The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Geoff said, "This is about the alonest I've ever felt," as we plunged into the trees for cover.

  "It's always like that," I said. "For me, anyway."

  Greg said, "Maybe. It's good to be back, though." He'd gone slightly native, and liked this place. It takes all types, I guess. The Sufis were silent. This wasn't their native area, but they were still "local."

  The woods were thick and tangled, which was great for cover but made progress slow. There were occasional dips in the ground and loose soil that made things treacherous. We were soaked in sweat and grimy with dirt, bugs, twigs and leaf scraps in short order. Branches snatched or sprung at us, roots and holes seized our boots and occasional disturbed animals would rise in our faces, causing us to freeze in place until we reswallowed our hearts.

  I don't know if you've ever used night vision, but it's not what it appears on vid. Dark areas are just that—dark areas. They can be centimeters deep or sheer drops. The greater the enhancement, the poorer the image quality, by definition. I'd had years of practice. Geoff had a bit less. Greg was well-experienced, but a bit rusty. Our three locals were rank amateurs. We made slow progress.

  Overhead came the sound of vertols. We stopped, even though the odds of them seeing us in this undergrowth were remote. The engine whine was familiar, and sounded as if the craft were on approach.

  "Guardians," Geoff said. He was correct. "What the hell is the UN doing out here?"

  Greg said, "If they're UN, I'm not on their list of people to inform. I also didn't hear about it from any of my local contacts."

  Mahir Bolukbasi said, "I wasn't told. But they don't tell me much."

  Interesting.

  It was near dawn when we finally got over the ridge and angled down into the valley. There were no more aircraft flights, but there were the sounds of a base. "We'd better dig in," I said. And we'd better do it quickly. I'd forgotten how short dawn was on a planet with a rotation this fast.

  We dug a pit and scattered the dirt broadly but carefully. A clump left atop a leaf would be a dead giveaway to an experienced tracker, with emphasis on the "dead." No, I'm not kidding. Experts learn to look for things like that. Their patrols would be familiar with this area and would notice the slightest irregularity. The site we'd picked for shelter was away from any signs of disturbance, including animal runs. The trick to recon is to not meet the enemy. All you want is intel.

  After we dug, we covered it carefully with a folding mat we'd brought for the purpose, then local vegetation, not plucked, but rather dug to keep it fresh. Inside, we propped it up with a frame and some extra deadwood. It was a shallow pit we could shelter in and not be seen. We'd be in it until dark at least.

  The day sucked. First it got muggy, and our sweat lingered in the pit. We stewed in our own juices until midday, with occasional sips of water the only thing remotely cool.

  Then it rained. It always rains when you're in the field. It wasn't a particularly cold rain, but it pooled in our mansion until the sticks and frame were columns from a subterranean lake that ate away at the loam beneath them. We got no rest to speak of and spent all afternoon propping the roof by hand, in shifts, lest the roof slump and give us away. At least once we heard a patrol travel through the area, no more than a hundred meters away.

  Near midday, before the rain, we had an attack, sort of. Geoff suddenly cursed in a whisper and started kicking at something. People awoke, shifted and squinted through the dappled light. It appeared to me he was wrestling with his ankle while wearing a fur glove. As he didn't have fur gloves (at least not professionally; his social life is none of my business), I deduced it to be an animal. I snapped out my Eaves, carefully so as not to injure anyone with that wicked sharp edge, and slid the back alongside his arm. He grunted in pain, clenched tightly and held still as the blade rode over his thumb. Then I jabbed it into whatever it was. Or tried to. It chittered, jerked and scampered away, unhurt.

  We all moved around for a look. It had been a pseudo-rabbit creature, small, white and gray with floppy ears. "Damned thing stabbed me with a thorn!" he said.

  "Teeth," I said.

  "Teeth and a thorn," he insisted. "It came in fighting."

  "You were dreaming," I said.

  "Like hell." He held up a long thorn with a broken base to illustrate. There was a puncture wound above his ankle.

  "Likely broke while we were digging," I said, "and you rolled on it in the fight."

