The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Very minor surgery or makeup would get us past the recognition circuits in the cameras. Even if they did spec us, we'd show up as "null, not on file." That wouldn't be noticed, as machines make mistakes all the time. But if we showed as a null and the implant didn't read, that would get a reaction. One or the other was necessary. They wouldn't see a pattern on us to arouse suspicion until we bent them over and did them Black Ops style. But walking down the street had just become an issue to deal with.

  If we had chips, it was statistically very safe for us. While officially the cameras and the chips and the AI programs and cops watching them stop crime or track down those who would damage the fruits of society, the reality is different. If a camera is looking your way, if it catches you in the act, if an AI or cop is watching and recognizes what you are doing, then you might get a ticket in the mail. If you have connections or money, nothing will happen. If you can bribe or extort the crookedest cops in human space, nothing will happen. If you ignore it, it can be literally hundreds of violations later that anything is done. Only if it's a severe crime will anyone be sent after you, and even then, it has to be pretty severe for them to waste money on a trial. Usually, they'll just lock you in a stinking holding pen for a day or two, feed you revolting food, make you pay outrageous amounts for the "courtesy" of having your vehicle impounded and home searched and valuables stolen, then drop the charges and let you go because they still have a weak case without testimony or a basis for the action.

  So we had little to worry about, as we'd be utterly nondescript. We'd toe every line, smile as we did so, and give no reason to be questioned. It would be awful.

  But how to find two hundred chips without killing two hundred unattached, uncommitted people and replacing them? That was my problem. Although I'd do that if I had to.

  Actually, I didn't need that many. We'd keep most of the team "hidden" for the duration, meaning "Away from observation." As long as they weren't in a large public venue or a metropolitan downtown, they wouldn't be seen by cameras. Unless someone is reported missing or wanted, the chips aren't tracked outside the cities. So we'd keep them in safehouses or rural areas and minimize the risk. I'd want at least two people per detachment to have good cover, and go from there. I'd have to decide as we went if it would be safer to find more chips, or if the risk of someone being discovered would make it inadvisable. Also, we would cover a lot of our most exposed people with petty criminal records. That would make them part of the scenery, and less suspect as infiltrators. It doesn't pay to be too squeaky clean.

  My initial training plans had to change, based in part on the culturalists' input. I'd been pushing physical arts for combat insertions. I realized that was not entirely appropriate. Certainly, some of our people would be jumping, climbing, shooting and otherwise acting as soldiers, but most of us would be acting as local nerds. We dug up the files we needed and started studying bookkeeping, accounting, procedures and protocols. We all had in depth briefings in law, because there were so many things we took for granted that were restricted on Earth. They actually required government certification to operate a normal vehicle, obtain industrial tools and materials, even to get basic medicines. No wonder the place was a screwed up nightmare. Then there were the taxes and fees to pay for this. They even taxed shit. Not directly, but there was a tax on the water and sewer service, even though a theoretically private company handled the task. Yes, they recycled it for minerals, energy and fertilizer, just as we do. Yes, they then sold it. So why tax it? Apparently, just because they could. There was even a news load where some mouthpiece for policy recommended a tax on something, I didn't catch what, on the grounds that "it's one of the few things not yet taxed for revenue." In other words, "gee, we haven't screwed anyone over this so far, let's start now!"

  The only historical parallel I could find was to ancient prisons, where the incarceree or his family were required to pay for the privilege of being abused under guard instead of killed outright. Never in my worst nightmares in training had I foreseen being dragged down because I didn't fill out the enemy's admin properly. Nor will I bore you with the petty details. It went on for weeks, every layer of stupidity revealing another. We'd have to wangle supplies, tools, everything we needed clandestinely and illegally, hide the operation and existence thereof, and especially any residue. We were going to need to build lots of heavy weapons on site while appearing to do nothing.

  It was, quite literally, to be an infiltration into a prison, then the instigation of the largest prison riot in history.

