The Weapon by Michael Z. Williamson
It worked fine for nearly a month. We stormed village after village. Some cowed readily into submission. We were not merely death, we were inhuman. Their superstition did the work. Some villages we found were led by fanatical leaders or terrified into collaborating with local bullies. In those we delivered justice, carrot and sticked them into acquiescing and made note to follow up later. Some we subjected to punitive action—we'd leave people rifles for hunting and defense, but took any support weapons and killed a few as object lessons.
It got much quieter. Fighting dropped more than 90% in that month. We'd shown these peasants that there were people out there more ruthless and callous than they, with technology they didn't even realize existed.
Then we came to, well, I'm not going to name the village. Better that it never have existed. They'd boated upriver and wiped out a village for "polluting" their water with their pagan waste, etc. It was a typical "DEATH TO FANATICS!" incident. These people revolted me.
I often wonder why people settle some of the desolate holes they do, or bother with rat mazes like Earth at all. I'll never question why people live in Landing District on Mtali. It was all lush and green and pretty, and had a pristine cleanness to it. I wondered how such nut jobs could live here and maintain their mindset. It was the type of place to put me at ease.
The village was a fishery. It was beautiful. Thick, humid mist, redolent with the smell of rich earth and a slight bite of decaying fish, dark green leaves dipping into waters as smooth as oil, and small frame houses on stilts against flooding, that seemed to fit perfectly into a cluster for a photo. I could retire in such a pastoral place.
Then I'd get bored and install a weapons range and resort hotel and casino. The spaceport would go over there, and the boat tours . . .
Not for me to live in, but it was gorgeous just the same.
We'd seen it on a river patrol, wearing standard Blazer green for the environment, and heading upstream fast. We took our intel photos (we took photos of everything. My squad alone took over two million during our tour) and kept going. Now we were coming back.
There were no roads; this place was reachable only by boat, as it had steep bluffs behind it and swamp upstream. So we came in from the edge of the swamp. It would be that much more surprising to them.
It was different from the "back" or land side. The backs of the houses were ragged and dilapidated. Trash was piled around; they were too lazy to even toss it in the river. Everything was filthy and worn out.
I will never understand what compelled people to do this. The Travelers, Mennonites and Seekers I've met eschew technology on religious grounds, but are clean, hardworking and industrious. They are peaceful, love what they do (okay, so Deni hated it. Note that they let her leave) and are a delight to meet. These sects on the other hand seemed to take religion as an excuse to be filthy animals. I suppose you get out of it what you put into it.
We swarmed in amid the huts and jacked them up. It was becoming a routine for us. That was likely my first mistake.
As we rounded them up, they started berating and trying to shove us. One brave fool grabbed the muzzle of Martin's weapon and tried to pull it away. Martin, being surprised, shot him in reflex as he pulled the weapon back.
The splash of gore was unbelievable. The local had grasped the top of the receiver and under the grenade launcher. As a result, the muzzle was aimed right at his heart. The hypervelocity slug hit the pressurized, fluid-filled sac and burst it. Blood gouted front and back and the man gurgled and died.
It was a signal to his buddies, who all tried to attack or run for weapons. Three of them actually held their own children hostage, knives at throats. I ordered, "Deni! Joel! Take them now!" Three shots coughed and three heads exploded. The children screamed and ran, but were rounded up by Second Team at the perimeter.
The shrieks and squawls went on as Deni took Weapons around to check the other houses. Someone shot back at her. He missed her but got Rudy. The shot tore fabric from his sleeve and caught him a nick. Donnie yelled at them to drop and thumped four grenades through the plywood walls of the source. The resulting explosions were impressive, a continual string of bangs.
This wasn't surgery, it was butchery. Two more had tried to reach a boat. Barto sawed the stern off with his squad weapon. One of the idiots drew a pistol. Barto cut him down, too and the burst continued into his buddy.
We finally got them into a group, but it was too late. We'd lost our superhuman effect with a minor wound and a struggle. I didn't realize it at that moment, but it was at the back of my brain, warning me that something had gone dreadfully awry.