  "I don't remember any thorn bushes," he said. He had a point. Neither did I.

  I shrugged and bandaged him while Nafiz tried to no avail to locate the creature. It did have prehensile forepaws, I'd noticed. Possibly a tool user? I filed it for reference. We left Greg on watch and tried to go back to sleep, Geoff taking a painkiller. It wasn't a serious wound, but it was certainly a superficial mess.

  At nightfall we crawled out, aching and tired and needing to piss like horses. We filled in the hole as best we could with deadwood, scattered additional greenery and planted our cover bushes on top. It wouldn't fool anyone who got a close look, but we planned to be gone before then.

  We ate as we moved, chewing dried meat and combat rats. All trash went back into our small rucks. This was dangerous terrain.

  We needed to get close enough to get photos, and not be seen in the process. I took point, Geoff and Greg were behind me with cameras, Geoff still limping slightly. I had to rely on our Sufi friends for rear guard. It's an indicator that I, the most paranoid and untrusting, self-centered and self-reliant asshole who ever lived, born of a culture of individualists, trusted them to do that.

  We found a gully, rich with rotting leaves, that cascaded over roots and left micromeadows of silt behind. It had bugs and rodent analogs and lizard and snake analogs in profusion. It had a good view across the valley. We set up shop there.

  There was something going on down there. Whoever it was had excellent light discipline, but there were still flashes periodically, as they lit something while moving or working. There were voices, the muted coughs of suppressed weapons in spates that were clearly due to a training range. We heard no aircraft, but there were several small clearings we couldn't see into that could hide them.

  We lucked out at 0136 local time. A craft came in low and slow over the ridge and to our left and sought one of those small clearings. Greg and Geoff started shooting images. It was a Guardian. It was loaded with ferry tanks. It had munition racks with close support hardware of various kinds. It was ponderous as only a craft that is laden for charging rippers can be. Another followed it. Then two more. Then something else. Most of a wing flew in in a few segs.

  That was enough. "Okay, let's go," I said.

  "Shouldn't we find out who it is?" Geoff asked.

  "No," I said. "It's not the UN. They have UN gear. So they've stolen it. We report back and the intel gophers and an armed assault force can handle the details. Let's squirm."

  The trip back was boring but exhausting. Still, I felt good. We had intel. We were cracking this open. Soon, it would all tumble down around the factions and freedom would return. Yes, I was still naïve enough to believe that. Or maybe "idealistic" is more accurate. I knew how it would play out, I just didn't want to accept it.

  Only I really didn't know how it would play out. I was to find out shortly, though.

  Greg took his images, I took ours. We had a congratulatory toast with an Earth bourbon. Very interesting. I made a note to pick some up when I had a chance.

  * * *N N N

  My report to Naumann didn't seem to take him by surprise. The bastard is so diabolically cunning he scares even me. But he accepted the report and the images from both Geoff and me, thanked us enthusiastically and bade me sit as he dismissed Geoff.

  I looked the question at him and waited for a response.

  "This is a perfect time to commence another mission," he told me, grinning.

  "Yes?" I prompted. The grin looked like the kind I liked.

  "We need an assessment of UN capabili
ties. That's why we're here. We need more intel on these backdoor sales or thefts. Recon and find out what you can," he told me.

  "Sneak or methodology? Or just hack their files?" I asked.

  He said, "I have intel hacking their files. We've got a lot. But there's much more obviously not in the net that we need. Go in personally and get photos."

  "Can do," I replied. I was grinning myself now. This was going to be fun.

  So I went back into the UN compound, alone, and disappeared. At night, with 90% of them asleep and 9% drunk and/or stupid, I dodged the woefully dispersed 1% who mattered and slid back into the logistics area.

  I wandered through the bays and took low-light images of everything. I took an xceiver scanner and drank in the chips on the gear. The contents of every shelf, rack, pile and bin went into ram. Piles of camouflage netting and body armor had just arrived. I got them still in their shipping containers and on pallets. Even a container of UN Form 1, slang for "toilet paper," was imaged for file. It is a critical resource, after all.

