The Weapon by Michael Z. Williamson

  There was a crowd gathered quietly around a building, and I sought it for intel. I wanted human intel, feeling. For the first time in my life, what others thought of me really mattered. I was part of this society and would be so until we extracted. I was unarmed, alone, cut off from all contact, and suddenly felt a rapport with this mass of humanity. I had to know how they felt.

  It was a vid store. This far out and this much later, no one was looting. They were too shocked, or too sheeplike. Whatever the reason, they stood and stared. Every screen in the display window was tuned to the same news load. The volume was loud enough to hear outside. I could see live broadcasts in crispest, clear high-density imaging, with perfect stereo sound and full depth. I wanted to puke and couldn't.

  Across the screens floated images of hell. They were the same ones I'd seen earlier. That didn't make it easier.

  I was interrupted by a woman turning and yanking at my arm. I quivered alert and looked back at her. She stared at me with wide, empty eyes, tears streaming. "Why did they do this to us?" she wailed. With a step she had her hands on my shoulders and shook me. "WHY?"

  It took me a second to realize it was a generic question, not aimed at me personally. I shrugged noncommittally. She threw herself on my shoulder for a moment, then staggered off.

  There were people looting elsewhere. I avoided those areas. Others traveled in mobs, either for safety in the defense or for strength in the offense. I steered clear of them, not needing to prove a point and not wanting an altercation. Drifting smoke and dust was starting to settle over the area, even though we were theoretically upwind. I could only wonder how bad it was in areas that had been subject to greater fire damage. It coated my skin and filled my lungs.

  I was out for hours, dazed, contemplative and meditating. We really hadn't thought about the aftermath, because none of us intended to survive. But what I saw here told me all I needed to know about the current situation, and I needed away from it. It was a filthy stain on my soul.

  While I was walking, UN intelligence finally caught up with us. Either our pics or our DNA had been traced. Or else they'd put enough other data together for a pattern. It was too late for Earth, but not too late for retributions. As I returned to the warehouse, I saw tens of vehicles and vertols and hundreds of troops in urban gear, and faded back into the spectators to watch. Part of me wanted to charge into the fray, but the likelihood of me accomplishing more than twenty or so deaths including my own was remote, and that wouldn't help. I had to get the intel back if at all possible, rescue any POWs if possible, and more orders might follow. I clamped down on my emotions and watched in horror. Things were getting worse, and I felt my mortality, more than ever before.

  They brought out bodies. Admittedly, there were far more than three, but the result was the same from my end. There but for a moment's anger go I, I thought. I shivered slightly. I shivered a lot. I had to stay alive to report in, and I left slowly, drifting away like a good gawker. My exterior was calm, but inside, I was cold and shaking. There'd been no need to kill everyone. It was sheer vengeance. I suppose I understood that, but I didn't find it any easier. I avoided further thought. I didn't want my mind working on Tyler, or Kimbo, or Deni. Especially Deni. And what about Chelsea? Was she dead? An infant killed in vengeance? Would she be raised by these rabbits?

  I sought transport and a safehouse. No time to worry now. That's what I told myself. It was lucky things were in such a panic; I blended right in.

  * * *

  I was shaking uncontrollably by the time I got to our small apartment. It was a ten kilometer walk. It took two hours, and I was still shivering. It took three tries to steady the key enough to mate it up to the sensor plate, and I staggered inside. I ignored the lights, which probably weren't working anyway, and stumbled into the kitchen nook. I grabbed until I found the right cabinet latch, and snatched the first bottle I could find. I had six good swallows down before I could taste what it was. It was whiskey. A fairly decent blend, and one of the few luxury items we'd put aside, ostensibly as trade goods in this aftermath. Now, it was medicine.

  I'd been stuck in so professional a thought mode, I hadn't even considered the effects I'd had. Now I did think about it, and I wanted to scream, kill, die, shit myself, laugh insanely . . . I had no idea what I wanted. My body was wracked with shivers, my brain spinning as if already drunk, my guts roiling with nausea. I could feel my pulse and respiration and knew I was in shock.

