The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  I suppose a lot of this sounds extreme. I'm told the exposure wasn't injurious, long term, in those small increments, and we were examined regularly and dosed with reconstructor nanos to repair any micro-lesions. It was all supervised, within strict boundaries, and designed to make us willing to take abuse and stress. When in combat, we'd be used in squad-sized units at most, usually smaller. The mission cannot be aborted because an Operative gets a minor injury like a lost finger or broken ribs. He simply has to continue and accept the risk of exacerbating the injuries or dying and plan on getting patched up after the fact if possible. Extreme? Of course. All Operatives are extremists. Someone has to define the boundaries.

  * * *

  We continued unarmed combat training in emgee. Beyond the basics we'd learned, we acquired skills in grappling with the body as the base, rather than the floor; in using bulkheads, overheads and stanchions for leverage; and in crawling through the rat maze piping and skeleton of a ship. It was fun, and gradually became an automatic response to be aware of the surrounding in case of an attack, which we got several times a day. Tom wasn't as flexible as I, and he made sure to joke about my ability to put my head between my legs, but he had a broader build and could take more abuse. I joked about being right behind him in combat. I was almost sad when we had to return dirtside and to gravity.

  At this point, we split into two groups—Blazers and Operatives. Our morning routine remained the same, but the afternoon classes differed.

  If you are a religious person, I'd like you to remember this. Two hundred and forty-seven Operatives have died in the line of duty. At the end of time, the forces of evil will form ranks and march to the last battle. When they reach the gates of Heaven, they will find those Operatives guarding it. And if the legions of evil have any brains at all, they will about face and leave.

  Arrogant mythological babble? Yes. You have yours. I have mine. I've lost a lot of baggage over the years, and accepted that I am mortal—brainwashing only lasts through so many life-threatening encounters before one grows up. But I still believe with all my heart that we are special.

  During skill training, we were required to research and report on one of those two hundred and forty-seven. I was given Rowan Moran, and I recognized the name, but I wasn't sure from where. I got to work.

  I started reading and it clicked. He'd been the ambassador's bodyguard on Caledonia in 186 (2521 Earth calendar). Yes, that Rowan Moran. Briefly, for those of you who don't recall, he escorted the ambassador to a formal Crown function. Caledonian law prohibited foreign nationals, and almost all Caledonian citizens, from being armed in the royal presence. Hard to believe, I know. Who'd want to live in a society where the rulers don't trust the ruled? But it was their law, and he reluctantly went along with it at the ambassador's request.

  Luckily, they assumed his sword was merely ceremonial, like theirs.

  This was when the attack by the Common People's Action Group terrorists occurred. They swarmed past the palace guards, got amongst the Crown Princess and her siblings, and made a standoff. The guards couldn't respond quickly enough, as they were worried about unacceptable collateral casualties. To whit: the Royals.

  Moran put the ambassador down, stood up, and "boosted" with chemicals (I'll explain later). He took three terrorists apart with his sword, snatched a weapon and killed four more. Facing the last one, who had the princess in a death grip and as a human shield, he found himself out of ammo. He charged with the sword, drove the point bare centimeters past the princess' face, through the chin of the terrorist and up out through his medulla oblongata, killing him instantly and preventing him from shooting the princess as a last act. During the rescue, he was hit nine times and died right after his final thrust. Please note that it took nine hits to put him down. It took about a week to mop up the blood and assorted pieces of disassembled terrorists, and there was utter shock throughout the system.

  Immediately after that, the Queen demanded, and got passed in Parliament, a law recognizing the right of Freehold soldiers to be armed in the Kingdom and Freehold diplomatic guards to be armed even in the Royal Presence. That's also why Freeholders can always run to the Caledonian embassy in an emergency.

  I didn't realize the significance of this until much later. More than death, most people fear oblivion. Operatives know that, whatever happens, we will remember our own. And when it comes down to it, the respect and remembrance of your peers is more important than any fleeting fame in the public eye. It doesn't make death any less scary, but it provides some comfort while facing the process. Rowan is my comrade, though he died when I was a child.