  Eventually, we were gigged to go. Everyone was trained to a level I considered acceptable if not ideal, the little gear we would take was ready, the administrative details like wills and such done. Time to kiss the world goodbye and hope it would still be here upon return. The only minor detail left was how to slip 200 people into a societal prison without being seen. That wasn't solely my problem. I'd been working on it for weeks with the Special Projects people. I truly love those devious, scrounging little bastards. Give one of them cr500 and a morning and he'll bring you five fake IDs, employment and banking histories for each and a couple of bombs. It's a talent.

  Meantime, as a unit bonding ritual I planned a feast for everyone. We were looking at what might be our last decent meal in life. It would certainly be our last meal at home for a couple of years. I spent some Residents' fees to set the team up right.

  One of the best places I've found to eat is not one of the headliners in town. In fact, it's reached through an alley. Phill's Mediterranean Grill doesn't advertise. Word of mouth keeps the place packed and a line waiting that sometimes extends out the alley into the street. They don't take reservations. I called Phill. He answered, round faced and sweaty under his traditional chef's hat, spatula in hand. He's the best kind of restaurateur, who does a goodly amount of the work himself, from setup to cooking to cleanup. "Ken!" he said. "It's been what? A year?"

  "About that. How are things?"

  "Busy," he said.

  "Busy is good. Can you do me a favor on reservations?"

  "Sure," he agreed. I'm on the special list. I did him a favor once and he's been very good to me since. And I really appreciate it. Good food always counts highly with me. He paid me off for the favor (heck, I did it for fun. He doesn't owe me, and he knows it. He's just a good guy) years ago. But he keeps paying.

  "I need to bring an entire unit in. Two hundred people."

  "TWO HUNDRED?" he asked, goggling. "I can barely seat that many." The camera followed him while he turned and stirred food.

  "I need them all there at once, not spread out. Can we do it?" I asked.

  "I guess I can close around six that day and let you in at seven, then reopen as you start to leave," he said, nodding.

  "Thanks, Phill. It'll be worth your while. How's Ioday night?"

  "Okay," he agreed. "Will the time work for you?"

  "Works fine. Thanks. See you then," I said.

  "Bye," he said and went back to cooking.

  * * *

  Most of the kids had never been to Phill's. They were in for a treat. He starts at the bottom with chicken, lamb or beef marinated and roasted or skewered and kabobed with pickled beans and vegetables, seasoned rice, feta and peppers washed down with sekanjabin or strawberry daiquiris, and goes all the way up to lobster drowned in wine or whole fresh roasted lamb shanks with cilantro and pepper. Fish, crabs, occasional duck or pheasant are there, too. The servings are generous, the food is never less than excellent and usually perfect, the prices very reasonable and the service can't be beat.

  As I walked in, here came the service. Kirsten is young, energetic and lovely. She smiles lots, pays attention to the customers, and was wearing an outfit that made her easy to find and guaranteed her attention. It was black, had no back and not much front, a skirt short enough to be a tube top and lots of her tanned, toned skin, tattoos, liquid brown eyes and blonde hair. She wore little jewelry. She didn't need it. "Hey!" she said. "You're just in time. I'm leav
ing in two weeks."

  "Oh?" I said. "Where?"

  "Basic training. I enlisted."

  "To do what?" I asked.

  "Jump Point Traffic Controller," she said. Apparently, she was even brighter than she looked. That's no skate job.

  "Good luck," I said. I didn't want to talk further; I had a cover to keep. She nodded thanks and started the menus coming as people trickled in. I ogled her. She was well worth ogling. Slimmer than most but nicely proportioned. Perfect for reminding most of the men and a few of the women why we should do our jobs and come back—to protect people like her.

  I had portabella mushroom ravioli, pork souvlaki and a bean salad to warm up, then the lamb shanks with the herbed potatoes. We plowed through enough food for twice our number, buried a few cakes and pies for dessert, and paid attention to the show. Kirsten's enough to trigger fantasies, but Dagmar . . .

