. They should have been running or pointedly ignoring the scene, not interfering. He spun aside, dragged a cheap knife he'd found in the trash out of a pocket and held it out. His grip made it seem more of a talisman than an actual weapon. "Someone wanna
fuck
wid me?"
His wrist was suddenly clamped and bent into itself. The blade, still in his hand, punched into his kidney. Before the streak of pain properly registered, a massive weight crashed into his skull, behind the right ear.
The third one found a
whole table
full of guns! The array was bewildering, gadgets and mechanisms he didn't recognize at all. This place was heaven for a person trying to get what he deserved from life.
That one looked familiar and he picked it up. "Ya got pops for this?" he asked, grinning.
"Ammo?" the dealer queried. "Sure. You want ball, explosive, tracer . . . ?"
"Explosive! Hell yeah, man!" Unbelievable.
He took the offered box very carefully, put the gun down and loaded three into the magazine. "I'll take it," he said and made a show of reaching into a pocket. As the salesman nodded and reached for a box, he moved quickly, shoving the magazine home and cycling the slide. He jammed it forward toward the proprietor's chest, yanked the trigger, turned while snagging the box of shells and dug down to sprint.
Several reports, from suppressed pops to unadulterated roars sounded. He felt the freezing burn of bullets entering him and dropped convulsing.
"You okay, Gerry?" he heard a voice ask.
"I'm good, Shard." the gun dealer replied, coughing. "Damn moron shoulda used ball ammo against my vest. How's he?"
"Who cares?" was the response, hazily overhead. "He isn't moving, so he isn't a threat. I'll call City Safety."
"Thanks. Five years wearing this thing in case of an accidental discharge and some little fuck tries to murder me. What are the odds on that?"