The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Turn that shit off!" I shouted. Tyler waved her hand and did so.

  I was seeing everything tinged in red through my rage. Not only had they attacked a tiny nation with overwhelming force, the cowards had used weapons of mass destruction, then had the sheer gall to claim they were "liberating" us from oppressors . . . oppressors who were a tiny minority because they had to prove their dedication by risking their lives and then coughing up their personal fortunes as ransom. The cleanest member of the UN wasn't fit to lick the shit off the boots of our least worthy Citizen. And since our Citizens surrendered their wealth to serve, what "assets of the ruling class" could they possibly refer to? And we don't "grant" rights. Human beings derive the rights they wish from nature, by their willingness to defend them.

  Hell with the philosophy. It was a vicious military attack, an immoral theft of our history and culture, and outright lies designed to make us appear savage thugs. It was an absolute reversal of the truth.

  I did my duty then, as much as it hurt me to do so. "We will continue with the mission until we get orders otherwise, or lose contact." It was an order second only to Mtali as the hardest one I'd ever given, even as simple as it was. Because inside I wanted to slag the entire fucking planet right then.

  We all went to bed. I doubt anyone slept. I know I didn't. All I could do was think about the situation. Naumann had been correct again. He was always correct. It was uncanny his grasp of events and outcomes. Now I had the fate of at least two planets in my hands, and what I decided to do would determine how many people lived or died.

  * * *

  The rhetoric continued in the press. It seemed we were guilty of being successful.

  It came back to economics again. The standard way of colonizing a system, once one had been found that was either inhabitable or terraformable was to send a science ship through to set up the Jump Point, then start shoveling gear through. As the science ship has to travel at sublight speed, this takes several years.

  Then Freehold-based Brandt StarDrive Systems had developed the Phase Drive, allowing a ship thus equipped to translate to star drive without a Jump Point. They were expensive as hell: the year we started equipping our military ships with them, all other budgetary concerns were chopped to the bone. Very few civilian operations could afford them, but any who could were securing loans and buying drives. They intended to exploit the opportunity by finding as many planets as possible, taking the Jump Point gear with them, and basically owning a system. It made sense. It would help the human race expand.

  The key was that word "exploit," which on Earth means "someone is doing better than I am, and that cannot be allowed because it isn't fair." Never mind that these operations were risking their fortunes and their lives on these jaunts. It wasn't "fair," that recurring whine of neofeudalists, liberals, terrorists and children. Life is supposed to be fair? I'd never been told that.

  Beyond that was the fact that every year, more businesses moved to the Freehold, at least our Halo, because the low taxes and minimal regulations made business easier. It's called "supply and demand," and we discussed it earlier. We supplied a friendly business environment. They demanded it and paid for it. That's why we had almost no unemployment, and certainly not in the technical fields, and a tremendous R&D base for a small nation.

  Yes, we were rich, getting richer, and all the UN propaganda couldn't hide that from the Masses. We were a threat and had to go.

  * * *

  On Earth, we continued our preparations. One of the reasons we'd picked an industrial operation as a cover was so we could get supplies. I'd never encountered societal paranoia as it existed here. Explosives are strictly controlled. Firearms are restricted. In theory, they are banned, but you can get them if you can afford one, the license to go with it, the "safe" to store it in against the theft that wouldn't happen if they weren't so rare and prized, if you can pass the psychological test, are single or in a "stable" relationship, because of course you might kill someone during a breakup, don't belong to a "questionable" group (any group the current politicos don't like) and if you can get a politician to authorize it. Translation: rich, politically connected suckups have guns and bodyguards. Peasants can beg for mercy and hope not to get their brains splattered. This is what Earth defines as "reasonable."

  You'd think it stopped there. I'd thought it stopped there. Apparently, denied a market source of weapons, criminals arranged to have them built. Therefore, steel, ceramics, certain polymers, industrial mills, lathes and heat treating furnaces, laser, fusion, particle and force beam tools and chemicals that might be turned into propellants or explosives (any acid or nitrate and it got worse from there) requires licensing, certificates and inspections. You have to account for every scrap of the stuff.

  So Kimbo's persona got investigated by a bureaurat to determine his fitness to handle materials for maintenance. He put on a good show, we bribed the suit with a case of liquor and some cash, and Tyler made the ultimate sacrifice and met him in a hotel room after he hinted. Worse than her life, she sacrificed her dignity. But we needed that authorization. I would have had sex with him myself to get his signature, if necessary. Six weeks later, we had a license for power equipment and restricted materials, even though we weren't a manufacturer. We would absolutely toe the line with that, using it as a cover for the materials we acquired elsewhere.

  * * *

  The news didn't get better. Marshal Dyson, our Commander in Chief, was brought back to Earth and imprisoned, pending charges. Not "pending trial," but "pending charges." Holding someone without charging them was a violation of the UN Charter. That didn't apply to us, though, since we weren't UN members. It was a legal gray area that I grudgingly had to admit was yet to be defined by the courts.

