The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

Shortly before we left Caledonia, the Charles River flooded over its banks and threatened millions of hectares of crops and several towns. We volunteered as a gesture of international goodwill, and also got a look at their Home Guard troops, equivalent to our Professional Militias or Reserves. They were eager, fairly competent, and were good company in the wet and cold. It was quite an impressive flood, and it's no fault of the participants that they couldn't control it. Nature will always win. We spent a thirty day month getting soaked and chilled, then alternately baked in what passed for summer sun. All in all, I'd have to call it a good time and an educational peacetime deployment.

  Chapter 5

  Upon returning home and debriefing, I was promoted to Operative Sergeant and made team leader, and bumped to E-6. Likely, I'd stay Sergeant for some time, and get rate promotions based on time in service and technical proficiency. I wasn't worried. With space pay, jump pay, flight pay, demolition pay, the stipend we all got for being Operatives in the first place, the stipend for each language and skill we qualified for (I was qualified as a combat medic, combat marksman, combat engineer in construction and demolitions, translator in French, Russian, Greek and Spanish, intelligence specialist in security assessment, power and electrical systems specialist, welder with gas, arc, laser and electron beam, machinist, basic electronics technician, small arms repairer, heavy weapons crew, flight engineer (vertol and spaceboat), hazardous environment rescue specialist, perimeter defense security specialist, aircraft munitions specialist, explosive ordnance disposal specialist, and had master ratings in unarmed combat, small arms, support weapons, heavy weapons and vehicle operations), I figured I was earning enough to make even my father happy. Much of it counted as practical or elective credit toward the degree in Military Science I was working on. All I needed were a few courses in poli-sci, history and strategic calculus and I'd be good to go. From there, I could go as far as regimental commander, with work.

  That was before I learned the politics of the military. Every new troop has to do this, and I had actually been rather sheltered by the system so far, more concerned with the job than with the machinations behind it. That's generally a good thing, but those networks of friends and a good grasp of the unofficial military are what will get you ahead and help you do what's right for the service. It can also be used by self-serving assholes to get cushy jobs and bogus awards. That, of course, would never happen in our military, right?

  I'll come back to that later.

  Let's look at the key facts: we were a neutral nation with a small military. Until a decade before, the military had been mostly a joke. It handled a few rescues of idiotic sillyvilian pleasure craft, and was strictly a symbol of our statehood, despite the quality of the troops we had. We could hold off pirates, few that there were, maintain local order (very important and, defined by our constitution, it was our primary purpose), and tackle major terrorists that tried to get happy with us. If we needed real backup, we would have called the UN for force.

  Then we'd declared ourselves a nation, not a colonial territory. Then we'd seceded from the UN, because we couldn't meet their "civil rights" criteria, and had no intention of doing so. Their definition of civil rights was what the Roman Legions gave their subjects—the right to complain, pray, and do nothing. We defined freedom as the right to be stupid. If you aren't allowed to ruin your life because of the "greater good of the whole," you aren't really free, you're a cog. But I digress.

  With no UN support, we had to have a military that actually worked. First, we'd gotten better hardware. Then, we'd upped the standards for enlistment. Now we were working on increasing the size, but slowly, as we had no wish to sacrifice quality. Lastly, we wanted to ensure that everyone did a stint in a combat zone, for the experience.

  That last being absolutely impossible for a neutral nation amidst an authoritarian hegemony. Who was going to attack us? Why would we go on the offensive? We had great troops, great equipment, great standards, and absolutely no way to ensure any of it.

  Then, the year before I enlisted, Dyson had been made Marshal. He had strict notions of how we could get as good as we could without live-fire, and proceeded to institute those policies, despite the whining of the wannabes who really didn't want to be real soldiers.

  Many of those whiners were still in service, even ten years after we seceded. Amazingly, we even had some in Special Warfare. I have no idea why someone joins SW and expects an easy time of it, but for some ludicrous reason, a few do. They took it upon themselves to commwhip every exercise and qualification they could, so as to sit, drink chocolate, and revel in the glory of their qualification badges. It bothered Marshal Dyson, and it bothered me, that their actions were identical to developing nation dictators and their Instant Colonel Syndrome—you know: where junior grade friends of the Faithless and Fearful Leader become commanders without doing anything to prove themselves.