  Minneapolis. Population pre-event, fifteen million. Population post-event, ten million and dropping. Four Operatives. My share of the initial casualty count was one million, two hundred and fifty fucking thousand people. The number was meaningless except as a strategic calculation and a sick, horrible comment percolated through my thoughts.

  I. Am. A. Weapon. Of. Mass. Destruction.

  What in the name of God and Goddess had I done?

  I sat there in a stupor. I sat there all night, and killed the bottle, a ritual metaphor for the city I'd killed, and for my soul, and for my brain cells, dying in poison. And because I was a dedicated masochist, I had vid on (There was power. I hadn't even noticed the lights outside, I was in such shock) and watched as the story was repeated endlessly, there being nothing else anyone could do but relive the experience.

  Please, I thought to myself, at least let this be the end. I couldn't imagine doing more than I'd already done. What if Earth still wasn't convinced?

  There was surcease in booze and fatigue and depression and remorse and self-loathing and the sheer terror that the door might be kicked in any second . . . and I not be killed by my enemy. I could live a long time in a hospital, if they so chose, and my existence kept secret. Another thing I hadn't considered was what would occur after the attack. My part was over, I hoped and as best I could discern, but I was still here. This cold, enemy territory had just taken a turn for the worse.

  I don't think words exist to describe what I felt. Even worse than someone dropping a bomb or a KE weapon, I had done this with my own hands. Maybe that caused the disassociation that numbed the pain.

  The vid brought me back to the sick, sad, black comedy of human existence. A commentary and exchange started, and the words sunk in through the fog. The made me laugh in distress. It was the immediate clamoring that the "government must do something!" Here they had a perfect opportunity to be done with the institution that that trashed their rights, oppressed them, gotten them into a war over purely selfish motives and left the planet a shambles. Yet the first thing these fools screamed for was for that same government to "fix" the problems it had created, with more problems. Stupidity had got them into that mess. They wanted it to get them back out.

  Folks, it is impossible for a government that size to do anything in a fashion and timeframe that will matter, and do it without making you a slave. Oh, you silly, silly sheeple.

  The UN and the Colonial Alliance were too bloody eager to jump into this power vacuum and start slugging it out. There was nightly rhetoric on the vid about who had whose best interests in mind, and who should have been listened to, and who knew this would happen (odd that they made no effort to prevent us from doing so).

  But I'm ahead of myself. Or maybe not. I can't describe it so you'll feel it, I don't want you to ever feel that way, and I don't want to think about it myself. How do I live with myself? With nightly nightmares and shivers.

  The power failed about 4 am. That was good, I suppose. Being now a victim as well as an attacker, I shook in fear. How far would things collapse? Should I bug out now? Seek refuge in the rural areas?

  But I couldn't. I had to determine what had happened to my team. There was the unresolved matter of a baby. I'd killed millions, but I was damned if that particular one would be on the list. Duty. Duty is what you do when you have nothing else to drive you. It keeps you alive in hell.

  The power came on again about noon. I must have slept. I must have done a lot of things, but I can't remember. Shock. Sheer, overwhelming shock. Me. If I w
as this bad, I wondered, how bad were the sheep outside? A glance confirmed that I'd emptied an entire liter of liquor. No wonder my mouth tasted like a dead mouse.

  I scanned through vid. I was confused at first, but slowly made sense of what I saw as my head throbbed. Recovery had started, even if uncoordinated. The culture was sick, the government a cancer, but within the rot and the filth there were still competent, decent people. People I'd killed along with the detritus. They were working on digging out the mass graves of the megalopoli, that held now more than a billion casualties, the press said. That would mean about three hundred million, after duplicate reports were crosschecked. Hell of a day's work. I watched crews digging, heaving, snatching at mass beyond reason and clutching at hope. Every time they showed a wan, weak but still living body being pulled from the havoc, I cheered along with them.

