"So," INF-3 said over the suit radio, "I've been reading this book—" "Another one?" said INF-5, and several others laughed.

"Yes, another. I'd tell you what number, except you probably can't count that high." Chuckles carried over the radio at this, too. INF-5 wasn't laughing.

"So What's this book?" INF-1 did her job of keeping the peace.

"It was all about this farm, see—"

"Another expose about exploitation in the vats?" INF-6 had a keen sense of social justice.

"No, this wasn't a news. Actually a fic, an old one."

"Oh yeah?" INF-2 was an amateur historian.

"Yeah. But see, the farm was aboveground, and they grew plants."

"Bullshit," said INF-5. "The farmers'd be killed."

"I know, that's what I thought. But it wasn't about war or anything at all. The crops were just... there."

"Damn," INF-2 said. "Those old aboveground farmers must've been tough as nails."

"Okay, people." INF-1's tone was pure business. "We're in zone. Cut the chatter and watch out for your neighbor."

Radios fell silent. The INF team ignited their flamethrowers and went to work. No time for chatter when the crops could cut a careless farmer in two. So the team burned for their supper.