The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  It would have been easier just to evacuate the hotel, but that would have told them we were planning something, and their spotters would of course refuse to leave, and then we'd have a situation. As I said, it came down to the fact that these freaks were out of their sideshows and would not react rationally.

  I spent a while outside in the gusty wind, in a Commerce Boulevard suit, outside the military cordon, watching through binox. I'd shake my head periodically and say something to my assistant, Frank, who was dressed likewise and armed with a phone and a comm. He kept dictating notes. I got on my phone at one point and paced around while gesticulating. I looked every inch the harried young executive. Shortly, we went inside "again."

  Inside, I hung out with the manager in his glassed office, talking and looking bothered. Eventually, I shrugged and muttered and headed upstairs. Management was going to have a word with the troublesome guests.

  * * *

  Taking a breath, I knocked on the door.

  Nashold answered, yanking it open. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked. Mannerly.

  "I'm Amiso Coruna, the hotel general manager. I need to discuss your situation," I said. He stared up and down at me, took in the suit, and looked confused. "Wait here," he said.

  A few moments later, after loud voices spoke back and forth, I was invited in. More accurately, the door opened, I was dragged in with fingers painfully in my biceps and a Merrill Model 66K submachinegun jammed into my right nostril. It wasn't too hard to appear scared. Nashold spoke to me. "What the fuck do you want, Mister Manager?"

  "Please, sir, no guns are necessary," I said. They eased off about five percent. "I'm very sorry," I continued, "but your presence here is disruptive to the other guests. The owner has asked me to relay his regrets and inform you that must leave—" I paused for a moment as they howled with laughter. I made a second scan of the room, and saw the princess over by the left wall. Her eyes flicked recognition, then went dull again. She twisted in what was to me a nod, but would be just a shift to anyone else. Perfect. The one concern was that she would break my cover. I'd been fairly sure she would follow my lead, but I was facing the risk of a small-caliber lobotomy.

  As the laughter died down, I continued, "We will be happy to refund the balance of your payment, and furnish you with a free three-night stay, good anytime except the week before and after Landing Day."

  The laughter resumed. It stopped at a signal from Nashold, and he said, "You are one stupid dogfucker, Mister Manager." He turned and added, "Toss him over there. He can be another sandbag if we have a shootout." He turned back. "Always useful to have an expendable hostage to prove we mean business."

  They did frisk me, well enough I could have asked for a date by the time they were done. I had ID, scuffed and worn, so as to look authentic. Many infiltrators have been caught because they used pristine ID. I also had a watch, a phone, and the usual executive toys. They took them all. I'd hoped to have the watch at least, so I wouldn't need time ticks through the implanted phone. They didn't notice that my suit and other clothing were constructed of ballistic cloth. It wouldn't stop me from dying, but nothing they had would get through both sides of it and me and have enough energy left to do permanent injury to the princess. Yes, I was expendable. I looked suitably scared. Was I scared?

  What do you think?

  But I'd gotten a good look at four faces and knew who they were. That was a start. I'd get more info as this went on. Below, Frank and Deni were watching it all. Frank would direct, Deni would lead the assault. I had no concern about her shooting. Terrorist assholes were about to become dead terrorist assholes.

  It was hard not to get more scared as I sat there. We were nearing midday, and I was glad I'd eaten beforehand, because I was unlikely to be fed here. Sure enough, the goon on duty, Damon Melchi, brought a sandwich for the princess, which he placed on a napkin atop the vid so she could pull at it with her teeth while still shackled. I was ignored.

  "Any lunch for me?" I asked.

  "Shut the fuck up."

  It seemed I'd been correct again. That was good.

  After she finished eating, I spoke. "I'm not sure I approve of royalty," I said softly but clearly.

  "Oh?" the princess replied. "And why is that?"

  "Frankly, if you weren't considered more valuable than anyone else, we wouldn't be here," I said, sounding put upon.

  "I'm quite sure you have wealthy elites here who are targets for this sort of thing," she said, playing off my lead and sounding miffed. Good.