  They had to go. They'd done nothing actionable, and we needed the slots filled until we got competent personnel so they stayed in the interim, but their days were numbered. It took a few months for me to realize that I could have one of those slots, with a little patience, hard work and a few liters of spilled blood. The blood would be my own, spilled here and there in training exercises. The actual coup and assassinations would be bloodless and political.

  Everyone in SW is in great shape. I'd actually come to terms with the fact that I'm a handsome son of a bitch in dress greens, no matter how goofy I look in battledress. I took it upon myself to be seen in greens off duty, or when on duty doing administrative work, so as to impress Captain Maron, the commanders of the units we were assigned to, and anyone on base who encountered me. Both my awards were placed, all my qualification badges were polished, and I cultivated a look of deep thought and alertness.

  It worked. Maron was in the area late one day, as I prepped my team for our next exercise, and watched quietly as I spoke. We both knew we were aware of each other's presence, but pretended to continue business as usual. I had everyone's chameleon suits out, as we'd never used them in an exercise. I intended to fix that, and not because it was a good way to suck up, but because it needed done. We ran all the circuits through, tested them against a background screen and the local terrain of grass, buildings and parking apron, and I told everyone to put them away. I planned to brace our squad leader, Warrant Rutledge, to let me do a team run in a day or two. He was one of those who didn't see a need to do more than the basics. He thought of all this as "wasting time."

  Once done, I told the troops to hang them in our bay area and dog off for the day. I turned, and there she was.

  "Ken, how's things?"

  "Just fine ma'am," I replied. SW troops never salute outside, and only on formal occasions inside. "You need to see me?"

  She replied, "Tell me about today."

  She'd seen what I'd done, but when your commander asks for a debrief, you give it. "I'm having my fireteam check all their gear. Today, the chameleons. I'll be arranging a field test as soon as I can, and meantime I'll be checking the exos, the jump harnesses, and all our environment gear. Our climbing and arctic equipment get regular workouts, but some of the other stuff is low use, so it needs at least a good exercise."

  "Good thinking," she said. "But don't you think that would be better done at the squad or platoon level?"

  "Yes, ma'am," I said. "But I don't have that authority."

  She nodded. "Well, a warrant slot will open up eventually. Do you think you'd be prepared to take it?"

  I quivered. That was not a casual offer, and the only acceptable answer (as if I'd give any other) was, "Absolutely, ma'am. If I'm qualified, I'll take it, if I'm not, I'll get qualified. But that's a way off. There's a lot of seniors who'll get a slot before I do, even allowing for rating jumps."

  She nodded. "I'll put a word in for you. It doesn't hurt to think long term. Have a good evening, and let me know the results of your exercise. While you're at it, write up a plan for the procedure I can distribute to others."


  "Yes, ma'am," I agreed. She nodded, turned and left.

  The next morning, my comm relayed a "routine" message to see the First Sergeant. Now, routine means it isn't life-and-death-skip-a-shower-and-get-here-because-we're-screwed. It doesn't mean to dawdle. I signed into the team bay of our squad room at two segs shy of three divs, and was at the First Sergeant's desk by three on the nose.

  "Ken," he greeted me.

  "Sergeant Jack," I said. "What can I help you with?" I was hoping it was good, but one always has the feeling that there's a problem waiting to screw one.

  "Put these on," he said, handing me senior sergeant's chevrons. "The captain apologizes that she can't arrange a rate raise yet, but she'll be on it when she can."

  "Thank you, First Sergeant," I said. "And please thank the captain for me." Wow. I resolved to see what command wanted out of me to push me higher. Money and power had heady appeal. Mostly the power.

  I was a big hit with the junior troops and my friends that day, but did see a few disgruntled looks on others who disliked me bumping their positions, and figured where this was going. Rutledge didn't look amused and said so.

  "Planning to replace me?" he asked, when I got back to the bay.

