The Weapon by Michael Z. Williamson
"Liddy," I agreed. "Kinda shifting in the lights."
We entered the zone around a bar called The Skybox. There were sixty stories above us and a hundred meters of offices in every direction, so I don't know which sky they were referring to.
Tyler yelled, "YO!" and snagged a server as he walked by. He was fresh and cute in a way that would be sexy if I got into men. I only noticed because he was one of the rare ones who didn't look as drab as the surroundings. He served us two drinks of something from the tank on his back. Tyler politely declined inhalants, paid him with a twenty and said, "Keep the change."
Speaking of the surroundings, it was obvious up close—this place was old and ragged. Old paint was chipped or had been overpainted instead of stripped. Repairs to hardware were with mismatched screws. It passed the five meter rule—it looked good as long as you didn't examine in detail. But those details were crappy. No good Freehold club owner would let his place get that worn. Yet this was in one of the upscale districts. I had to wonder what the seedy ones looked like.
We'd wasted enough time. We drifted back out of the maze via another route, keeping up the chatter as cover. We used another exit, and found excuses to slip through another twenty dim corridors as we did so. There was a slight risk of being seen and questioned, but there were a lot of slight risks, and the big risk would be having to tackle a battle without recon and intel in advance. We completed our tour and headed back to our base.
Once there, we recorded reports separately, then cross-examined each other and confirmed as much as possible. Every recon we did was analyzed for data and everything went into a private file we hoped no one could or would ever find, because it would damn us all. We were analyzing the culture and the environment, and most especially every city we were in.
As we undressed from the ridiculous getups dictated by fad, we gave everyone a brief rundown on what we'd seen. They were all attentive, getting the "feel" of it from us now, which they'd add to the briefing we'd do in a day or two.
Kimbo was at his console. He gave us half an ear while he dug for data on one of his projects. "This is unbelievable!" he suddenly interrupted.
"Yes?" I prompted. A quick glance showed the screen to be a political text load.
"Banks here are limited to seven percent interest, right? And they are talking about lowering it to five. You were wondering how they make any money?"
Grinning, I said, "Hit me." This promised to be amusing.
"They do it with user fees. The more they've been restricted from charging interest, the more fees they charge, and then some. Get this," he said as he itemized the list. "Late payment fee. Early payment fee. Payment by comm processing fee. Payment in person processing fee. Automated payment fee. Penalty for paying ahead on the account, penalty for excessive activity, penalty for insufficient activity, charge for business transaction, charge for personal account transaction, statement charge, monthly service charge, annual account charge, withdrawal charge, deposit charge, transfer fee, service representative consultancy fee, cash transaction fee, NSF fee, overdraft charge and negative balance charge, mandatory annual review and fee . . . and it goes on for another page," he said, too worn out and amazed to finish.
"Damn!" I replied, stunned. Nothing had prepared me for that. Considering for a moment, I said, "You can do nothing without being charged, and then they collect interest on the penalty. I'd rather pay an honest forty percent than that rat maze." And I wouldn't have to. Back home, we paid about fourteen percent on accounts.
"Boss," Kimbo said. "I want to go home! Or a nice, comfortable Nazi concentration camp! This place is beyond a toilet. How in hell can people live here? How do they stand it?"
It was worse even than that. There was so much we hadn't learned from research ahead of time. This was to be expected. Things are never either as good or as bad as you are led to believe, but in this case, the bad massively outnumbered the good. I was amazed.
Examples? Well, let's take some of their "safety" laws. I've already mentioned that knives longer than 10 cm are illegal, even in the kitchen. After all, they might be used as weapons. There's talk of selling all food pre-cut, and eliminating those, too. Bats for cricket, baseball, and even sluggerball are illegal to carry except in a case to or from recognized practice or school, and must be stored in a locked room at school under supervision. There's even some whacko proposal to ban belt buckles over 40 grams as "potential weapons." As if there aren't rocks and sticks lying around. As if anyone poor enough to be that type of criminal can afford a chunk of metal or ceramic that size as a clothing accessory.