  "Yes, but at least here—"

  "Shut up or I'll crack your teeth, Mister Manager. And you too, rich bitch," Melchi said. He was the worst kind of enemy: a true believer. I'd have to make sure he died first.

  We resumed our silence. Melchi was replaced by Todd Mellars a bit later. He was a rough-looking punk with a bulbous, bald skull and eyes too deep and too close together. He was fat over little muscle and clearly about as bright as a typical cockroach. Apologies to anyone's pet cockroach I may have insulted. Melchi crashed out on a bed.

  Waiting is especially hard when some asshole with no penis keeps pointing the muzzle of a weapon at your eye, your ear, up your nose. I think this sack of fertilizer got off sexually on it. He'd pace the room, sigh, look at his watch, then come over and caress my face with it before threatening me with the muzzle again. I vowed that if he survived the initial assault, I'd kill him myself.

  Midafternoon, the princess was taken to the restroom. Mellars went along. I'm sure he watched. He was that kind of pervert. I was left guarded by Melchi.

  After another hour I said, "I need to use the restroom."

  "Go right ahead," Mellars said. "The carpet will soak it up." That grin of his said he was definitely some kind of pervert.

  I could have wet myself. It's not as if it bothers me. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Anyway, I'd only asked to gauge his pliability. Absolutely every detail was going firsthand down to my people. I'd get the warning that night, I hoped. The deadline was "9 am" tomorrow, which they agreed with some embarrassment was 3:50 divs. They really hadn't done their field research. This is why they'd been screwing around for fifty years and gotten nowhere except dead.

  I had a slow-release pill in me that kept me awake. It didn't feel very good, especially without regular water and food, but it did keep me awake. Acid in my stomach and sour taste in my mouth went with bladder pressure, a quivering colon, aching spine and numb wrists to remind me of how easy it would be for me to die in this escapade.

  Just after the 6 div time tick, the princess was fed another sandwich for dinner. When nothing was done for me, she said, "I really think it would be appropriate to feed our other guest, rather than giving me the royal treatment."

  It was a slam of an insult. Nashold was in the room, and snarled, then admitted that she had a point. Not that he said anything, but he did indicate that I should be served a sandwich and a sack of juice with a straw.

  "Thank you, Princess," I said.

  "You're welcome," she replied.

  "Shut the fuck up, both of you," Nashold said. It seemed to be a typical response of the movement. But I was taken to the bathroom afterwards. Two of them uncuffed me and recuffed me in front so I could pee. I'm guessing they didn't want to help me as they had the princess. She was still getting the royal treatment.

  The first transmission came in with the midnight time tick. "Construction done for the evening. Everyone dog off and go home." So we knew who all of them were and where they were. Not that it would matter. Any we didn't kill in this room would get theirs later, but it's so much neater to do them all at once.

  Almost a div later, everyone at their lowest ebbs in the middle of the night, I heard, "Okay, flip the breaker and let's see if it works."

  I waited for the message that would announce the attack. I triggered Boost for the metabolic increase, in case of injury. "It works," I heard. I tensed slightly, shifted imperceptibly, and dove.

  I got my cuffs hig
h and over the princess' head, grabbing her in a bear hug, almost a romantic embrace, head to toe. We landed in the corner of wall and floor behind the vid, her wedged in, me on top. I didn't kiss her on purpose, but we did crack our teeth together hard enough to sting. Our weight landed on my shackled wrists and drove the metal bands into my bones. That hurt. No, it was excruciating. Pain lanced up my arms, my fingers tingled and went numb, and I heard bones grind in my wrists.

  I thought I'd jumped at the wrong cue and was about to die for my effort. It was just my subjective time stretching out. All three goons present had woken or spun toward me, and were still trying to figure out what had happened, when the wall behind them exploded. Light akin to a nuke flashed through the room. A bang! shattered the picture frames and my ears. My nerves tingled and made me convulse. The dazzle and ringing took over, and there were ugh!ing coughs as the goons were accurately riddled with fire, the wet eggshell-cracking and slapping noises telling me they were being hit in heads and throats.

