The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  I'd been surprised that Immigration wasn't taken care of as soon as we entered Sol System. It wasn't taken care of in orbit, either. No, every habitat and each major port on Earth each have their own Immigration office, where one would suffice if placed right. I won't complain. We exploited that weakness to slip a few people in.

  So I transshipped to a shuttle, also clean and neat if old, with gee couches at least ten years out of date. The ride down was professional if a bit bumpy. We mated with the service tube and I stood. The gravity was a bit low. The air was rather thick and pungent, but I decided it would improve once I got out. I joined the shuffling heel-to-toe throng and made my way out. Directly ahead was my first gauntlet. I took a deep breath of thick, strong air and walked forward, smiling as a returning resident should.

  I was near the front of the pack and handed over my perfectly forged North American passport to the nearest agent. At least I hoped it was perfectly forged. There wasn't anywhere I could escape if caught. I ran my right hand and its implanted ID chip past the scanner. No beeps or lights. Good.

  I nodded as the agent took my booklet. He glanced inside and said, "Hello, Mister Lesce. How was your trip?" It was a formality, and a test.

  I replied, "Trip was okay, I guess. I'm just glad to be down."

  "Yeah, there's nowhere like Earth," he said, flipping pages and touching every fourth or fifth to light up the coding for a closer look.

  Thank God and Goddess for that, I thought. "No, there isn't," I said.

  "Anything to declare?" he asked.

  "Nope. I never do," I replied.

  "I see that," he said, nodding but with a slight frown. Shit, now would not be a good time for them to decide to investigate. A good smuggler would have brought gifts through now and then, and occasionally paid a duty. Not this idiot. We'd caught him and we weren't even concerned about the issue. Earth was going to get him sooner or later.

  "Well, welcome home," my warder said.

  "Thanks," I replied noncommittally, while grabbing my passport and leaving quickly.

  I knew I was on Earth as soon as I entered the terminal. I started seeing porkers.

  Now, I know some people have weight problems. Fine. Ten kilos, twenty, even twenty five over "norm" is not uncommon, and not necessarily unhealthy. Some people can't exercise, some have hormonal issues, it happens. My fetish is for lean, powerful women, but I've seen some very attractive women who were rounder and soft. Well and good. Some few people exceed that for debilitating medical problems, and it's more common in emgee habitats where exercise is damned near impossible. You can see that they are either ill, or that they have a functioning musculature underneath the excess mass acquired from environmental factors.

  On Earth, you find brontosauri. Beached whales. Gastropods. Self-propelled stomachs. We're talking fifty, a hundred, even two hundred kilos overweight. It is obscene. They're huge, they're ponderous, and the body's systems simply can't keep up with the strain—they reek of ketones and other aromatics that are fermenting inside them. The fabric it takes to clothe one of them would build enough tents for an entire Bedouin village.

  It's worse: they're considered to be "differently abled." That's a bullshit word that means "disabled." They can't do what most people can (like fit through doors), so they get exemptions. They're given priority parking so they don't "strain" themselves, thereby getting less exercise than they do already. They get wheelchairs, and powered ones at that, so they don't even have to work their flabby arms. Businesses have to provide special chairs for them to sit on, because regular ones break. They need taller chairs, because they can't heave themselves up out of regular seating.

  There was a whole family of them sitting in the first restaurant outside the gate. Their problem was obvious: they were slopping like pigs. I spend close to three Earth hours a day at hard exercise, carry massive amounts of stuff constantly and move around on foot most of the day. I could not eat at a sitting what the poor little kid sentenced to live in this family was shoveling into his gut. His gut, I might add, that he had to reach over to get to the food. His gut that caused him to throw his shoulders back and bend his spine to maintain balance. He wasn't yet six Earth years, and his life was ruined. The only "medical" problem I could see here was that they hadn't had their jaws wired shut.