  How ironic would it be if I joined such a crew, gathered intel up close as I worked to save the merely injured? I thought about it for a while. Fear stopped me. I knew if I was identified that I'd be ripped into bloody little bits where I stood. As unlikely as it was I'd be pegged, the fact was that they'd found our HQ. They might know who I was.

  While I considered my position, the regular Freehold Military hit us.

  Chapter 27

  What Earth hadn't admitted in public, and may not even have known, was that their intel webs were a shambles. They were not seeing what happened, were seeing things that weren't happening, had random ghosts and intentional misinformation to deal with, and made the assumption that "terrorist tactics" were all we had. That assumption was what killed them.

  In truth, I didn't know either—this was blind territory, but I at least understood the reasons behind it. I did hope for the planned conventional backup, and was almost orgasmic at the response. Training pays off. Training always pays off, and our people were better trained than anyone. Nukes rained down on Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, Toronto, New York, Washington, Delhi, Moscow, Beijing, Los Angeles and Rio de Janeiro. We'd hit the industrial cities, the regulars hit the political centers, and a few choice targets like Chicago and London got hit twice. Along with the nukes were Brandt StarDrives converted to be used as weapons. That was simple enough; they were pointed at the cities from orbit and translated into drive. With no navigation plot or clear space to translate, they simply converted into energy. Whatever was ahead of them burned. Mostly, they hit cities. Occasionally, one was mis-aimed and hit suburbs or farmland. One that was likely aimed at Pittsburgh made a perfect hit on the little town of Mannington, West Virginia, leaving nothing but a perfectly round hole where the town had been. Raging fires added to the fallout from the nukes and threw the weather control into fits.

  Earth has used tailored crops for centuries. It makes the growth more predictable, but also limits biodiversity. Tailored nanos and virii had been salted into the atmosphere, and in a few weeks, there wouldn't be any food, either. I was suddenly aware of stockpiles I'd placed. I'd need them soon. Luckily, I'd have plenty, not having to share. That threw me into another fit of depression. I was oscillating between pride and loathing. And I wasn't sure which side I was on anymore.

  It was three days before I recovered from the shock. Three days. Me. I'd never felt this level of stress before. I'd not eaten or drunk, hadn't showered, had barely done anything but sit and stare at the vid or the wall. It's lucky for the Freehold I wasn't needed further at that point, because I couldn't function. I was a casualty of my own attack.

  It had worked, at least for now. That was my only consolation. The attack had worked, I mean. The UN had frozen its forces in place and was begging for negotiations. The anti-Freehold rhetoric continued, but now we weren't poor, repressed victims of a nasty regime. Now we were a scourge to be feared, who had wiped out the forces on Grainne, destroyed the space based command and control and slaughtered people on Earth without provocation.

  I saw some of the images from Jefferson and Westport. We'd had provocation. But they were standing down now, so let them mouth off.

  I thought back to my family. My father was annoying, but he would have fought. My mother could be as vicious as a ripper. No question there. My little sister, now adult if she were still alive, would have done her share. I knew inside that they had their own body counts. A repressed, childish part of me looked at an image of Jacqueline and chanted, "I beat you!"

  In my mind, she replied, "That's not fair! You cheated!"

  Cheated? Outnumbered a hundred to one and I'd cheated? Outnumbered 150 million to one on Earth and I'd cheated?

  Most certainly.

  Thoughts of family brought me back to Deni, who was as family as I could get after all these years and parsecs, and to Chelsea. I hadn't seen an infant come out of that building. For three days I'd been avoiding the issue, but I couldn't anymore. Someone had to do a search to confirm, and get any intel from the site. I was the only one available. I was also the commander and it was my duty.

  But first I had to get myself in shape. I ate, drank lots of water from the supply, not spilling a drop because there might not be more, and found dark clothes that looked appropriate to the situation but not obviously intended to be clandestine. I didn't shower. Not only was it a waste of water, but I'd be getting filthy anyway, and a clean person in that abattoir would be very noticeable.