  Dagmar does traditional belly dancing in untraditional costumes. She's an Amazon elf—thin and tall, taller than I. Her garish costume of scarlet and yellow chiffon, lace and silk revealed most of her when she moved, covered her legs when she stood still. But when she stood still it was usually to flex and roll her abdominal muscles, first up and down, then left and right. Those would be the only part of her that moved when she did that, except for her breasts, heaving from exertion, while the beads on the edges of her outfit jingled in perfect waves. Men watching her get instant hints as to what else she might be able to do with muscle control like that, and start groaning. I find her exciting myself, and I have to laugh at the way otherwise totally controlled people melt in her presence.

  The next performer was Dave Frieman. Luckily, he didn't have to try to compete with her looks. His hook is his deep, strong voice and guitar strumming that looks chaotic but is very controlled. He started off with his traditional, "Hi, I'm Dave and I'm a musician," to which the regulars reply, "Hi, Dave," just like at a 12-Step meeting. It gets funnier after that. Most of my kids seemed to be sophisticated enough to get traditional music, and some of them really enjoyed it. He even moved a few of his recordings.

  When we were done, I peeled off Cr6000 in cash for Phill, added a grand for Kirsten and her two assistants for carrying the load and slipped Dave two hundred and Dagmar five hundred from the unit, as well as all the individual tips she was getting. She bowed, hugged me and left a sweaty imprint I could smell all night, then passed the money back to her drummers and bouzouki player.

  After that, we started leaving in small groups. Yes, it was fairly obvious to a trained observer that we were military. But I wanted to at least try to hide the fact that we were out as a unit. As we drifted, it could be just a party for a retirement or anniversary. If we all moved as a unit, it would be obvious that something was up.

  I had booked everyone rooms at various inns, from the Hilton to the Bon Place to the Crown. Basic rooms, but at nice hotels. I'd let everyone draw a thousand for the evening, to gamble, drink, dance and pay for some of the best escorts in town, and made sure to call several of those escorts to let them know to expect some business. I hired one myself; Isabella is a very flexible and exotically dark young lady with quite a repertoire. She left exhausted; I had a lot of frustration to burn off. I don't dance anymore unless I have to but I did check around the clubs to make sure there weren't any major problems. The only minor problem was a pickpocket who tried to lift a wallet from one of my kids, who caught the pressure, turned and flattened him against the wall with his nose mashed to paste. Sergeant Dixon suggested that he wouldn't press a case if the wannabe freelance Marxian would slink off and get his nose fixed quietly, City Safety decided that any claims would be handled without their assistance, and we all left that area post haste.

  Our night of revelry cost the Freehold Residents Cr340,000 for my two hundred killers. Considering our training budget, it was about a day's expense. I hope you who live here won't begrudge us a little relief from the most intense training ever devised. In the end, you got your money's worth.

  Chapter 18

  The infiltration was a bitch. Two hundred Operatives. Even with good cover, that's a lot of insertions and a lot of room for error. And one error would be all it would take.

  I decided to go in in four stages. First would be our twenty-six solo sleepers. They were going in "legitimately" with various jobs for Earth employers or as contractors to Earth employers. I just wish we could have gotten more in that way. They trickled in on commercial flights, with passports that proudly stated "Freehold of Grainne." Actually, our "passports" aren't really such. We have no government agency in charge of such things. So the standard document is purchased from one of our national banks, then after being matched with your photo and thumbprint (we don't require DNA, retinae or any other crap), you take it to be officially recognized by a Citizen. It causes some hassle with certain other governments, notably those on a certain planet with a name that starts with "E" and ends in "arth." Suspicious bunch. Even sworn ID doesn't make them happy.

  There were no repercussions three months after they'd trickled in. That meant I would go next, along with my Continent Element Leaders and our assistants, using the best false ID we could find. After us would come 114 others, with fifty to come later in what would amount to a combat insertion.

  At least I got to travel in comfort. I had only a crappy ID right now, that of an Earth businessman who we'd blackmailed into going along with our program. Seemed he owed a bunch of taxes on Earth, and had a substantial smuggling operation going. Neither of those is of interest to the Freehold, except that it was handy leverage to swap with him. He might eventually get homesick, but he only had to stay out of sight for the duration of my trip, because I would swap ID again once I got there. After that, if he dared show up, any fallout would be on him. We didn't tell him that yet. It might be useful later.