  The myth is that it's a "genetic" disorder, and we should feel sorry for these poor, sick people. Well, I don't and I'll tell you why. You find them virtually only on Earth. Specifically, in North America. If it were truly genetic, you'd find them localized to one specific isolated group, and North America is a hodgepodge of immigrants from elsewhere. Or else it would be universal—we have millions of people of North American extraction in the Freehold. We don't have even one percent of the blubber-laden hippos I saw on Earth. So it's not genetic, it's cultural. It's true of the best-fed, best-gadgeted, laziest society on the planet. They are disgusting slugbodies because the only exercise they get is feeding their chops. The best thing the environmentalists could do would be to make them lumber on treadmills to reduce their mass and generate electrical power. Sweating off a few gallons of aromatic hydrocarbons would increase their lifespans, too.

  I looked at a man, if you could call it that, packing away just for lunch more calories than Deni and I together would consume after an assault exercise with full gear, and wanted to heave at the sight of his pallid, quivering, bucolic slushpile of a corpse. I could render him down for enough fat for a hundred liters of soap and a few hundred old-style tallow candles. His skin would make drumheads for an entire percussion section of an orchestra. Never mind the Bedouin village; I've seen regimental headquarters based out of tents smaller than his pants. My sick mind had a momentary vision of him and his roly-poly wife slapping meat as they bumped uglies, if they could get close enough to actually mate, and I turned away, feeling ill. That was how my trip started. It went downhill from there.

  I joined a seething morass of drab, wretched humanity who were all buttoned and tied and zipped into shapeless clothes, and headed for the outside. A bare flicker of my eyes to keep alert to my surroundings brought home to me the overwhelming sameness of everyone. Similar modes of dress, makeup, accoutrements, shoes, reading material and expression. It was like one of those bad movies where a hive intelligence takes over and controls everyone, only here it was an unintelligence. The dull looks betrayed little intellect, and those few who had any were no doubt hiding it.

  Before I realized, I was outside. A deep breath did not help. I don't know how anyone figures the atmosphere of Earth is safe to breathe, because it's revolting. Air should have a bare tang of ozone after a storm, the hint of flowers and trees later, the rich odor of warm, healthy soil, and maybe a suggestion of nearby human activity.

  What I got was a lungful of crap. There were particulates, from what I'm not sure, since IC engines have been banned for centuries and even turbines are restricted. Maybe it was just dust churned up by the herd. I restrained myself from coughing although my lungs burned. The stench of industry and city was obscene. The sky was murky, and it wasn't from fog. Note that this is despite the massive pollution control regulations they have.

  I found a public phone and called for a reservation at a sleep cheap. It wasn't that hard to find a phone at the spaceport. Elsewhere, it could be a bitch. It was assumed that everyone carried a personal phone, at least in North America. It's only because you can't take electronics aboard craft or into government buildings that they have public ones handy.

  I took a cab. I had to. Despite the megablocks of huge scrapers and habitat buildings on Earth, the ports are kept separate, just as they are anywhere. So my first intrusion was fairly normal in that regard. The cab (automatic, no driver) pulled out, locked into the pattern and cruised to the highway, then sped up and headed for town. Then I was trying not to gawk like a yokel.

  Jefferson is near two million people. It's the third largest single city on Grainne, though the sprawl along the west coast and around the bay where Jef
ferson is are populous but broad. Taniville, our largest, is almost five million with suburbs. Washington-Baltimore is near ten million people. I knew it intellectually, but it was still a shock to see. Greater New York was near seventy million, and I could only wonder what it looked like.

  Ahead of me, buildings rose from the sky. It wasn't that murky, I decided, just hazy. But the buildings were huge blocks. Close to 400 meters square or more, some close to 1000 meters tall, they were squat and blocky, unlike the delicate spires in Jefferson. They were simply storage boxes for population. But they were impressive. I lost count at twenty as the cab took the long curve toward the wretched hive.