"Who's in charge?" I asked.
"I am, defiler of pigs," a fat, bald, bearded man shouted. "May Allah visit you a thousand deaths."
"If your friends hadn't been stupid, they'd still be alive. Their suicide is not my problem." And with that statement it got worse; I'd tried to justify myself. I was human to them.
Negotiations got nowhere. The headman frothed louder with every response. "I shall return Allah's vengeance upon six villages for what you have done today!"
I did what I should have done at his first act of defiance, under the circumstances. I shot him. A sadistic part of me made me aim right through his throat and blow his spine out the back, so his head tumbled free ahead of a crimson gush.
"Who's next?" I asked. Then it hit me.
They weren't crying in anguish. They weren't begging. They were enraged, self-righteous and murderous. I couldn't let them survive.
I tried. The deputy, likely the fat bastard's son from the look of him, turned defiantly and said, "We shall kill ten infidels for every outrage you have committed."
"Then I'll kill you all," I replied.
"Allah will not allow it. ALLAHU AKBAR!" he shouted and charged. I dropped him.
There was nothing doing. They had sold out, they felt no remorse, and were more than willing to do so again. From a local view, I could kill the adults, resettle the children, and be done. From a strategic view, if I let any survive, I would be admitting that I was less than the ultimate justice. That would weaken my previous efforts. The children would remember, and when they grew up they'd seek out vengeance and the cycle would continue. And the body count these sick scum had already racked up was revolting.
"Kill them all," I rasped quietly, punctuating it with a shot. It was the hardest, most degrading, most horrifying thing I'd ever done.
I wanted not to look, but had to, to ensure my aim. And because it was my responsibility . . . I started with the children.
Eighty-seven lives as an object lesson to save thousands over the next few years, tens of thousands long term in this district, hundreds of thousands or millions over the course of the future of this planet. Sound logical? Then you point a rifle at a three-year-old and pull the trigger.
I felt as if I were dreaming, floating . . . my head spun as if drunk or fatigued. All I could hear, all I could see was the cough of bullets and the splats of impact. The logic was inescapable.
Sometimes, logic is a barbed stick up your ass.
I was crying, tears gushing down my cheeks as I blubbered like a . . . well, a child, after we finished. We turned silently and strode back out as Johnny Squid and Geoff torched the buildings. We needed to leave for our safety and our sanity. We could not not follow through with the killing, or our reputation as superhuman phantasms would be ruined. We had to be so ruthless, so above humanity, that no one would dare ever ask, "What if we don't do as they say?" But if someone called our bluff, as these people had . . . we had to follow through.
We were perhaps a hundred meters into the forest when it hit me. I swayed, blotches in front of my eyes, pulse hammering in my ears, and leaned forward in the mud, on all fours, just in time to hhuuurrrrllll. I puked, puked again, mouth wide, and heaved on empty space and abused muscles. I had to have cleared not just my stomach, but my upper intestines. I strangled on saliva and bile and acid and rolled sideways in a paroxysm of coughing. It
The vertol arrived and we exfiltrated silently. Not a word, not a sound. We just stared at each other, unmoving. The crew knew better than to ask, fortunately, and left us to ourselves. The thousand meter stares in our eyes must have been enough. They checked that Rudy was bandaged, nodded and moved forward.
* * *
Back at base, I checked in, debriefed as factually and simply as I could to Naumann directly, and asked if I could be excused. He squeezed my shoulder and told me that unofficially we would not be called for a couple of days. "Best I can do," he said. "Now go get some rest, or whatever you need. Any hassle, come see me. Or call. But Ken?"
"Yes, sir?" I replied, looking over my shoulder as I was already leaving.
"Keep it on base and with our people," he ordered.
I nodded and kept walking.
Violence often gets the hormones going. I'd been busy, and Deni and I were curfewed from each other for the obvious reason of being on a mission. I needed sex badly, but I had no desire at all for human company.