  "No, sir," I said. "But sooner or later you'll promote or I'll get reassigned."

  "You spend too much time worrying about prep and gear. That's my job," he said.

  "That's everyone's job," I argued.

  "Well, you just make sure you handle your team," he said. "I know my part."

  Tense. I said, "Yes, sir," and made myself scarce. In actuality, I didn't want his job. I wanted to be me, not him. But he'd never believe that.

  I followed up myself by drafting a letter of thanks to the captain. Always acknowledge the good. It makes people appreciate doing it, and helps them decide to do more. I mentioned Rutledge by name as my trainer and source of much of my knowledge. It was diplomatic. They might see it as window dressing. He might see it as sucking up. But at least I'd covered the issue.

  * * *

  I got tested on my new rank and alleged competence at once, and the fallout was shocking. We deployed to space aboard craft of 3rd Fleet (no, all these numbers are not coincidence. 3rd Fleet, 3rd Army, 3rd Mobile Legion, 3rd Mobile Assault Regiment and 3rd Special Warfare Regiment are all under one superior authority. We did do exercises elsewhere to rehearse for mass confusion, but by sticking together we created a well-oiled machine from practice . . . at least in theory) and split into five elements in order to conduct games.

  So I took my team and prepared for a clandestine EVA to a target ship. For exercise purposes, we'd be attacking an intruding cruiser as it sat in port near a planetoid base. Actually, what we had was a derelict transport we'd gotten cheap. The engineers got to cobble it back together enough to mostly work as their part of the training, the bridge staff got to deal with the attendant problems of steering and commanding such a wreck, the rest of the crew got a creaky, groaning and banging ride with vacuum gear always at hand to stay in the right mindset while they jury-rigged defensive systems and things like working airlocks. Realism. With danger.

  I got to blow it up. How can you beat a job like that?

  I had Frank along, and Deni, and Barto Diaz and Eliot Christensen who'd been around for a year, and Gary Hulse, who was fresh from school and eager. Too eager, sometimes. I realized I'd matured about five percent when I looked at him.

  We observed the mission start from the Black Watch, the heavily stealthed transport we were assigned to. Special Warfare has seven highly modified craft for clandestine delivery within occupied space, one for each Regiment and a spare, and a healthy chunk of our budget, all fitted for phase drive. They're stripped to make them as undetectable as possible, gunned enough to give us support to get in or out as is indicated and loaded with electronic toys and a shop full of low-mass, low-signature tools for Special Projects to use to build us assorted non-issue implements of destruction.

  This would be the first time our squad had tackled a long EVA. One of the Operatives' most useful insertions is across space in naught but a suit. It's almost impossible to detect, and tricky enough that usually no one imagines anyone will attempt it in the first place. Even knowing to expect it, our own people would have a bitch of a time finding us.

  What we planned was to come in from a stealth boat, EVA on sleds to within 20 kilometers, then use suit harnesses the rest of the way. Sensor image: none to speak of. Risk for errors: bloody high. And "error" would equal "death." There's not much room for it under the circumstances.

  There are two things every Operative tries to carry in space. One is an emergency flare, in case one is lost during an exercise. The other is a grenade, in case one is lost in wartime. I know personally, intimately, with long practice what hypoxia is like. That doesn't mean I like it. If you can think of a colder (metaphysically), lonelier, more wretched death than to die slowly of suffocation surrounded by frigid points of stars and the searing blades of distant Iolight, I'd rather not hear about it. This was an exercise. It was also potentially lethal. We train as we fight—hardcore.

  So, there I was with my team, ready to deploy from a boat. We greased each other up with a lubricant that makes it easier to squirm into a skintight suit. It's also been adapted as a surgical and sexual lubricant, but there was nothing sexy about the elastic mesh we donned, trust me. The goo was cold and slimy in the darkened bay. Not a thrill. Creepy, really. Hands helping get the small of your back and shoulders slick are not romantic in the slightest. It outgases to a powder with exposure to vacuum. Messy both ways.

