“You bought your assigned quota of goods and services, based on a percentage of your annual income, or you got a visit from the Bureau of Resource Allocation’s termination squad. Usually the’t-squad came in the middle of the night, executed the offender on the spot and, for good measure, took out everyone else in the residence. The purchase quota kept getting pushed higher and higher, until it was around ninety-eight percent of gross income. Essentially all consumer spending is at discretion of FIVE, depending on what surpluses they had and what stuff they want to move. People finally got fed up.”
“Everyone was hit hard by the policy,” Nara said. “When the revolt started, it had all the makings of a worldwide revolution. Unfortunately for the consumer side, they didn’t have battlesuits or pulse rifles. And there was no army to protect their interests. The military had already been privatized for twenty years. The armed forces subsidiaries were wholly owned by the Globals. After a couple of weeks of one-sided slaughter, keeping two percent of what you earned sounded pretty good to just about everybody.”
“Losses to the consumer side in that time period were twenty-eight million,” Damm said. “And it was actually probably triple that because no one ever counted the people walled up in their neighborhoods and left to starve. Our side lost a few hundred thousand, mostly due to accidents unrelated to combat, and to friendly fire” again, he pointed to his chin “which also gave me this puppy.”
“Some factions at FIVE wanted to keep the war rolling for another month or two,” Nara said, “to try to make a real dent in the population, but the foot soldiers got sick of the killing and put down their weapons.”
“In return for our services,” Damm said, “and in exchange for our battlesuits, we received two weeks’ worth of MREs, a new set of fatigues, one pair of resoled boots and this handsome campaign ribbon.” He flicked the dirty bit of multicolored silk pinned to the strap of his battle harness. “Then we were told to go below Level 100 and stay there. Until something nasty and dangerous like this needed doing. Something the Globals didn’t want to get back-splashed on them.”
Ryan shifted his seat on the hard crate. Sweat was sticking his fatigues to the backs of his thighs. There wasn’t much room to move in the trailer, not with seven people, all their gear, and a parked van. And Nara was right about the ungodly stink inside their plastic envelope. The aroma of unwashed human bodies mixed with ammonia and fuel fumes. Uncomfortable. Cramped. Overcrowded. The trailer was like the mercies’ world in miniature. Ryan could sympathize with their desire to get out.
Then, over the continuous noise of the air pump, there was a soft thunk high on the trailer wall.
Damm didn’t have to tell everyone to shut up. Someone quickly turned off the air pump.
Another thunk, this time on the other side of the box.
Damm’s crew moved as if they had rehearsed the drill a thousand times. Without a word, they stripped the plastic sheeting from the van, picked up their weapons and, pushing Ryan and Nara ahead of them, climbed through the vehicle’s rear doors. Damm remained outside for a few seconds, bent over the plastic crates along the wall, then he climbed into the van.
The mercie leader paused beside Nara and showed her the two detonators he had in his hand.
“Can I assume you’re with us now?” Damm asked.
“No choice,” the blonde replied. “It’s ‘Buy or Die’ time.”
Damm gave her one of the detonators. “Hit it on the count of five, after mine goes,” he told her. As he moved forward to the driver’s seat, he said, “Everybody batten down. This ride could get a tad rough.”
He hit the high beams, then the ignition button. As the van’s engine roared to life, Damm dropped it into gear, stomped the gas pedal flat and pressed the detonator.
With a blinding flash and rocking boom, the trailer’s rear doors blew off their hinges. The van shot forward, lurching through the fireball and down the ramp.