Then, there's a law that no more than a three day supply of "non-prescription drugs" (many drugs actually require written permission from a doctor licensed by the government to dispense such. They have a higher accidental kill rate than our doctors, too. So much for "professional standards.") may be sold in a single package. The theory is that it reduces "accidental suicides," because a person wallowing in despair will "have time to think" while visiting enough stores to buy a lethal dosage.
It's my experience, as a professional in the subject of death, that people who really want to kill themselves will find a way. Those that don't really want to and are just drawing attention to themselves need therapy, and their friends and family should notice that fact. Of course, windows on Earth don't open above the third floor, and cars are centrally controlled. Despite all this, the suicide rate on Earth is ten times what we have in the Freehold.
I have a hint for the overlords, as no other term applies to them: People on Earth don't kill themselves because a knife happens to be lying around. They kill themselves because you have turned their planet into a festering shithole with no hope of escape, no hope of individuality, no chance of innovation and creativity, and not even the dignity of surcease in a clean death.
Of course the crime and violence rate is extreme. That's historically been true in most dungeons.
"To understand all is to forgive all," I've heard said. Well, I understood just fine and I would never forgive. The more I looked at Earth, the sicker I got. The history, the roots, the few bits of scenery left unspoiled, buried under antlike legions of ignorant, stupid, petty little bureaucrats determined to ensure that no one has a better lot than they themselves do made me want to vomit. The poor sheeple living under the yoke, flogged into basic modules to serve this machine filled me with despair.
This was a culture sick to its very roots, poisoned by government, crippled by those who had the hubris to claim that they knew better than the rest how to run people's lives.
And worse still was the impotent need of these creatures to impose their will on us. The theory that after 5000 years of raping the resources, sodomizing the human spirit, crushing individuality under hobnailed boots, Earth has developed an "understanding" and a "compassion" that gives them "insight" into "the problems facing the Freehold in its development" and the imperialist right to drag us into their pit.
To borrow a phrase from the North American old Southwest Expansion Era, "They needed killin'."
The more I looked, the worse it got. Parents are prohibited from teaching their kids at home. There's a "set pattern of development" that educators follow and by breaking that cycle parents are hurting their children, so goes the logic. Children are slammed behind the bars of the State at age three. Most are in State-controlled and regulated day care before that. They are kept there eight hours a day, being taught by rote the simplest functions—basic literacy, basic arithmetic, use of comms (but only the superficialities, not how to actually get work out of one)—then kept there four more hours so the "parents can have some time to themselves," during which they are taught to be obedient cogs in the machine, and how bad it is to want to be independent; how everyone depends on you to do your part, how it's wrong to dislike, or get angry, or rebel, or goof off, or do anything else that is fundamentally human. There are no frontiers, no visions to work for, no aspirations other than to be a good part of the whole. They compete
Now let's be clear: I have no space for bigots in my life. Every person should be judged as an individual, not as a class. I went through some serious soul searching on Mtali over that. But to force people to have the "right mindset" is more heinous than any ignorant bigotry, because it is intentional destruction of free will.
I had been wondering, since wealth and success were punished by taxation under the theory that "wealth is an asset of society, and a person merely its caretaker," why the body wasn't considered an "asset of society" and required to mate as directed to produce the ideal human. Well, it wasn't quite that bad—they weren't that logical. But they could prohibit "undesirable genetic codes" from reproducing. That included habitual, unreformable abusers and various incurable psychoses. While the idea stuck in my craw, it did make a certain amount of sense. The question is, who decides? Because they also included certain individuals as "mentally ill" who simply disagreed with enough bureaurats to be made persona non grata. Not that these people were given treatment, because there was nothing actually wrong with them. It was simply an administrative means to hurt them and discourage others. It was logical—society must protect itself from those who would reform it. They were destroying any rebellious mindset in any way possible.