  Research, history, and physical conditioning didn't stop us from having more technical training, and we started at the bottom. The very bottom, as in spears, bows, crossbows, thrown rocks, sticks, knives, and swords. This was above and beyond what everyone does in Basic. We even used primitive firearms for a few days. It was fascinating to compare the weapons to the lectures on strategy and tactics, and then compare that to modern hardware.

  * * *

  If any of this narrative has made you queasy, you should probably skip the next section. Special Warfare Operative Survival Training is not for the faint-hearted. The good news is there's nothing you can scare me with after that ordeal. The bad news is, it's the most painful, disgusting, terrifying thing you can ever go through. Keep in mind that we underwent the most intense training possible before we were subjected to this. I don't recommend doing it to your friends as a gag. You'll kill them if you're lucky. If you aren't, they'll survive. Sort of.

  First point, it had only briefly been mentioned that this was going to happen. We had no idea when it would occur or how long it would last. When we were dragged out of bed, retch gas smoking up our nostrils and batons clubbing us, it was a shock. When we were hauled outside, shackled and hooded and cuffed and kicked about, it was scary enough to send rippling adrenaline shivers racing along my spine. Then they unbound us and stripped us of all but blindfolds, and started getting nasty. . . .

  We were run along, jeered at, spit on and pelted with rocks and garbage. Whoever they were using as actors for this were taking perverse delight in it. I veered to the side at one point, sensing an obstacle ahead through the bare slit in the tied blindfold I could see through. As I did, someone jabbed me with a shock baton. I was urged back into line, and just managed to see the 2cm cable strung at shin height in time to trip over it rather than slam my legs into it. I sprawled, skinning the heels of my hands and grinding burning sand into them.

  While I was trying to recover from the searing pain, I was jabbed in the ass several times with a shock baton and screamed. One shot caught my scrotum and I stopped screaming. That it was dogfucking painful doesn't begin to describe it. I barely held back from vomiting my stomach onto the ground in front of me, and I do mean the stomach, not the contents. My abdominals and diaphragm locked up, and I had what felt like a concrete block in my belly. I realized afterwards that the instructor had slipped and done that unintentionally. However, he could not break from his do-it-or-we'll-kill-you persona for anything less than a life-threatening injury, so he kept jabbing my ass and thighs while I staggered from the gravel and sand and began running again. He gradually backed off and found other victims to share my ordeal.

  I was burning from his ministrations, from the gravel and dust driven into my skin, from the burning Iolight. I was afraid to even consider what might happen next in case I was right or in case it was even worse. Then I didn't have to wonder.

  I was crammed, blindfolded, into a tight cage. My knees were jammed against bars, my toes wrapped painfully around mesh, and my shoulders were bent across a frame. Moving hurt. Not moving hurt, until I went numb. It was cold. No sooner would I go numb from inaction, someone would jostle me and I'd start to hurt all over again. My nerves were tingled, itched, burned, frozen, and variously tortured in ways I can't describe. Won't describe. I wasn't fed. I was hosed with incapacitating and hallucinogenic agents.

/>   Extreme? Disgusting? Inhuman? Are those the words you're looking for? All are inaccurate. Nothing can describe it. Nothing can compare to what we were put through, except real torture. A captured soldier can expect abuse, Conventions and Laws of War notwithstanding. An Operative can expect to be tortured slowly until betrayal or death. Sexual abuse and torture is so common most places as to not be remarkable. I'm sure you think you live in a civilized society and that that never happens. I sincerely hope you never get apprehended by your local police as a "guaranteed dirtbag" or any other term meaning they're sure you're guilty. There's maybe four systems where you won't be sexually abused, and we're one of them. Yes, that includes men. Believe it. Yes, even on Earth.

  We took this as psychological training, and as a test to see who really didn't have the nerves it takes to deal with it. It was a week. It was the longest, most terrifying ten days of my life. I'd been buddied up with Tom for weeks, and now I was alone. That didn't help my state of mind, either. He was a freak, but he was a freak I'd learned to depend on.