  I was glad most of our ops would be outside those edifices. It was too damned easy to block them off. And in fact, that would be one of our tactics for the battle. We'd block people in and drive them into panicking. Then they'd commit random destruction for us. I made a lot of mental notes as I traveled.

  Soon enough, the Sun set behind me. It was a rather boring sunset. Sure, the sky darkened and got pinkish in the west, but there was none of the brilliant blues and violets, the scorching ruddy oranges and radiant yellow clouds we get. And that star is just dull and yellow. I see why our first settlers were so enthused, despite the higher gravity and more variable seasons. Or maybe because of them. Our climate is more vigorous, more exciting, more vital than Earth's.

  The cab pulled off the highway, switched to a local controller and slid into the pack of vehicles on the streets. They moved in synchronized blocks, bare centimeters apart on the main thoroughfares. I understood why they had the control systems they did. No human could handle that crush of vehicles efficiently. So when we took out that control, it would be an instant block to escape. We'd have them bottled up.

  I was thinking that it couldn't be this easy. No one would make a system that was so vulnerable to attack. Then my training caught back up with me. This was just a larger scale, but people are still idiots when taken in quantity. This wasn't going to be a hard job at all.

  The buildings out here were older, smaller, no more than three or four per 160 meter block. The blocks here were still based on the old "mile," which is a bit more than 1600 meters. so major blocks are a mile, the ones in between are 0.1 miles. All my studying was roaring through my brain. It was as if I were split in two—one of me present, the other watching the vid and analyzing.

  So I looked at these buildings, mostly with attached rather than floating signs, the signs of various types—self lit, remote lit, holographic, translucent—and often at odds with building architecture. It was a slightly older area. I saw my hotel and got my bag ready.

  The cab pulled over and stopped. I got out and was under an awning. There was a security guard there, and he was one of the elite; he was armed. He had a stun baton and a single-shot stickyweb gun. His physique and mental acuity made his proficiency subject to debate, but it was one more reminder of the weird place I was. The message here was "You're not safe, you need protection. But that protection can't be competent or armed, because it might threaten someone. We don't trust him, even though he's here to protect you." I just nodded at him, he nodded back, and I walked inside.

  He was the only person visible on the premises. I checked in automatically, was issued a slip with a keycode, and went to my room. It was a box with a bed and a shelf, the everpresent comm with minimal net access, a small bathroom stall that was adequate and sanitary but hardly pleasant. That was it. No window, no features. I slipped out of my shoes, lay down on the bed, and left my bag at hand. I would need to nap now so I could be up early for my appointment.

  Chapter 19

  Citizen Ambassador Janine Maartens had wangled the slot on Earth. That was good for me for several reasons—personal knowledge of the person, she had good capabilities, was practical and would be easier to beg, cajole and/or threaten for the things I'd need.

  Her office was done in earthtones again, warm and pleasant and soft. It was a nice suite, spacious but with enough seating for functions. Her comm was properly secured, I noted with approval, and the door was locked. I was sitting on her couch when she walked into her office, the door in front of me and between me and the desk. "Good morning, Citizen," I cheerfully said.

  She whirled, reaching for her pistol while yelping in surprise. "God and Goddess, Chinran, don't do that again!" she snapped as she recognized me, while lowering her posture. "How the blazes did you get in here?"

  "Professional secret, ma'am," I told her. The security was pretty good. I'd almost given up and used the rear service gate, but had finally slipped in. They almost caught me, too. That wouldn't have been too problematical; I knew the Operatives assigned there, after all, as well as several of the others. Then again, that was part of the reason I'd snuck in. I didn't need rumors of my presence floating around.

  Shaking her head, she said, "You are really something. What exactly, I'm not sure. Now, what's going on?"

  "I can't tell you exactly. But is my exchange ready?"

  "Yes, he is," she said. "Shall we do this here and now then?"

  "I'd appreciate it," I agreed.