  What was utterly outrageous was our captured troops who were being charged with "rebellion and sedition." They were soldiers in uniform, under orders from what had been a recognized government. Under the Geneva, Hague and Mars Conventions, they could be charged with war crimes for atrocities that violated the Conventions, but not for the civil "crime" of "rebellion." Of course they were rebelling by definition.

  A large number, meaning a few hundred, of UN troops were being captured. They were not being exchanged, we were told. That was ludicrous. Our people would certainly swap one for one our captives for theirs. We couldn't afford to lose the troops we had. It would be to the UN's advantage not to swap prisoners. That would explain the illegal criminal charges against our people. But why make a stink about there then not being a swap? Something wasn't right there.

  Kimbo was turning out assorted complex chemicals that were the basis of several hyper explosives and chemical weapons. All were being stored in the ceramic-lined drums he'd gotten authorization for. The small tools he had were cover as maintenance gear, but were actually being used to manufacture valves and delivery apparati. We lived in constant fear of either discovery, or an accident that would kill us. And we still had to continue business as usual. We were working 19- or 20-hour days, 7 days per Earth week, and it started to show. I reduced us to a maximum of 18 waking hours. We needed sleep.

  One morning, a news load arrived that shocked us. Behind the reporter's preening face, we could actually see Jefferson.

  It looked like hell.

  Fires had gutted large parts of downtown. Traffic was mostly on foot due to damage to the roads and bridges. All air traffic had been grounded, forcing what was moving to squeeze about on the damaged roads. The signs of population looked very light. Those I could see looked drab and sad, much like the wretched peasants I lived among now. In short, it looked like something from 500 years in the past.

  Then the reporter spoke of the "progress" that was being made . . .

  They had destroyed my home, and dared to tell me it was for the good.

  I swore at that moment that when the time came, I would make Earth pay a thousand times over.

  That evening, it was just Deni and me in the office. I stared out the window at spa
ttering rain and gray clouds, lost in my thoughts, and wasn't even aware of what I was pondering until her voice interrupted me.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked.

  I drifted back to the surface and replied, "That I want this op over with so we can go home. This is a sentence in hell."

  "The place?" she asked. "Or the mission?"

  "Yes," I replied. I had my head in one widespread hand. I felt better with my eyes covered.

  "It must be hard on you, Ken," she said. "You're carrying the entire stress load of everyone, as well as your own."

  I straightened up and nodded. "I keep waiting for one of these mistakes to get us nailed, for us to be caught by someone bright enough or dogged enough to follow up, who's dedicated to the cause of universal order. And then we're dead." I stared at her. She was tense about something. I could see it in her face, expressions familiar despite the sculpting that had been done.

  Our fingers near each other suddenly touched, then wove together, then along each other's arms. "It's been a strain . . ." she started to say, and tapered off.

  We drew back from each other. I knew exactly what we both wanted, and knew why it was a bad idea, and why nothing else would get us to relax, and why that relaxation would cause more problems than it would solve. I stood up and walked toward the window. Not much could be seen through most of the panes even before water rippled down them, but I could pretend I wasn't thinking what my body was thinking.

  Then she was behind me, touching my back with a static discharge and her voice breathing through my nerves, "Ken . . ."

  I followed her.

  Deni's reaction was so unlike her. She was always passionate and intimate, but this was different. No sooner had I closed the door to my room behind me than she was inside my clothes and her mouth was on me. Then she pulled them off me completely, and stripped while still working me.

  I suppose "frantic" is the word. She insisted I take her hard, and we kissed and touched and clutched at each other. Body hair does not improve oral pleasure either, but we didn't care. Then I was inside her again, eyes locked and thrusting muscles against each other. From training and solitude and long experience that was too far behind us, we felt each other build. The raging staccato rhythm of raindrops on the roof above matched our mutual climax. Orgasm stopped any worries, for a brief time.

  I was still flushed after a shower, and was sitting on the couch contemplating sex and strategy. And yes, the two are related, except in one the conquest is over emotion, in the other over reason. Thumping on the stairs and a knock announced Tyler's return.

  I was sure our indiscretion was obvious, especially when Deni came from the bathroom toweling her hair. We both had that sated aura, and that mated aura.

  "Been quiet here?" Tyler asked, looking back and forth between us.

  "Just the rain," I replied, trying to sound neither tense nor relaxed, but conversational. A news load was on, but I wasn't watching it.

  Deni said, "Could have showered outside and saved water."

  "Okay," she nodded, and handed me a ramchip. "That's what I have," she said. "Still not a word from back home. It's looking bad, Boss."

  "So we continue to wait," I told her. "We don't want to move too soon, or without orders. It might be some months."

  "'Months,'" she replied. She continued, shrugging, "Well, if that's what it takes, I can let the back pay pile up."

  She gave us both another appraising glance as she headed for her room.