  I went first to Breakout Station, Jump Point One. It's the direct route to Earth. "He" was booked on a berth aboard Earth TranSpace's Shining Star. It docked directly, no transport needed, and I would simply swim in like a moderately experienced civilian and hand over my ticket. So the theory went, anyway.

  I had four days to kill at Breakout, first. I'd never had the chance to actually look around, even after seven trips through it. I decided to be a tourist. It would help me relax.

  I shouldn't have bothered.

  There are bad parts of the Freehold. The cheaper docks and inner passages of Breakout are some of those parts. It comes with the relaxed society.

  There's always stuff being smuggled through our system. It seems odd, but follow: We don't care what comes in, so there's no need to hide manifests, or even bother with manifests. However, a lot of stuff is shipped through without ever officially entering our system. Much of that is illegal either at source or destination. So the shippers thereof like to keep a low profile. Meanwhile, various national police agencies are set up to watch for them. There are paid informants looking for info to sell to the highest bidder. Blackmail, extortion and murder are quite common here, "common" meaning about 3% as bad as in major Earth cities. I looked around me, compared that to what I could expect, and shivered.

  Then, there are the itinerants. There are stranded spacers looking for work, layabouts who drink, smoke or wire themselves into bankruptcy then grab another menial job to get a few more credits to repeat the process, refugees from elsewhere who've heard about how great the Freehold is and move, without planning what to do when they get to the Land of Milk and Honey. They become said layabouts; petty criminals if they weren't already; cheap sex workers, some of them not checked for diseases at system entry because they never officially entered, who aren't very good and bring down both the price and average quality throughout the station; or they become beggars and whine about how unfair it is they were taken in for free with no questions asked but not given all the benefits of the systems they were trying to escape. It's really not worth leaving the official public levels, no matter how much they may cost. It's an example of how one gets what one pa
ys for, on an asymptotic scale. Believe me when I say the bottom end isn't worth it.

  Also remember that any station has stray rats and cats and we don't have health inspectors for restaurants. Every dive is "Certified," but unless you know who certified them, it simply means they paid some money to someone. Raw capitalism on the edge of society is not for the beginning tourist. I went back to my pricey and paid-for suite near the surface and stayed there until ship call.

  Somewhere, the dice were tossed and came up in my favor. I swam aboard unchallenged and unbothered, other than having to show my ID to the crewman on duty. I scanned clean and headed aft.

  My stateroom was inboard down a passageway lined with plain gray polymer. It was just big enough for a single bunk with emergency harness, an emgee shower stall and toilet and a comm. The comm was a joke. Being Earth-based, it was free. Being Earth-based, its access was crap. Nothing "objectionable," "dangerous," "malicious," etc. is allowed. On paper, the UN has free speech. It's subject to "sensible" limitations. So as long as you don't say anything nasty about other races, religions, creeds, the political party currently running the show, figures with enough political clout to complain, anything to do with rebellion, anything unpleasant about a government agent or agency, anything to do with weapons, explosives, hazardous chemicals, keypass forgery, comm cracking or encryption decoding, among others, you can say, print, or broadcast anything you want, subject to licensing agreements with your service provider, the UN Communications Authority and any UN agency that decides it has jurisdiction over you.

  Hell, that was everything I'd based my life on. I couldn't say a damned thing.

  The "entertainment" available on this terminal wasn't, so I played mind games, using it as a chance to rehearse the Evasion and Escape techniques to stop one from going mad as a POW, which I just might need. That task was made tougher because the bed really was comfortable, and easier because the food was about average for Earth, or slightly better than combat rations served amid greasy, smoking, flyblown bodies. Luckily, it was only one day to jump and ten days to Earth orbit. I stayed quiet and pretended to work in my cabin. That was normal for Earthies, so no one noticed. Nor did they notice the few packages of civilized food I'd brought with me. They'd be my last for a long time or forever.