  After that was anticlimactic. My people shot those three, rounded the rest up and shot them each at the base of the skull, and that was that.

  As soon as I heard Deni shout, "CLEAR!" I rolled free, disentangling myself from the princess. "Captain Stewart," I said, offering a hand for her shoulder and helping her upright. Or at least I tried to. I shrieked in a very unmanly and unkillerlike fashion as she fell back. Hey, screw you. It hurt. Yes, I said "captain." She'd been promoted.

  "Operative Chinran," she replied, as brightly as she could through her haggard outside. "I am grateful for your response."

  "My pleasure, Madam," I replied, as Tyler moved in to check her for wounds. Barto uncuffed me and numbed my wrists with both topical and deep-penetrating local anesthetics.

  "How are you, boss?" Deni asked me. There was an undertone that wasn't professional, and told me she was going to be very passionate later as she sympathized with the injuries and called me a "crazy, stupid adrenaline junkie" in six languages.

  "Did you shoot me?" I asked. My senses were coming back from the ear-ringing and roiling purple dazzle of the flashbang. I could smell propellant, explosive residue, the shit and blood smell of dead terrorist assholes and the dust of shattered walls. I was dusty and rumpled, as was the princess. The team looked like bakers, they were so caked in white dust from cutting the walls. They smelled like wrestlers. We don't make any half-assed messes in Black Ops. When we trash a place, we are thorough.

  "No, but I'm thinking about it," she replied with a half-mock smile.

  "Then I'm fine for now. Good shooting."

  The princess was in great shape, other than a loose tooth that matched mine, and we adjourned outside to take care of the details. We each donned body armor, or rather, my people put us into body armor, our hands being largely useless. We took a stained service elevator down with one team, while the other two teams each took different routes. Even now, we weren't ruling out a suicidal idiot or a marksman. Though I was floating in that endorphin stage from fading Boost and wasn't paying much attention. I chided myself and came back to ground.

  We regrouped in the empty lobby, and Barto commed out to make sure everyone was in place. Hidden from the view of most civilians were another squad, all snipers, who had a very good view of the area, by eyeball, comm, sky-lifted cameras and assorted other sensors. If a mosquito tried to bite the princess, someone was designated to blow it away. I didn't envy them the task. It calls for exacting precision and frantic alertness. Sort of like the task I'd handled already. Around the area, another squad was patrolling in vehicles in civilian clothes, backed up by a Security Patrol platoon and Westport City Safety. Outside the glass doors we were approaching, yet another squad, Blazers, were tasked to be brutal killers if anything came close, and to throw themselves on grenades if necessary. It may not have looked there was much going on to the casual viewer, and that was on purpose. But trust me, that lady was safe. Our reputation was at stake and nothing was going to be allowed to wreck it.

  The word came back that we were clear, and we trooped through the atrium and outside, Deni and Bryce holding doors for us. Even with the small crowd we'd allowed, of military, government and a select few reporters we could trust not to get in the way of a shot, the cheer was enthused and loud. Annette settled for a smile and slow bow, not waving. That let spectators know she was okay, and couldn't be misinterpreted as a reflexive move from an attack by anyone. Professional at both her tasks, that lady was, and is. She'll make one hell of a queen.

  Carstairs was about to wet his pants. The muted gunfire and flashbangs had scared him. We came out, me as the "manager" alongside the princess, with the team around me in masks. There were lots of pictures. Luckily, besides my cover ID protecting me, I was pretty ragged-looking. It wouldn't affect my security. The Princess took almost all the attention, and I just had to look sweaty, scared and worn out. When someone finally got around to sticking a camera in my face, I caught lots of shadow over my eyes, rasped my voice as much as I could without it being obvious and said, "I'm just glad it's over. I really don't want to talk right now." They left me alone and no one ever was the wiser. But if you track down the video of that event, you'll see me. It may be one of five photographs since I enlisted, and the only unofficial one I'm aware of.