  I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside into the chill. Some cold, rough dirt smeared on my face and hands added to the effect of my matted hair and grimy, unwashed body and I was indistinguishable from my victims. At least from those who'd survived. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and started hiking. Ten kilometers would take me about three hours under the circumstances.

  There was again that feeling of walking into a nightmare. The fleeing crowds had stopped, but there were still mobs loitering in parking lots, wondering what to do. The skyline ahead was murky, broken by occasional still burning fires.

  The roads were quiet, with only an occasional vehicle, usually trucks carrying debris or emergency gear, or loaded with people driving to help dig out any survivors. I moved onto secondary streets to avoid being seen. Who in their right mind would walk toward that disaster? Especially in a cold drizzle? I didn't want to be asked any questions.

  As it grew dark it was easier for me. I slipped through yards and across fences. It took a conscious effort of will to do that, because back on Grainne during a disaster, people would be on the lookout and would question intruders at gunpoint if they didn't just shoot them outright. I had to recall: no guns here. No knives to speak of, only a few improvised clubs, and people trained to be like sheep. Nor would most people go out in this cold.

  Our location wasn't near the city proper, but things were still a mess. Many buildings were abandoned, some smashed by rioting, others occupied but without power. There were small crowds lurking on streets. I avoided those. Overall it was dark and gloomy. I made use of that to get in close and unseen. Between damage and dark and piles of debris and trash, it was no real feat. I wound up just two buildings down and considered my next move. There were guards at the warehouse, though how many I couldn't tell exactly. I waited until late, then moved in cautiously, alert for any sign of awareness.

  The guards might still have been in shock from the event. They might also have been zeros hired to look like guards and not do anything. Either way, I only saw one and he paid no real attention as I circled the block, across the street and hunched over. There appeared to be another down the back alley where our loading door had been. I decided to go in the side between them, in the service alley and off the street. I circled the rest of the block, removed my coat and reversed it to the black lining, shivering in the cold, then approached. I slid along the wall of the adjoining building with my back to it, then slipped around the corner while the front guard was looking the other way. I was perhaps ten meters from him.

  It wasn't hard getting into position. Between smoke, dust and power trouble, it was dark enough I wasn't worried. My years of experience let me flit through the shadows u
nseen, from the alley mouth past the piles of old trash and new debris from the shattered windows. There was the guard at the back cargo door, but I dropped around an old trash bin, waited until he turned around in boredom to fumble with a reader or vid. He wouldn't see me on this side. Shadows swallowed me again.

  If I were them, I would have lit the alley and had a double guard. They weren't expecting an Operative to come back to a revealed safehouse, and ordinarily I wouldn't, of course. The guards were to keep gawkers and squatters out until they could do another check of the building. The delay was easily explainable; they had a nightmare of their own to deal with.

  It didn't seem as if they'd found Chelsea. I hadn't seen any mention in the news, though that proved nothing. There had been plenty of signs of a baby for them to follow. They weren't expecting a reconnaissance or rescue attempt, yet they likely knew one Operative was still at large. I kept going, still cautious. My nerves stretched out into the dark for any threat.

  Entering the building was easy. I scampered up the rough block, gripped a window ledge and gingerly drew remaining shards of glass from the frame and brushed them from the sill, then did a pullup. I was impressed. That was armored glass we'd had, old as it had been it was still tough. They'd shot it out during the raid. Nothing came into view as I peeked over, so I rolled over the sill and inside. My feet eased onto the floor and spread out to take my weight without disturbing anything that might make noise or squeaking any floorboards. It was one of the most nerve-wracking penetrations I'd ever done, because any failure would mean death. There was no chance of talking my way out if IDed, no way to hope for an exchange of prisoners. I was the most hated man in modern history. It's doubtful I'd even make it into custody alive.