"Molon labe!" ("Come and get them!")
—King Leonidas of Sparta,
when asked to lay down his force's arms.
Jefferson's residents were in shock as thousands of troops in powered armor and vehicles swarmed the streets. Shock turned to outrage, then to outright disgust and fighting commenced, disorganized at first, but still effective. Well-aimed shots from heavy rifles, grenade launchers and some rockets attacked the lighter vehicles and armor-clad troops. Rocks rained down on the grounded soldiers, along with rifle and shotgun fire. City Safety, most of them veterans, threw up roadblocks of cars to channel the attackers and dug out their old service weapons to make a brief stand before scattering.
As the downtown buildings were shattered and immolated, a handful of reserve and veteran combat engineers initiated "area denial." The first technique involved crashing a heavy ground freighter under a road bridge, blocking traffic. Several smaller buildings were demolished to seal streets. Then street signs and transponders were disabled or stolen, slowing down progress. It was still possible to use map and satellite, but that was not as fast as reading a street sign. Access covers to utilities were stolen and improvised mines scattered across the streets, with hundreds of decoys to slow the invaders down. If even one mine in fifty were real, every sighting must be treated as such. This slowed progress and left them open to attack. The other option was to drive through and risk losing vehicles and troops to that one of fifty. Sniper fire and lobbed grenades became constant and harassing.
The timetable for occupation and pacification was pushed back, but was still inevitable. Most of the residents tried to evacuate to the suburbs at least, the brush preferably. Even urbanites in the Freehold were well versed in rough living; the untamed wilderness was never more than a hundred or so kilometers away.
The UN already had the highways barricaded and forced most of the air traffic down. They wanted the civilians to remain, in the theory that it would reduce insurgency. Instead, it made the covert war that much more intense.
The town of Falling Rock, situated at the far western edge of South Coast District, was quite unremarkable. It had pretty but not spectacular scenery in the mountains above it. Its twenty-thousand-odd residents were typical industrial people, small farmers and commercial workers. Its youth either sought the city as they came of age, groused about their quiet town or worked in their families' businesses. The attack and invasion was seen on the news, as was the change from local sources to UN-approved news sources. They shrugged and prepared for the eventual visit from the bureaucrats.
It was a clear, quiet morning when many of the residents began to gather in the town square for the announced arrival of the UN delegation. It wasn't actually a square, but merely a wide spot on the main thoroughfare for cars to park. The courtroom, records office and meeting hall were each a single room of the town building, and the crowd gathered outside in the street. They huddled into their long coats and cloaks against the chill, nodded and shook hands in greeting and waited.
Shortly, three vertols circled and landed. The delegation debarked and walked around the crowd to the raised concrete platform that was common to all public offices planetwide. The three bureaucrats were immaculately dressed in expensive suits and were escorted by a platoon of soldiers in riot gear. They looked impressive, at least in their own minds. Stares were exchanged between the two groups. Had the UN representatives been better educated as to local culture, they would have known that a quiet crowd was an unhappy one.
"Greetings," the delegation leader spoke. "I'm Jacob McCormick. I'm sure there's been a lot of bad rumors as to our arrival, so let me assure you of our intentions. No one is in trouble, no one is to be detained. We are here to create some basic city services to improve conditions, provide administration for the town and we'll even employ some of you to help run the administration."
There was a loud mumble from one of the residents. "You have a question, sir?" McCormick prompted.
"I said," the resident said clearly, "that I wasn't aware our conditions needed improving."
"Well, it's not obvious without careful thought, but we really do have your best interests in mind. With our programs, no one will go without food, medical care or education. There'll be a minimum wage of twenty-two marks per div and an agent to assist those who can't find jobs."
"Son, I've lived in this town forty-eight of your years," his antagonist replied. "The lowest wage paid for farm work works out to thirty marks per div, and that's paid in credits, which are far more stable than marks, and untaxed. Everyone is fed and clothed who's willing to work and everyone is literate at least. After that they can teach themselves. Now, if your agents and bureaucrats need work so badly as to come here," there was scattered laughter, "I can find some sweeping for them to do. We don't need your meddling."
Some applause and jeers broke out. The UN soldiers stood impassively, but the officer commanding them looked around nervously.
McCormick waited for it to die and replied, "Okay, that may be true. If so, think how much better things will be when you have support to go with what you've accomplished—"
"That's circular logic. You presuppose you can do better," was the reply.
"Well, our studies show—"
He was cut off again. "Of course they do. Your studies show whatever you want them to show. But empirical data—"
This time, McCormick interrupted. "Yes, well that whole empirical thing is what we are here about. The days of empirical rule are over."