  When all was said and done, Malcolm Allender, the one who provided the answers, was encouraged to leave the system rapidly. Then we announced in the press that he'd been crucial in finding the data we needed. A week later, he was hit. Unfortunately, the bomb took out three other people. Very sad. I keep hoping these jerks will learn to be accurate and efficient.

  * * *

  Naumann knew my capabilities and had for some time. Erson got to handle all the files that came down to the unit. Richard had his own report on me. The Citizens' Council wanted to make sure I was thanked properly for the task I'd accomplished, even though they didn't know who precisely I was. I was doomed. Before I could refuse and run screaming, they'd slapped lieutenant pips on my collar. I was taken away from my personal squad and put in charge of Counterterror Operations, which became a specific platoon rather than three individual squads. It was an odd platoon. I had three squads of Operatives, two of Blazers, the sniper squad, a Special Projects squad, a maintenance section and our own SPs to secure any cordons we needed. Captain Hidochi and her staff of fast talkers were attached to us. I still got to play some, but I did more adminwork and couldn't hang off buildings with my friends. If it weren't for the honor, I'd have told them to stick it.

  Yes, it was a great career move. Yes, it made me more promotable. Yes, it was a challenge. No, I didn't care for it. It lasted about a month. What happened next changed human history, though I didn't really pay attention to the significance at the time.

  MASTER

  Chapter 16

  It was a routine morning at my new task, tens of rams, books, loads and charts to examine right after a morning run and a rappelling exercise, when I got a call to see Commander Naumann at my convenience. That meant as soon as possible, so I checked my uniform for obvious damage—he wouldn't care about a bit of dust—and went over to the HQ building.

  He was up front talking to his people, rather than back in his office. "Kenneth," he greeted me as he looked up, "let's talk." He waved at his office and headed that way. He walks as fast as I do.

  He closed the door. His security fields were already active. That made me realize this was not a routine matter. I wasn't in trouble for anything that I knew of, and a quick memory scan confirmed I'd done nothing that I need be ashamed of, so I had to wonder what this was about.

  He got right to the point. "What do you know about the situation with Earth?" he asked me.

  I replied, "They don't like us being a nation rather than a colony, resent that we chose to bow out of the UN, and are terrified that we might be a precedent for others to follow. They've been like that since we declared independence, which is six years now."

  Nodding, he asked, "What do you think of
the UNPF as a combat force?"

  I snorted.

  When I said nothing else, he said, "That's a conceited assumption and you know it. Try again."

  "They outnumber us a hundred to one. Their production is less efficient but has a larger base. They have more of everything. If they ever got around to funding it as they should, their military would defeat ours in a stand-up battle," I said. "We'd inflict casualties at a ratio of ten to one, but that wouldn't stop them if they really meant it. I'm not aware of them ever committing full resources to a conflict."

  Nodding, he said, "I expect that last item to change in the near future."

  "Really," I replied. It wasn't a question, more of a questioning acknowledgement. If Naumann told me we were swapping camouflage for pink tutus, I'd assume he had a valid logic behind it. So I waited for enlightenment.

  He didn't offer it right then. Instead, he asked, "How would we defeat the UNPF under such circumstances?"

  I pondered for a moment. We have kicked around every possible conflict with every nation there is. So I dredged up the data on the UN as a whole and let it percolate for a few seconds. "Earth is the key," I said. "Any threat would politically originate on Earth. The Extrasolar members don't care enough to start a war."

  "Earth is eighty nations," he said. "Can you be more specific?"

  "Why?" I asked rhetorically. "It's one system. Any political move would originate in the North American States, the European Federation or the Greater Asian Union. The halfway industrial nations would jump on board to show their importance, and the rest don't matter worth a damn."

  "So how would we defeat them?" he asked again.

  "We'd have to keep them busy with disruptions to the infrastructure and political processes, so they couldn't commit full resources here," I said. I had a creepy feeling he would be sending me to do recon on Earth when this discussion was over.

  "Very good," he said. "We'd have to be in place ahead of time, of course. Sending a unit in after the fact would be inefficient and complicated."