  She called in the staff physician, who didn't know me, was told to forget I existed, and to forget the whole morning while he was at it. Also along was a defector.

  Theodore Marquette was about my size and looks, which was a help. He'd hinted in the right places that he didn't like the system he lived under, and wanted out. Arrangements were made. He would leave Earth for the Freehold, then to Caledonia, while I took his place.

  He sat down silently, as he'd been ordered, and the doc pulled his implant locator, sterilized the case of the tiny black bead, and inserted it into my hand. I forewent the anesthesia as a psychological ploy. It hurt intensely, but the expressions on their faces as my expression didn't twitch gave me the opening I needed. The surgeon left at once, and I turned to Marquette.

  I said, "I want you to remember that if you let this slip, the UN will be after you as much as after me. As a defector involved in espionage, you can imagine how angry they'll be."

  He nodded. The government-as-the-omnipresent-deity mindset was still with him. He'd be some months losing it, and I was confident he'd say nothing in the interim. It was if . . . when . . . the war started that there might be a risk. That's why we'd arranged him a job in a remote habitat of Caledonia. It paid well, was away from anyone likely to notice, would help him feel secure, and made it hard for him to talk.

  With little else to say, we slipped him enough cash to make him nervous all over again, and shoved him out to depart with a courier who was another Operative. We'd use a lot of Operatives and Blazers for this job, but only certain ones would be staying behind.

  I turned back to Maartens and said, "You'll understand in a few months, Citizen. I'm sorry I can't be more informative than that."

  "I'll deal with it, 'Mister Marquette,'" she said with a wry smile. "I'll have the rest of your profile changed accordingly in a few weeks. Try not to get arrested between now and then."

  "Count on it, ma'am," I said. "And here's a shopping list. You'll be contacted as indicated on the codes. Please use this hardcopy and do not file it elsewhere. It stays in your code case for destruction if threatened."

  "Very well. Anything else, sir?" she asked in half humor, half bother.

  "That's it. I'll be leaving now. Could you make sure I have an unobstructed trip to the loading door?"

  "Since it will get you out of my hair faster, yes," she said.

  I left.

  * * *

  That night, I stayed in Marquette's apartment. His neighbors, as with everybody, took no notice. It was almost impossible to be noticed here. Even if people did see something suspicious, they were so afraid of either revenge when you got out of jail after a week or two (why bother detaining people if you aren't going to either rehabilitate them or keep them away from society?) or that the cops would pick on them for some violation that they'd not complain. You could be loud, rude, violent, even reckless with
fire or vehicles and not a word was said. It was downright dangerous on Earth. I was lucky he had a "nice" apartment. And I was lucky they wouldn't notice my long absences. This was looking easier all the time. All I had to do was keep quiet until everyone was here, and get to work.

  I couldn't speak highly of the apartment. It was allegedly a "pretty nice" area, he'd told us. Either he had screwed up standards, or North America did. "Pretty nice" apartments don't reek of garbage and urine in the elevators. Any holes punched in the walls should be repaired so as not to show. Insects and other pests should be rare. The appliances should be less than 20 years old and the plumbing should deliver fresh, clear water without texture and flush everything away the first time.

  I could have called him to ask. He was still at the Embassy, but would be moved out in a day or two. I'd feel safer then. Meantime, it wasn't an important enough issue to call about. The call might be traced. Besides, I'm an Operative. I've slept worse places.

  The rest of the advance party of the North American section slipped in over the next few days. Each day, I would stop at a library or café and check that day's prearranged comm address for messages. Tyler checked in as a returning college student. The actual student from Eastern Capital University on Grainne had been offered a chance to do geological studies at a remote site, and was whisked off after a note to her parents not to expect her. Tyler had a duplicate chip and had made clandestine flight arrangements. It was another case of risk. Her family didn't expect her home or to call often, the government had no reason to expect her on Earth, but also no reason to look for her or notice the discrepancy.