Then I came across something so revolting I have no words for it.
Look, I was on Mtali. I have little use for rabid Christians. Many of the ones I met elsewhere were just as bad, many not. Officially, I belong to Grainne First Druidic Assembly. Actually, I haven't been to church in years and regard all religion as a sham. But that's my personal position.
On Earth however, certain sects of Christianity are regarded as a subversive threat. One has religious freedom, certainly, it's just that a few specific religions are inappropriate. The practitioners thereof are scrutinized and harassed, for the "safety" of society. So they practice in secret, thus arousing more suspicion. After all, why is one secretive unless one has something to hide?
Once on that list, one is marked forever. It is never believed that one changed faith, but rather that one must be a potential terrorist incognito. So parents actually bribe officials to deny their faith exists, so their children will not be so treated . . .
"Obscene" comes to mind, but doesn't even being to describe it. How Dantesque can you get? Pay someone to deny your heritage in order to make you safe. The Christians' Simon Peter must be spinning in his grave.
I dreaded the almost certain conflict ahead of us, because I saw only two outcomes. Either Earth, with its massive, grinding, soulless infrastructure rolled over us and made us just like them; or we smashed the roots of the tree of human evolution whilst we cut out the disease eating at the trunk.
* * *
That shopping for food issue came back to haunt us again. We'd been using various discount cards to reduce our expenses. It never occurred to us, though it should have, that the government monitored those, too. I'm surprised they didn't have cameras installed in toilets to monitor our feces. Then again, they just might.
I got called downstairs by Tyler, who phrased it so I knew it was a bureaurat. I neatened up and headed down, trying to look nonchalant.
The caller was suited in collarless polyester with current stylish hair. About thirty. No match physically. That last datum was never directly important to dealing with them, but was a habit of mine to assess. Also, physical presence can be used for intimidation. He started as soon as he saw me. "You're Mister Marquette?" he asked.
"Yes, can I help you?" I replied.
He whipped out his badge and holo. "Bart Petersen, UN Bureau of Agriculture. I need to ask you a few questions about your shopping."
"Okay," I agreed, suddenly flushed and nervous. Yes, me. It was the nature of the system. In my case, it was risk of a blown cover. In the case of the peasants, it was ingrained fear of authority.
"You seem to buy a lot of food, Mister Marquette," he said. "Your purchase records from ADaM Foods . . ." he said as he flashed a page on a comm, not enough for me to read, just enough to prove he had it, " . . . make it look to me as if you're feeding about three people. What's going on?"
"I eat a lot," I nodded, trying to appear casual. "And I entertain. I'm also sloppy and let food go bad sometimes," I said. I sounded properly panicked and as if I were trying to be overly explanatory.
He gave me The Stare. "Isn't it important to you to conserve resources?"
"Uh, yes. I'm sorry. I just get so rushed, working long hours—"
He cut me off. "You're buying a lot of protein. Makes me think you're black marketing it."
"Oh, no!" I assured him. Though it was an idea for fundraising, except we didn't have enough now. "No, I'd never do that. Please, even a suggestion of that could lose me my business."
"I know, that's why I'm here," he said. "You're already unusual enough without standing out on our files."
We went on like that, he speaking down from the Mount, I abasing myself before him. I would rather eat maggots than do that, but it was the only way out of the situation. "Sorry, Sorry, Yes, Master" was what he needed for his ego, so I provided it.
He said, "There are laws against wasting food, you know."
"Uh, yes," I said. "I didn't think I was pushing them? Am I? I'm sorry."
"Just what's with all the sweets?" he asked.
"Oh, that," I said. "When friends come to the apartment, we snack while we watch vid. And I keep some of it here to give to customers now and then."
"That's not a good business practice," he said, while handling the four bars of chocolate I'd brought out of the fridge to show him. He examined the labels. They were good brands by Earth standards. Heck, by standards anywhere. Swiss chocolate is incomparable.
