Empire

The American Empire has grown too fast, and the fault lines at home are stressed to the breaking point. The war of words between Right and Left has collapsed into a shooting war, though most people just want to be left alone. The battle rages between the high-technology weapons on one side, and militia foot-soldiers on the other, devastating the cities, and overrunning the countryside. But the vast majority, who only want the killing to stop and the nation to return to more peaceful days, have technology, weapons and strategic geniuses of their own. When the American dream shatters into violence, who can hold the people and the government together? And which side will you be on? Orson Scott Card is a master storyteller, who has earned millions of fans and reams of praise for his previous science fiction and fantasy novels. Now he steps a little closer to the present day with this chilling look at a near future scenario of a new American Civil War.

Orson Scott Card is the bestselling author of Ender's Game, and is one of Tor’s most successful writers. He lives in Greensboro, North Carolina.

Chapter One
Captain Malich
 
Treason only matters when it is committed by trusted men.
 
The team of four Americans had been in the village for three months. Their mission was to build trust until they could acquire accurate information about the activities of a nearby warlord believed to be harboring some operatives of Al Qaeda.
 
All four soldiers were highly trained for their Special Ops assignment. Which meant that they understood a great deal about local agriculture and husbandry, trade, food storage, and other issues on which the survival and prosperity of the village depended. They had arrived with rudimentary skills in the pertinent languages, but now they were reasonably fluent in the language of the village.
 
The village girls were beginning to find occasions to walk near whatever project the American soldiers were working on. But the soldiers ignored them, and by now the parents of these girls knew they were safe enough—though that didn’t stop them from rebuking the girls for their immodesty with men who were, after all, unbelievers and foreigners and dangerous men.
 
For these American soldiers had also been trained to kill—silently or noisily, close at hand or from a distance, individually or in groups, with weapons or without.
 
They had killed no one in front of these villagers, and in fact they had killed no one, ever, anywhere. Yet there was something about them, their alertness, the way they moved, that gave warning, the way a tiger gives warning simply by the fluidity of its movement and the alertness of its eyes.
 
There came a day that one of the villagers, a young man who had been away for a week, came home, and within a few minutes had told his news to the elder who, for lack of anyone better, was regarded by the villagers as the wisest counselor. He, in turn, brought the young man to the Americans.
 
The terrorists, he said, were building up a cache of weapons away to the southwest. The local warlord had not given his consent—in fact, he disapproved, but would not dare to intervene. “He would be as happy as anyone to be rid of these men. They frighten him as much as they frighten everyone else.”
 
The young man was also, obviously, afraid.
 
The Americans got directions from him and strode out of the camp, following one of the trails the shepherds used.
 
When they were behind the first hill—though this “hill” in most other places would have been called a mountain—they stopped.
 
“It’s a trap, of course,” said one of the Americans.
 
“Yes,” said the leader, a young captain named Reuben Malich. “But will they spring it when we reach the place where his directions would send us? Or when we return?”
 
In other words, as they all understood: Was the village part of the conspiracy or not? If it was, then the trap would be sprung far away.
 
But if the villagers had not betrayed them (except for the one young man), then in all likelihood the village was in as much danger as the Americans.
 
Captain Malich briefly discussed the possibilities with his team, so that by the time he gave his orders, they were all in complete agreement.
 
A few minutes later, using routes they had planned on the first day, before they ever entered the village, they crested the hill at four separate vantage points and spotted the armed men who had just entered the village and were taking up many of the positions surrounding it that the Americans had guessed they would use.
 
The Americans’ plan, in the event of such an ambush, was to approach these positions with stealth and kill the enemy one by one, silently.
 
But now Captain Malich saw a scene playing out in the center of the village that he could not bear. For the old man had been brought out into the middle of the sunbaked dirt of the square, and a man with a sword was preparing to behead him.
 
Captain Malich did the calculations in his head. Protect your own force—that was a prime concern. But if it were the only priority, or the highest priority, nations would keep their armies at home and never commit them to battle at all.
 