  When done, I exfiltrated and walked out the front gate, in a borrowed uniform, with a nod to the guards. That's just the kind of arrogant asshole I am.

  I'd barely gotten enough sleep when my comm beeped. "Chinran," I answered.

  "Naumann here. Please come over for a conference."

  That was odd. We don't use the term conference, and if we did, Naumann wouldn't have any. He asks, you talk, he gives orders. "On my way," I replied.

  I got dressed and walked over. It was, in fact, a conference. Some UN suit was there. I ignored him and reported to Naumann. This seemed to amuse the dip.

  "You are Warrant Leader Jelling?" he asked.

  Sure, good a name as any. "Yes, may I help you, Mister . . . ?"

  "Larson. Andy Larson. I'm here from the Bureau of Defense's Office of Resource Security. We want to go over section three of your report," he said. That would be equipment. I assumed he wanted more details. I was floored when he said, "There's a lot of errors there."

  "What 'errors'?" I asked.

  "You didn't see any Guardians," he told me. It wasn't a question.

  "Yes I did," I insisted. "At least six of them, all different. We have photos of four." Two other teams had also seen them in other locations.

  "The photos were not assessed correctly."

  What was he talking about? I persisted, "I saw four. My other people confirm those four. Two others were seen by squad members and confirmed. Those two and two of the ones I sighted were photographed. The profile is unmistakable. I can even tell you what the munition load was."

  "The only Guardians on this or any planet are UN craft. We don't sell them to other governments, and we didn't have any there," he told me. "Nor do we have any unaccounted for." He was trying very hard to be firm with me. I don't push around worth a damn.

  "Then someone stole or otherwise acquired a few," I said. "And there were Chevaliers from Alsace there, too. All kinds of stuff is overflying that area." That area, I recalled, where no satellite could get a good image due to "persistent cloud cover." I suddenly didn't doubt it. They didn't want photos of that area. They were setting something up to give control of a large chunk of the planet, if not all of it, to the Shia.

  Oh, boy. Now, how did I convince him I'd had an epiphany about his viewpoint, without revealing my epiphany about the real issues? "Are you sure?" I asked to his disbelieving stare.

  "Positive," he said.

  I put on a dumb look. "It must have been some old S-96 cargo lifters then," I said. "But I was sure, really sure they were Guardians."

  "No chance," he insisted.

  Naumann played from my lead. "Well, Ken," he said, "the old S-96 general cargo series do have a similar profile. Our photo recon people could have been mistaken, too. Nighttime, fuzzy images . . ."

  I nodded slowly and said, "I guess so." There is and never has been an S-96 series. He and I knew that. This clown was a pencil pusher who was just too happy to have us agree with him.

  "Don't feel bad," Larson said. "Mistakes happen, and you did get some valuable data on terrain for us. In the long run, that's far more important than any mere equipment data."

  I "Oh, of coursed" and made nice about data that could help revitalize, blah blah blah, until he left.

  He backed out all smiles, we smiled back, we all bowed, then Naumann and I were alone. We whirled to face each other, locked eyes for about three seconds before he said, "Come with me." I followed. He unlocked a cabinet, grabbed stuff out of it and relocked it in a hurry. As we left, he spoke into his comm, "Logistics, Naumann. We have a shortage of generators right now . . . oh, yes we do. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I need a request order to borrow some from the UN. I need it in my system in one hundred seconds, timestamped for two days ago, early afternoon."

  He didn't need to say anything else. His driver was waiting, an earnest young woman who slapped down her comm with a lesson on it, which was covering up the flat reader with the vid on it she'd really been watching, and had the turbine spinning by the time we jumped off the dock and landed next to the car. "UN Logistics," he said to her.

  "Yes, Commander," she nodded as she slammed into gear. She drove quickly but with good control. Clearly, she'd been assigned here at least a few days.

  "Just look around and keep quiet," he told me. "I want your input afterwards."

  "Yes, sir," I agreed.

  We pulled up in front of the 43rd Logistics Support Function. It was the exact old railside type building I'd been in last night, and we jogged up the steps as the driver stood to with her weapon. Our SOP was that anywhere outside our own perimeter was hostile. It seemed that it was several kinds of hostile. I hate political games.