  All alone, I recall hearing a conversation between two instructors that went approximately:

  Belinitsky: "Isn't that the little fuck who smashed your helmet?"

  Daniels: "Yeah. Is anyone looking?"

  Belinitsky: "Nope. Why don't you do him? Break his neck and claim it was an accident. I'll cover for you."

  Daniels: "Nah. I'll settle for a minor injury. Got any broken glass?"

  Belinitsky: "I'll find some."

  Then they laughed, held a pistol up to my head, and fired nothing. Then they fired a blank off next to my ear. Then I got beaten while my head was still ringing.

  I spent the week receiving "accidental" trippings and elbowings, and expecting a lethal incident at any moment. It wasn't vengeful, as everyone got similar treatment. Our incident in space was simply an excuse for them to build an act on. I had no idea at the time, of course.

  I became sure I'd survive the course on the third day, when Daniels told me that I'd have my legs broken and my teeth pulled if I moved a muscle. He clacked a pair of pliers suggestively at that last comment. I was left standing naked at rigid attention for three divs, almost nine Earth hours, not moving, barely breathing. My back was out again and every wiggle was shrieking agony that I couldn't let to the surface. Occasionally, a thrown rock would smack me, and I'd wince the slightest bit. Iota Persei, our star, was cooking the skin off me, I was half blind from glare (we were on the lake shore), and it was cold enough after a while—remember it is at altitude, and Io has substantial ultraviolet, so you can burn even when it's quite chilly—that I should have been shivering. I was too scared to do so. I stood stock still as mosquitoes and hoverers and other nasties crawled over me, stung me and bit me, taking the chill and dreading the breeze. And mosquito bites on the face and crotch are worse than boiling acid.

  After all that, he came over. Standing in front of me, he made an elaborate show of fitting detonator and timer into a one kilo demolition block. He sat it down on my toes, struck the fuse and stepped back. Then he made an aside to Yeoh. "When he moves, crack his shins for me. Then we'll go to work on his jaw. Don't damage his ribs until we're done," he said, then turned to me. He told me, "We're allowed a certain number of deaths and injuries for this, Chinran. You're one of them. Stay still, you die in less than three segs. Move, and we pound the snot out of you. You're too eager to fight authority, and it's time you had a lesson the rest of them will never forget."

  I knew he was bluffing. I also knew I had a kilo of HE on my feet. I also knew he was allowed a number of injuries, and that he held a grudge over my cracking of his faceplate. I also knew that I wasn't going to give the prick the satisfaction of moving. He'd get me out of the way before it blew. I also knew that I couldn't plan on that, and the charge was real.

  About that time, my molasses-slow thoughts were interrupted by him glancing at his chrono, muttering, "Holy shit!" and running as fast as he could away from me, while Yeoh sprinted past him. I closed my eyes and waited for what I knew intellectually would be a training charge to blow my toes and balls off, and was afraid at gut level was a real charge that would blow my brains into orbit. I pissed myself, which hurt nothing since I was naked. It even warmed my right leg as it dribbled down.

  He was back a few moments later, after the fuse burned to nothing, muttering, "Chinran, you are one seriously insane dogfucker." He removed the "explosive" and led me away. He then PTed me until I puked, for not trying to save myself.

  Don't ever try to psych me out or stare me down. I don't take bluffs worth a damn. And I play poker.

  It's not hard to imagine that I got sick with the flu. I wasn't the only one. Our bodies were being given a test that pushed to the limits of human capability. That does weaken it, and viruses are always present. The fever was horrid, making my head spin. I felt weaker than I already was, and a few times I threw up hard enough to black out. I won't describe what my ass was doing, except to say it was bleeding afterwards. Then the sinus infection moved into my throat and lungs. I cannot recommend a wracking cough as a complement to pinched nerves in the spine.