  We checked all our own gear. We checked all our buddy's gear. I buddied with Frank and we checked each other over. Carbine. Pistol. Sword. Knife. Cutting torch. Explosives. Comms and maps, keycodes and schedules. Smoke and flare. Emergency oxy bottle. Axe, used to rip through bulkheads and crack ports. Armor. Harnesses. Primary oxy bottles. Umbilicus for the sled's oxy supply. Sled. Emergency transponder. I did a quick check of everyone else's gear. If I sound paranoid and scared, it's because I was. Never mind my career; losing a person would be hell on my conscience. There were not going to be any screwups. Rutledge had grudgingly told me to do a good job as he doublechecked my checking. I'd agreed. We might have been a bit tense with each other, but neither of us wanted to succeed at the expense of lives. I wished him luck on his own insertion. We shook on it. He went to Second Team to see how Davis was doing. I ordered my team up.

  We cycled through the lock, me first as leader, and hung on the outside by glued tethers which the boat engineer would detach later. There are no padeyes or other distortions on the skin of a stealth boat. Glued tethers are all we had, and I don't like them. I have this psychotic fear that the glue won't take. I prefer a mechanical lock. Yes, I know what the tensile strength of the bond is and what the chemistry of the glue is. I don't care. It's a phobia. As to the cycling, it was a bitch. Vac sleds are not designed to fit in personnel locks, and we don't use cargo bays on stealths because of the risk of a sensor image. It was one at a time, crowded and tangled with gear, near black with only a tiny glow tube to illuminate things. The image is fuzzy with your goggles' enhancement dialed up, and it shifts as the outer door opens and starlight and distant Iolight pour in, causing the goggles to polarize. The shadows are very sharp and dark.

  Once we were all out, I waved hand signals and everyone mounted sleds. You have to strap your gear down, then yourself, with an old-style horsehitch to release as you thrust. We each thrusted in sequence, me first again, and took up a loose formation. I was leading. If my navigation was wrong, I'd die first. For an exercise, we could abort and use comm if we had to. If that happened, the shame and embarrassment would kill me. I didn't think about that at the time, as it was black and I was alone. I couldn't turn far enough on the sled to see behind me. I had blips on my visor that were intermittent even at this range; we were as low sig as we could get, but a good intel boat can home in on almost nothing. Our support boat would abor
t us if necessary, as long as we were still in its range. I didn't hear anything from them.

  It went okay as an exercise. It simply lasted forever. We thrusted then floated in trajectory for almost ten divs—28 hours. Almost a full day. There was nothing to break the monotony except music—vid is too distracting. As we use an oxy-helium mix, the sound system has to compensate for atmospheric effects. I had an extensive library of tunes, from classical to scape to modern jazz and clash. I love music. I could barely listen to any of them. Tedium, boredom, hell. It was horrible. Nothing followed by nothing forever, while I clung to a metal frame. Harsh stars ahead, above, below, to the sides. I dozed in and out, watched the readouts for time and activity, and grew more fatigued the more I napped. The flavored goop in the food tube grew tiresome in short order. I made myself drink more water, as it's easy to dehydrate. You don't think about drinking in emgee for some psychological reason, just like in the cold.

  We might arrive and find the other two teams hadn't made their missions, or had been discovered and left us hanging as targets. We might find the ship already "destroyed" by other factors, or moved out of orbit, even though intel said it would stay where it was. That would make us dead for the exercise, but dead for real if this were an actual mission. Six Operatives for a starship? A small price. Unless you're one of the Operatives. Why the hell had I chosen this job?

  Nothing. Followed by still more nothing. I watched the scale tick off in my visor, wondering if it was actually working. Cursing it to move faster. Trying to avoid the nervous kicks and twitches one gets after hours of inactivity. I gripped the sled. It was my only company.

  Finally, my nav system was telling me we were close, but I had no physical evidence of that. My hyperaware eyes finally saw a shadow occulting a star, though just barely, and I breathed a huge sigh. We would survive. Even if we failed the exercise, we would survive. I realized I hadn't peed from the tension. In fact, I hadn't gone in longer than I could recall. I vented liquid and felt better.