I wound up in the Rec Center. We'd had to put it off limits to Earthies, and thus to all Unos, because they loved the idea of free sex, were all repressed, frequently carried diseases, and were asocial wretches. Besides, our specialists were professional ladies and men, but that didn't mean they liked having sex with people who might only shower once a week.
I cleaned up well in the shower, washing psychic stench off with the real filth, blood, grime, black paint, clogged pores, dead skin . . . let's face it, I was a mess. Just that helped me feel a bit better, perhaps three percent.
I was embarrassed, ashamed, hurt . . . words can't describe it. I spoke to the sergeant in charge in quiet tones. She matched them. Professional all the way. That helped.
"How can we help you, Warrant?" she asked.
"Stress," I told her honestly. "I need sex, but I don't want human company . . . I need . . ." I couldn't go on. What I needed was a person to use as a tool. But I couldn't say that.
She nodded in understanding to my silence. "We can do that. Do you prefer a specific companion?"
"No," I replied.
"Female, I presume?" she clarified.
I nodded.
She put an arm on mine gently, and it wasn't offensive to be touched by a caring human being. Nor did she recoil in revulsion at touching me. "Room Three," she almost whispered. "Give me a few seconds to set her up."
I wandered down the hall, slowly, trying not to think. At the sound of her clearing her throat, I turned to see her nod and point. I nodded once in reply, curtly, and opened the door.
The recspec inside was young, beautiful, and exuded energy. Most people wouldn't have noticed, as she was a well-trained actress and kept it tightly controlled for my benefit. I'm a professional observer, however, and caught the glimmer. She was naked, said nothing, and looked at me as I dropped my robe. It wasn't an inquisitive gaze, she was just looking, to follow my cue. She had the clear, bright eyes of someone who has yet to be spoiled by life, supple skin, and an unusual curve to her. Very nice. She lay back and spread her legs as I approached, arms reaching for me. She was already lubricated. I got the idea I wasn't the first troop to have had a reaction like this.
After three thrusts, I had her turn over. Then we tried sitting. Nothing. I had a raging fire of hormonal energy, but any attempt at sex was sheer mental torture. I dropped off the bed, onto the floor, and leaned back against the wall. It was cold, the industrial carpet spiky on my buttocks, and I sat, head between knees and with my arms wrapped around. I began crying again, sobs wringing from me in anguish, and I swallowed acid again.
She slid easily down next to me, cautiously wrapped an arm around me, and just sat there, a presence. It helped. Shortly, my slow thoughts figured out that I could get that from friends. I gripped her arm back, stood carefully, and walked out, grabbing my weapon as I went. I forgot the robe. I forgot my uniform. I shrugged inwardly. I could get it tomorrow.
Casual nudity doesn't bother most Freeholders, and sure as hell doesn't bother Operatives, but I passed a visiting Uno contingent, and there were gasps, giggles, and the usual immature reactions to the human form. No wonder they're sexually repressed. The voices drifted out of hearing as I approached our barracks.
Deni was in her cubby, and said nothing, just gathered me up and sat with me. After long sobs—both of us—she handed over a bottle. It was some Earth rotgut. The bottle said "Old Number 7 Tennis Shoes Whiskey" or some such. She swigged, handed it over, and I took a gulp. Yep. About right for cleaning rifle bores. Gah. The discomfort of drinking it seemed a fitting, if minor, penance.
I was too caught up in myself to notice the first crash. I did notice the figure rebounding off the wall and stumbling into a heap across from me as the lightweight door clattered again.
It was Frank. He was bombed out of his skull on a similar bottle, I think it was "Tucker's Green" or something.
"Dammit, boss, what in the fuck are we doing here?" he cried. Literally cried; there were tears streaming down his face. They matched mine. And Deni's. Before I could reply, he upended the bottle and took an unhealthy swig.
"Trying to make a difference," I said. I didn't believe it. Nor could I say, "To learn how to be hard-hearted killers in case we face Earth."