There was silence. It was becoming obvious to the crowd that McCormick had no idea what he was talking about and was reading from a script.
"Mr. McCormick, I think perhaps you should stay here to go to school with our kids, so that they can teach you basic math and logic."
"Who are you, sir?" McCormick asked frostily.
"Joe Worthington," was the unhesitant reply.
"And what do you do for a living, Mr. Worthington?"
"I'm a mechanic. Ground or air."
"Well, Mr. Worthington, why don't you stick to mechanics and let me stick to my field? I've been a political scientist for twenty-two years." He gave a smug look.
"I've seen your books, Mr. McCormick," Worthington replied.
"Then you recognize my expertise," McCormick nodded.
"I recognize that I've been jerking off longer than you've studied poli-sci. Probably got more satisfaction and accomplished more from it than you did from your pursuit and certainly hurt fewer people," Worthington replied amid gales of laughter.
The military officer spoke now. "Just shut your yap and let the man speak or I'll shut it for you."
"Free speech, Captain," Worthington replied, showing his knowledge of UN ranks.
McCormick replied, "Only as long as you aren't inciting riot, sir."
"Only when it's convenient to you, you mean." There were more shouts and voices.
Two soldiers moved through the crowd, shoving people aside and grabbing Worthington. He made no move to resist. "I thought you said no one was to be detained," he said as they took his arms and walked him back to their lines.
"Not unless they cause trouble," McCormick replied. He wore a look of satisfaction and distaste that was not at all pleasant to see.
"I believe Adolph Hitler said that, too—"
"That's enough!" McCormick shouted. "You will treat me with the respect I deserve or be arrested right now!"
"I have been treating you with the respect you deserve," was the reply. One guard thumped him in the gut with his rifle butt and he curled up.
Breathing hard, McCormick turned back to the crowd, who looked angry and more than a bit frightened. "Now, back to the business at hand. We will be conducting a census of the town. Each resident will need to give us their name, birthdate, race, occupation and income, marital status . . . and if you have multiple spouses you'll need to speak to a legal advisor to codify the relationship. Unfortunately, there will be no new multiple relationships. It reduces the number of residences and therefore affects property tax levels. We can't properly pay for schools if everyone won't do their fair share . . ." The crowd was getting louder, and the soldiers gripped their weapons. There'd been outbursts and even a few potshots in other towns. " . . . religion and dietary restrictions, and you'll each be assigned an identification number. That also helps businesses by helping them identify bad credit risks."
There were mutters and milling about. McCormick let it settle before he continued. "And you'll need to register any weapons you have. We won't be asking anyone to turn them in yet, since this is a frontier town, but as soon as we can provide police in the town and perimeter deterrents for the farms against animals—"
"Rippers aren't deterred by sonics, you moron!" someone shouted.
"We will take care of it!" McCormick shouted back. "Must you people question everything?"
The milling settled down and the crowd stared at him. The looks ranged from disgusted to murderous. "It is because of people like your Mr. Worthington that society needs rules like this. As soon as proper government is provided, you'll find you don't need to work so hard or be afraid of crime—"
"It's not crime that worries us! Freehold!" someone shouted.
Automatic weapons fire erupted, along with precise shots from marksmen. In seconds, four locals were dead and almost one hundred UN soldiers. The fifty Freehold veterans in the front rows were spreading out, coats flapping from where they'd drawn their weapons. A few more sporadic shots coughed out, then silence reigned.
Joe Worthington was alive and well. The two thugs flanking him both had neat holes through their foreheads, under the helmet lips. The backs of the helmets oozed. "Thank your boy for me, Fred," he said as a neighbor helped him up and dusted him off. "That was fine sniping."
There were eleven dazed or wounded UN soldiers left, along with McCormick. "Anyone want to ask them any questions?" asked a burly retired sergeant.
"Nothing he has to say is worth listening to. You need intelligence?" someone suggested.
"Military intelligence from a political scientist?" the sergeant asked sarcastically.
"You're right. Up to you, Carpender."
Senior Sergeant Carpender, FMF (retired) replied with a string of twelve shots. McCormick cringed and wept as the bullets approached, then howled and tried to get to his feet. The last bullet took him through the base of the skull.
"All right, Joe, are you fit to fly?" Carpender asked. Worthington nodded. "You and Daffyd and Toth get those vertols hidden. The rest of you, toss these bodies into the woods. We'll let the slashers take the evidence. Fire Chief, hose down from here to there," he pointed along the road, where splashes of blood were visible, "and use lots of water. We'll also need to patch those holes in the building and replace the façade completely as soon as possible. Distribute those weapons to anyone who doesn't have any."