  You know the worst part? Listening to the women scream in agony. I was pretty sure I could pick Deni's voice out of it, but it affected me about the same with the others. Gender Unification crap aside, men and women are not the same, and we are motivated differently. Seven million years of evolution has branded into the human male animal genes to protect women and children so the race will survive. Inquisitors love to use that for advantage while seeking intelligence from prisoners. It's been a fact for centuries that the easiest way to make a tough, uncrackable man break is to torture a woman where he can see, or worse, just hear. Usually, information is forthcoming quickly. Operatives have to learn to be immune to that.

  I can't be persuaded by the sounds of a woman being strangled, raped and beaten. I don't like it, though. Not even when I know it's a fellow professional. A civilian woman's suffering disturbs me at my core. That's as may be, but I won't talk.

  When they finally let us out, we were haggard and worn. A quick, final hosing was a relief for the relative cleanliness it brought. We slept on a pile of (quite comfortable) quilts right there, and awoke to thin soup and crackers. It took an entire day to return to something that felt remotely human. They were very gentle with us that day, so we could start recovering. We'd lost another handful of people, some of them damaged psychologically from the stress. My spine was killing me, and I could barely walk. The docs stretched me out, hit me with electrostim and ice for the soft tissue damage, adjusted me as best they could, slapped me full of muscle relaxants and reconstructor nanos and told me to take it easy. One side effect of muscle relaxants is to reduce erectile reflex. I gave Deni as much attention as I could that weekend, lying flat on my back, but was frustrated in my own desires. Not that it mattered much; we were both beat to hell.

  * * *

  Mountain Training was next, and we met back up with the some of the Blazer trainees. We all adjourned to a remote site in the Dragontooth range and started on a near-vertical face. They didn't believe in babying us; we started climbing that day. The instructor went ahead, and as he climbed he shouted a lecture about handholds, toeholds, crevices, the dangers of cracks and mossy areas and more. He went up like a spider. We followed very gingerly. Too gingerly to suit him. Out came the tear gas. Ever cling to a wall while being gassed? It's horrible.

  Climbing is painful. Not traumatically so, but it hurts in a steady, aching way. My fingertips got abraded raw even through the gloves I wore. My arms and legs cramped up from stretching at odd angles. The insides and caps of my knees were bruised and bloody in short order. Every time I slipped, I'd take skin off my face and off my shoulders, right through my shirt. It's draining in adrenaline, calories burned, sweat in the eyes, aches and sheer concentration. You try not to think about the drop below you, and how a fall will either grate you to slivered meat on the face on the way down or smash you like a falling melon
if you bounce clear. Tom and I didn't make any jokes. We just clung to the rock and muttered to ourselves.

  We had one serious casualty, and one death the first day. Someone slipped and fell, twisted and landed neck first. The severe trauma made regeneration impossible. The other shattered his hip and a chunk of spine. I watched him fall right past me, and gripped the rock tighter. Yes, I cried. I wondered why I was there, as he screamed and screamed until they doped him and took him away for regen.

  I didn't stick with it from sheer bravado. I stayed because I was afraid to admit I was scared. Had anyone else quit, I would have joined them. Looking back, I think we all felt that way. No one wanted to be first. We even joked about "bouncing" and how "a sucking chest wound is the universe's way of telling you you screwed up."

  We did climbing with equipment including the usual anchors, pins, ropes, explosive-set shanks and all the other goodies. Then we did free climbing, barefoot and barehanded, just as an exercise. It was good for our confidence but sheer hell on our bodies. Our final exam was in boots and gloves only, but one hundred plus meters straight up. I barely made it through the course and wet my pants several times, but I did make it through, so don't even think about kidding me about it unless you can do the same. A lot of the smaller men and women just didn't have the upper body strength. Even with protein enhancing muscle builders, which everyone was taking after our stress-test of qualification training, they simply weren't strong enough. Reluctantly, we transferred them back to Mobile Assault.

  Each lesson, they'd add another item to our gear until we were carrying full assault packs. We lost a few people in this part, sheer physical overload. Most of them were near the bottom of the cliffs, but we had two more serious injuries requiring regen.