"Fuck the little savages!" he said. "Just fucking fuck the fuckers!" He chugged again.
"Yeah," I agreed, not being rational or reasonable enough for intellectual debate. In any case, I didn't care. And yet I did. I felt Deni squeeze my hand. She was usually quiet, and beyond words now.
"I can't do this anymore!" Frank said.
"I'm praying we don't have to," I said. I really was. There was no way, no way I could do that again.
Frank's only response was to tilt the bottle and chug. "Maybe I'll wake up and not rememberrrr," he slurred. "Or maybe I zhust won't wake up a' all."
He passed out shortly after that. We'd been drinking buddies since Chersonessus. I knew his capacity. He'd had most of that bottle fresh.
Deni dragged a blanket off her bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, patting his cheek very softly. He flinched in his sleep.
I don't remember her dragging me back to my slot and putting me in bed, but she did.
Chapter 13
It seemed I hadn't closed my eyes when I heard, "Extraction mission. Emergency." It was Naumann.
I jerked awake. "Huh? Wha? Commander?" I stuttered as I writhed out of the sheets. "Where's Combat Rescue?" I asked, grabbing my comm.
"That's who you're extracting," he replied.
"Shit. Yes, sir. On it." Thank the deities I don't suffer from hangovers. The clock said I'd slept about a div. Less than three hours for those using "standard" time.
He debriefed me while I yanked on a jumpsuit. While Ops isn't tasked with combat rescue, we can provide support for it if need be. We were handy, so we got the gig.
What had happened was that an intel bird had gone down, with a crew of eight. Our Combat Rescue, backed up by UN close support, had gone in to get them. On the way out, the rescue bird had been hit, and hard-landed. Not unheard of. Another transport had come out, escorted, and the gutless Uno flying had reported it as "too hot" and tried to return to base. He had been shot down. The escort bird had a braver pilot; he stayed orbiting and called for backup. We had two other rescue squads. Both were otherwise engaged. Black Ops Squads One and Two over at Legion were split on suppression patrols, leaving only a team of each. We were mostly complete, we got the call.
I zapped the message to the team, announced, "Rescue Mission. Us. Real. Now. Small arms, explosives, grenades. Airfac. Bird hot and ready—break—all ops, Three Zulu One. I need six bodies to round out my squad. Rescue mission. Real. Now. First come gets the glory." Rudy was still (just!) on sick list. Donnie and Ross were over at the starport checking on arriving equipment for us. They woul
The commander's current driver was waiting at my door. I hopped in and he burned for the airfac. We were there in one hundred seconds. You have to love Operatives; my team was there within another forty, and others began arriving immediately, sprinting across the concrete to join the party. I grabbed the first three bodies, all from Squad One, and got them aboard. The late arrivals groused only slightly, two of them manned the guns on the escort vertol, and the rest threw gear at us.
"Barto, Geoff, you're medical. Check the kits," I ordered. "Bryce, Frank Two, you're on doors, and Tyler, you're ropemaster." My glance took in something. "Tyler, I said small arms," I reminded her.
She slapped the receiver cover on the weapon. "The Emm Forty Two is a small arm, sir," she replied with a grin. Bloodthirsty bitch. She'd given up the Heavy, but was lugging a dismounted vehicle weapon instead. Gods forbid she not have autofire and lots of ammo. I shrugged. Technically, she was correct. If she wanted to tote it, I knew better than to argue. It wouldn't slow her down. I was curious as to how she'd gotten hold of one on a few seconds notice, but that wasn't important right now.
We were airborne in short order, to hearty waves from members of squads One and Two, and sorted gear as we went, scaring the hell out of the crew by leaving the doors open and hanging gear on the rails. Operatives are not bothered by altitude. Actually, Operatives aren't bothered by much of anything environmental. We distributed extra ammo, explosives, and armor, and prepped ropes. We had twice as many gloves as we needed. Good. Better than not enough. Behind us were the support vertol and the empty one for the casualties.