Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

coffee. As the chopper rose in elevation, terraced rice fields came into view, clinging to the slopes of the highlands like a staircase of green climbing up the landscape. If not for the burning villages and corpses rotting in the sun, Wit might think this a paradise.
    Indonesia was having two civil wars at once. The government of Sulawesi was fighting an Islamist extremist group known as the Rémeseh here in the mountains, while the government of New Guinea was fighting native insurgents on that island. Civilians were stuck in the crosshairs, and the situation was getting bloody enough that the developed world was almost beginning to care. News of the burning church might be exactly the sort of human-interest story to make the media take notice. People’s eyes glazed over headlines about mountain farmers murdered in Indonesia. But tell them that Islamist militants had locked a congregation of Christians in their small mountain chapel and burned the building to the ground with the people inside, and suddenly you’ve got news people care about.
    Wit hoped that was true. The people of Indonesia needed help—more help than the MOPs could provide. And if the church incident would turn the world’s eyes to the plight of Sulawesi then perhaps the people burned alive hadn’t died in vain.
    Wit turned to Calinga sitting in the pilot’s seat. “Take vids of everything. But be discreet about it, don’t let the people see that we’re taking vids.”
    Calinga nodded. He understood.
    The cameras on the helmets and suits were small enough and concealed enough that Wit wasn’t too concerned about the villagers taking notice—most of them had probably never seen tech like that anyway. He was more concerned about him and Calinga getting the right kind of shots. The smoldering bodies. The blackened, charred remains of a child’s toy or doll. The weeping women of the village mourning the loss of loved ones. The media was starving for that type of horror, and if Wit could give it to them, then he might be able to begin the sequence of events that might eventually result in aid for the people of Indonesia.
    That effort would take months, though. The war on apathy moved much slower than real wars fought on the ground. Enough citizens and human rights groups would have to see the vids and get angry enough and complain to legislators enough that eventually someone with authority would actually take action. It wouldn’t be easy. If the economy took another dive or if some politician or celebrity was caught in a sex scandal, the media would go back to ignoring Indonesia and no aid or protection would come.
    Wit wasn’t on a mission to turn public opinion, though. Getting the vids was a tertiary objective. His first order of business was to recover the body of one of his men who had died in the attack. Then he would deal with the Rémeseh who had burned the church, either taking them into custody—which was never ideal—or taking them down—which was never pretty.
    Wit saw the pillars of smoke long before they reached the village of Toro. The chapel would be little more than a smoldering heap by now, but the terrorists had set other fires, and the wind had likely blown some of the flames into the grasslands.
    Calinga set the helicopter down in the village a block south of where the church had burned. Hundreds of villagers were gathered, but they gave the helicopter a wide berth and turned their heads away from the wind of the rotor blades. Wit and Calinga climbed down in full combat gear, and Wit could see the villagers’ faces change from fear to relief. They knew who MOPs were and the protection they provided. Some cheered. Some wept openly, clasping their hands in front of them. Others, especially children, crowded around Wit and Calinga, motioning them to follow them up to the chapel. Everyone was speaking Indonesian at once, and Wit could only pick up bits and pieces. They were telling him his man was dead.
    They meant Bogdanovich, one of the MOPs from Wit’s most recent round of recruits. Wit had sent the Russian to the village weeks ago with Averbach, a more senior MOP, to protect the village from strikes the Rémeseh were conducting all across the highlands. When a firefight to the south had broken out between the Rémeseh and a group of farmers, Wit had ordered Bogdanovich and Averbach to go and offer support.
    Bogdanovich, however, had refused to leave the village, fearing the firefight was a distraction for a