  * * *

  One of the dangerous mundane duties was depositing our business funds to the bank every week. While most of the transactions were automatic, a few were run in person and a few more were done by cash card. Cash cards are like cash in that whoever possesses one can acquire the funds. Theoretically, it can be either traced or, if an anonymous card, blocked if stolen. In actuality the possessor has the funds. So every week one of us was subject to being dragged by gangers while making the deposit.

  Officially, the government advises one to "discourage clients from using cash. Vary the schedule of deposit times. Consider paying a courier company to make the deposits . . ." Well, we needed the money that would be used to pay a courier. Since we were all Operatives, we did our own security.

  We saw no problem with that. Another piece of their advice was to "consider a health and fitness class to give you more confidence against crime." I'm not sure what "confidence" someone in great shape is supposed to have against punks with clubs, but we've already established that they were illogical and morally corrupt. We took weapons, though camouflaged ones.

  I enjoyed my monthly turn of taking the funds in. It gave me time alone, and time to think. I'd dress in local casual style and drive down. I'd at first expected to deliver the envelope to a drive through facility. Apparently, however, those are closed after normal business hours. Something about bombs and feces in the chutes, and the few personnel at 24-hour facilities being killed. Sufficient security was too expensive to justify it. So they didn't do it. And only a paranoid nut would think he needed a weapon to defend himself. Besides, it's not worth a fight over mere money, or so they said.

  And no, we couldn't wait until the next business day to do it. By law, we had to have all funds in the bank before midnight. Don't ask me, because I don't know.

  I only ever had one problem, and I rather enjoyed it. Call me an atavist.

  I arrived at the bank and parked. The lot was empty, as I'd waited until the last minute. It had been well lit at one time, but someone had smashed the lights. It was a perfect place to be attacked. There was no one immediately visible, but I grabbed my stylish walking stick anyway. It was one of the things the cops had trouble objecting too, as it could be considered a medical aid, yet it could still serve as a weapon. Officially, I should have a prescription. In actuality, at worst they'd seize it.

  The weather was clear, so visibility was good. There was enough traffic noise, however, that I couldn't hear any potential threats. I started the fifteen meter walk around the formerly decorative flower island, now dead and full of weeds, with my senses aware for anything.

  And here they came. Why alleys and convolutions are allowed, with the threats they can hide, I don't know. It could be a conspiracy. It's more likely stupidity. There were only five of them, but at their pace, they'd be at my vehicle before I could get back. They were armed with those little kitchen knives, hard polymer knuckles and pipes or cables with tape wrapped as crude grips. Talk about your Homo habilis. The hope was that I'd drop the package and run. Barring that, they could "Teach me a lesson" if I delivered it, by beating the shit out of me and trashing my vehicle. I opted for the latter, sort of, and slid the envelope into the narrow slot that was just wide enough to hold it. The vacuum handling tools took it, and peeled off the polymer coating that protected the envelope proper and contents from the shit that had already been pointlessly smeared across the opening. I turned to walk back to the car just as the zeros arrived there.

  "You better have a card, scrotebreath," one of them said. It's culturally traditional to have a cash card you can drop as you run. Yes, the locals reinforce the bad behavior by wimping out and paying the thugs. And as long as they do so, it will continue to happen. I was about to do them all a favor.

  "Nope," I said. "Sorry. Now let me get to my car, please."

  "You'll remember next time, asshole," the spokesman said as he charged me.

  Of course, I was unarmed . . . mostly. You recall I was carrying a walking stick.

  Well, it wasn't just a walking stick. Did I forget to say it had been made by Kimbo? Clumsy of me. It was solid carbon crystal pipe as used in starship fuel systems, rated for some ungodly pressure. It contained 150 grams of mercury in a vacuum. It was tipped with bronze, also. What I had was a disguised mace and then some.

  As they approached, I lifted it slightly, holding it to check and block. The first one came in boldly, trying to psychologically overpower me. I flattened the stick at my side and drove it forward. The
head hit him in the breastbone, then the mercury slammed home. He went, "Guuuhhh!" and staggered back, clutching his chest and falling to his knees. I caught him a glance with the tip as I brought it up, and when it came down, the tip cracked his skull . . . then that mercury thumped again. He wouldn't be getting up.

  Moron number two was standing looking dumb, and I swung sideways, smacking him in the nose and letting the mercury do the work, then jabbing back the other way to catch a third asshole in the trachea. He gurgled and dropped. I came overhead, gripped it like a ball bat, and made a delayed swing, holding my wrists until the last moment then exploding into the turn with a snap. I timed it just right, and the bronze finial smacked into another clown's head just as the mercury arrived for backup. I won't bother you with the gory details, except to say that he would need plastic surgery before his casket was opened for the viewing.

  I slid the shaft back in my hand, stepped forward and smashed it like a ram into the ribs of the last goof, then again. I dropped the tip and drove it down onto his right instep. In training, this thing broke bricks. On his foot, it was spectacular, and his shoe pulped open. The head smacked his chin as I brought it up, breaking his jaw, and I stepped over and kept walking. Ten seconds later I was driving away. It actually was an accident that I drove over the shin of one of them.