"Am I being that illegal?" I asked.
"You are," he said. "Friendly advice: have your friends bring snacks with them, be responsible with your own stuff, don't give freebies not related to this business out to customers, and if you need to eat that much, see your clinic about your digestion."
"Of course!" I agreed. "I am really sorry. I just hadn't realized . . ." I tapered off as he nodded and headed for the door. My fear of discovery was the perfect base for the act of a fearful slave, and it came out beautifully. And all the bribe I'd needed was some chocolate. I held myself tight until I was sure he was gone, then heaved a sigh.
Our solution to that was yet more scheduling, since we couldn't get more IDs. We calculated how much food and sundries each of us should theoretically be buying as single adults, and set up a chart. We changed stores and hours every trip or two, so as to not leave a pattern or be noticed. We'd go in, shop, be asked, "Do you have a discount card? Would you like one?" We'd reply, "Yeah, sure," then toss the card in the trash outside and repeat at the next store. Consistent refusal might not be noted as aberrant behavior, but I was getting paranoid at this point. Every potential leak required that much more work to plug. Shortly, we'd all be twitching bundles of nerves. I was, already.
* * *
On top of all that was a personal problem. I'm essentially a loner. I can only handle so much input from the herd before I need silence for an equal amount of time, or to smash things. I get around this on duty by having a specialty that requires me to smash things. Here, I couldn't. It would not be good to let rage take over and destroy my command, either. I was a spring, bound and wound tight and getting tighter. Eventually, I'd have to uncoil or break.
Chapter 22
Even after years of experience, I was still amazed at the incompetence of the UN. I know, I've told myself for years not to be. But they never cease to make the wrong decision at the wrong time, and pile stupidity on top of idiocy. It was little different from the mass hysteria of Earth's 19th and 20th centuries. How the hell did we survive to get off this decrepit, marginall
They attacked the Freehold. More specifically, they attacked Grainne itself. I could see seizing the jump points and forcing a blockade, but to attack the surface with an undefended rear? It was archaic thinking that only a politician or a politically motivated general could come up with.
Tyler kicked my bunk and said, "Boss."
I woke, grunted a "Yeah?" and rolled out. It was 3 am local.
"Local news," she said.
I stumbled through the doorway behind her, coming awake and wondering what was so important at this hour.
Vid was on, and as I approached I heard "—no additional details at this time, but the 71st Special Unit is expected to have control of the capital city of Jefferson very shortly. Again, according to the UNPF Space Force, the carrier Johnson launched assault shuttles just a few minutes ago. The purpose of this mission is to have troops seize Grainne's capital of Jefferson and wrest power away from the military dictatorship that controls the planet—" They went on, but I tuned them out. No facts there.
"When the hell did we get a military dictatorship?" I asked. It's a laughable idea. Our constitution splits power between District and Freehold, and the entire reserve military takes its orders from the District councils. Any dictator would at worst create a short-lived bloodbath as the military fratricided, then be himself slaughtered by the populace. At best, he'd be ignored, shot and forgotten. And it's a silly idea. We don't have leaders who want supreme power. We're set up to keep that kind of freak in the private sector, where they belong.
"According to them, we've always had one," Deni said. "The Citizen's Council controls the military, which makes them a dictatorship."
"Any government controls its military," I protested. "Sorry. Got it now," I said, shaking my head and awake at last. "'We are at war with East Asia. We have always been at war with East Asia.'" How gullible Earthies were.
If you're not from Earth, have you ever tried to watch their news? "Something you're eating right now may be poisoned! We'll tell you what it is, right after a word from our sponsor!" It's not "news," it's "Entertainment," with a capital "E." They have so little content padded by so much repetition, crap, half-assed speculation by experts who know dick and hawking of worthless merchandise, it's hard for a rational person to pick out the few gems of actual intel. And it is tedious to wade through the junk to do so. They couldn't have made my job harder if they'd designed it that way.