  Inside, we were met by eager young soldiers who really wanted to help. A shame we would be taking advantage of them.

  "May I help you gentlemen?" asked one young corporal. He was about 22 Earth years, youthfully lanky and energetic. He tried not to stare at our slung carbines. I never got used to the idea of a military that's afraid of weapons.

  "I hope so, Corporal," said Naumann, all smiles. "I'm Assault Commander Naumann. I came personally because this is important enough I don't want to get shuffled off. I'd hate to put you in the spot of being stuck between my troops and my messages and your boss." He was so friendly and sweet I wanted to puke. I didn't know he could act. On the other hand, he was an Operative, too.

  The kid looked relieved even though he hadn't been stressed. It was that, "Oh, good, I can step back now" look. "Right this way, then," he said. We followed.

  The carpet was nice here. Very nice. All the comms were brand new. Whatever budget problems afflicted the deployment, they weren't bothering Logistics. Maybe not suspicious, but something to keep an eye on.

  "May I help you gentlemen?" asked the logistics commander, a Colonel Gaynard McCord, unknowingly mimicking his subordinate. Or maybe not unconscious. For all I know, they had a script.

  Naumann spoke to him, I looked around more. Desks were new. Everyone I could see was wearing nice watches and jewelry. Money. Now that I knew to look for it, it was obvious. I tuned back in as the commander said, "It's possible, but I doubt it. I'll let Toby show you back there."

  So we followed Corporal Toby (the UN uses names to "maintain morale." We use ranks to "maintain discipline." Guess which keeps you alive in war?) through the office section and into the back, which was the actual warehouse section. All military logistics buildings have this same basic layout. Toby punched in a code to unlock the door, without checking to see if we were watching. Naumann was, I kept rear guard. There was a sign that clearly said, "This door must be kept locked at all times." That was odd. Even more odd for this bunch was that they were actually abiding by that regulation.

  So, if security was so important, why was this door locked and all the other doors beyond it wide open and untended? Let me rephrase that. The logistics yard had a gate guard. The yard was bare fused dirt, enclosed by fences. There wasn't
any practical way to hop the fence while carrying stolen property. Okay, unless you were me. But this was daytime. The office up front was a gauntlet for intruders. Every partition inside was wide open from laziness or a desire to save time moving or both. So why bother locking this door? Answer: because they wanted to know when someone was coming through it.

  Suddenly, I knew where the Guardians had come from. I knew where the factions' weapons and ammo were coming from. As Naumann kept Toby captivated in gesticulated conversation, I slipped aside and scanned a couple of aisles. Open aisles, not compacted rollouts.

  Not six hours ago, I'd taken photos. There'd been pallets of camouflage netting, the big sections used to conceal vehicles and small structures. I looked. There were a lot less of them today. Tens less, maybe hundreds. It had been a huge pile, big enough to create tall shadows. It wasn't there now. Next to it had been heavy battlefield comms, the kind a unit uses to plug into a secure, multichannel satellite and air intel net like our PARSON network. Many of those were gone, too. No one issues hundreds of those in a day. I caught up to the others.

  Toby sadly informed us they didn't have any spare generators. Hardly a surprise. We thanked him and left.

  Naumann said nothing while we were driven back. Once in his office, he asked, "Well?"

  "New carpets, new gear, nice luxuries on the staff. Large amounts of military gear missing since last night. No vehicles there now, so it's not that they were making up shortages for their units. Stuff is going missing, and that's a clearinghouse," I said.

  "Can we prove it?" he asked.

  "No," I admitted.

  "No," he said. "It's all circumstantial, and we may be mistaken—"

  "No, we're not," I said.

  "We're not," he continued. "But unless we can prove it, it's irrelevant. And even if we can, who would we prove it to?"

  That was a damned good question.

  "Who can we trust?" he asked.

  "None of them," I said. There wasn't even any need to think about that answer.

  "I'll let Richard know, at least," he said. "Maybe some rumors will make them slack off. Or maybe we'll find a link."