The higher priority here was the mission. If the village sustained any casualties, they would not care that the Americans saved them from even more. They would only grieve that the Americans had ever come at all, bringing such tragedy with them. They would beg the Americans to leave, and hate them if they did not go.
 
Here were the terrorists, proving that they were, as suspected, operating in the area. This village had been a good choice. Which meant that it would be a terrible waste to lose the trust that had been built up.
 
Captain Malich took his own weapon and, adjusting wind and distance, took careful aim and killed the swordsman with a single shot.
 
The other three Americans understood immediately the change of plans. They took aim at the enemies who would be able to take cover most easily, and killed them. Then they settled down to shooting the others one by one.
 
Of course, the enemy were firing back. Captain Malich himself was hit, but his body armor easily dealt with a weapon fired at such long range. And as the enemy fire slackened, Malich counted the enemy dead and compared it to the number he had seen in the village, moving from building to building. He gave the hand signal that told the rest of his team that he was going in, and they shot at anyone who seemed to be getting into position to kill him as he descended the slope.
 
In only a few minutes, he was among the small buildings of the village. These walls would not stop bullets, and there were people cowering inside. So he did not expect to do a lot of shooting. This would be knife work.
 
He was good at knife work. He hadn’t known until now how easy it was to kill another man. The adrenalin coursing through him pushed aside the part of his mind that might be bothered by the killing. All he thought of at this moment was what he needed to do, and what the enemy might do to stop him, and the knife merely released the tension for a moment, until he started looking for the next target.
 
By now his men were also in the village, doing their own variations on the same work. One of the soldiers encountered a terrorist who was holding a child as a hostage. There was no thought of negotiation. The American took aim instantly, fired, and the terrorist dropped dead with a bullet through his eye.
 
At the end, the sole surviving terrorist panicked. He ran to the center of the square, where many of the villagers were still cowering, and leveled his automatic weapon to mow them down.
 
The old man still had one last spring in his ancient legs, and he threw himself onto the automatic weapon as it went off.
 
Captain Malich was nearest to the terrorist and shot him dead. But the old man had taken a mortal wound. By the time Malich got to him, the old man gave one last shudder and died in a puddle of the blood that had poured from his abdomen where the two bullets tore him open.
 
Reuben Malich knelt over the body and cried out in the keening wail of deep grief, the anguish of a soul on fire. He tore open the shirt of his uniform and struck himself repeatedly on the chest. This was not part of his training. He had never seen anyone do such a thing, in any culture. Striking himself looked to his fellow soldiers like a kind of madness. But the surviving villagers joined him in grief, or watched him in awe.
 
Within moments he was back on the job, interrogating the abject young betrayer while the other soldiers explained to the villagers that this boy was not the enemy, just a frightened kid who had been coerced and lied to by the terrorists and did not deserve to be killed.
 
Six hours later, the terrorist base camp was pounded by American bombs; by noon the next day, it had been scoured to the last cave by American soldiers flown in by chopper.
 
Then they were all pulled out. The operation was a success. The Americans reported that they had suffered no casualties.
 
 
“From what one of your men told us,” said the colonel, “we wonder if you might have made your decision to put your own men at risk by firing immediately, based on emotional involvement with the villagers.”
 
“That’s how I meant it to appear to the villagers,” said Captain Malich. “If we allowed the village to take casualties before we were on the scene, I believe we would have lost their trust.”
 
“And when you grieved over the body of the village headman?”
 
“Sir, I had to show him honor in a way they would understand, so that his heroic death became an asset to us instead of a liability.”
 
“It was all acting?”
 
“None of it was acting,” said Captain Malich. “All I did was permit it to be seen.”
 
The colonel turned to the clerk. “All right, shut off the tape.” Then, to Malich: “Good work, Major. You’re on your way to New Jersey.”
 
Which is how Reuben Malich learned he was a captain no more. As for New Jersey, he had no idea what he would do there, but at least he already spoke the language, and fewer people would be trying to kill him.
 
Copyright © 2006 by Orson Scott Card. All rights reserved.