The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Frank showed up a couple of days later. He was replacing a single businessman who we had made politely but firmly disappear with more offers of money and unsubtle threats. Our intel gophers were trying to quietly change at least the images on file, if not retinae and DNA. That was another mixed problem. DNA on file would make us safer in the interim. It would also make us easier to track if our cover was blown.

  A mass-mail spam came in, with hidden codes that announced the arrival of Irina Belinitsky in the Russian Alliance of the European Federal Union. Pao Chan arrived in United China in the Greater Asian Union and checked in. Sylvestre Vargas reported from Rio de Janeiro in the Estados Unidos de Sudamerica. Peter Hathaway mailed from Johannesburg in the Commonwealth of African States. My old training buddy Tom Parker pinged me from Melbourne, Australasian Republic. All my commanders were in place in a month, the rest would follow. I knew only the real names of those personnel, would never know their covers. I could at most betray one squad if caught, and after we got established and split up, I'd be able to betray only four individuals.

  * * *

  Being on Earth was only the first step. We needed to set up legitimate lifestyles to blend in, so we could move around and acquire more assets. Certainly, I had a stack of anonymous cash cards I could use. If I got caught, those would get me arrested. With a job and business, I could accomplish much more than as a parasite.

  The experts will tell you that Earth has two classes—the rulers and the ruled. That's not quite true. There is a middle class. It's small, hard to get into and harder to remain a member of, but it puts one above the peasants, yielding a better character of treatment from thugs and wardens, and attracts much less notice than the upper class. Our goal was to be average. In plainness there is privacy.

  Several of us were setting up a personal warehousing business in the suburbs of Washington. It gave us jobs, a home and hopefully invisibility. Other teams were scattered about with other covers. I liked this one, because with a few keystrokes, we could define a rental unit as "occupied," and any investigator would have to get another warrant in order to search it. It might only slow them down a few minutes, but wars are won on those few minutes. Stuff could be "stolen" or "abandoned" and put to use by us, with some level of deniability if found. As we'd be bringing in a lot of stuff, it was nearly ideal. Search us and find nothing. It was all elsewhere. We even officially rented space to ourselves at both our facility and others, leaving nothing incriminating in those.

  * * *

  I looked at our home to be in Winchester, Virginia. It wasn't much. The outside was graffitied with the illiterate scribbles that are the street gang equivalent of animals pissing to mark their territory. The myth is that they're "codes," but our cryptologists have analyzed them and come up blank. They're just the pathetic scrawls of illiterate fucking punks with no respect for anything including themselves. They weren't even particularly artistic; they were just vandalism. A perfect cover for us.

  The building was no real style. It was blocky, and had been a warehouse or office or other nameless creature in its previous life. It would be a warehouse again now.

  What we had planned would have been impossible ten years before. Until very recently, it had been the case that eight multinational and about fifty regional corporations ran almost the entire infrastructure of North America and Europe, and eventually all of Earth. It had started in the 20th/21st centuries, with encroaching bureaucracy making it increasingly hard for small businesses to operate. With crystal clear antilogic, the neofeudalists ("Democrats," they were called at the time) demanded even more government standards and bureaucracy to "control the corporate interests." Each succeeding addition to the adminwork made it that much harder for a small enterprise, until there were contractors to handle taxes for them, payroll (because wages are taxed and special deductions are taken out and the employer then taxed again. I aced strategic calculus and this idiocy makes my head hurt), employee issues, hiring, dismissal, inventory (which is also taxed), regulation compliance . . . It took either ten employees full-time to handle the crap for a "small" business, or ten contracted personnel or offices. This of course meant no small operation could succeed. All the companies providing that contracted support eventually were absorbed into the conglomerates themselves, and conspired to make it even harder for independent businesses.

  Then they went after the family-owned businesses, who did everything themselves, by cranking up the number of audits and size of penalties. The few thousand marks one would be fined for a sub-par electrical connection, for example, wasn't even a blip to one of the sub-sub-sub-sub-corporations of Citi, for example, but would utterly break a family operation. For some reason, despite the procrustean "equality" the neofeudalists pushed, these fines were not put on a sliding scale as were taxes and rates. After all, that small operation was a "corporate interest" and had to be reined in. An Us vs. Them siege-state mentality existed to claim that workers were the pure, sweet holders of civilization, and those who employed them were ravening ghouls. This mindset was encouraged by "unions" (akin to our professional guilds, except that membership was mandatory and they themselves swung huge political influence and investment portfolios to boost their income, which they justified as "diversifying assets"), and made things even worse. Small operations and individuals were thus made the enemies of success, and blindly went along to hobble themselves further and widen the gap.

  Enough of the history of human insanity. That had been, and still mostly was the condition of Earth economics. No wonder nothing gets done on time and their products are pure shit.

  Recently, however, a tiny counterswing pushed the notion that small development was good for a nation. They didn't point fingers at the Freehold, but we were clearly the ideal, although they'd never get rid of the government standards that of course had to exist in any moral, modern, progressive, right-thinking society, but perhaps with proper encouragement from the government these small businesses could create a few jobs here and there where nothing else was working, on an experimental basis, of course. They even offered loans to that effect, loans that were necessary, considering the massive overhead of dealing with bureaucrats who found such things offensive to good order. I didn't want to think about the internal wars between the bureaucrats trying to enable business and those trying to suppress it. I was surprised they weren't taking out assassinations on each other. Then I read about "workplace violence" and I wondered if it weren't happening. Either that, or being a less than totally dominated slave allowed the psyche to reach a level of discontent that resulted in oscillations that ended only with a stabbing spree.

  God and Goddess, this place was a shithole.

  My predecessor (Marquette) had, at our suggestion, started the necessary paperwork to create such an independent business entity. We would use that as a cover, and the entire loan amount would be used to run the business. It was accepted that it might legitimately take a loss for up to three years before showing a profit, at which time if we weren't a review would be conducted to determine if we had the right to try for two more years. That would be enough time for us to either conduct our mission, evacuate, or infiltrate deeper. I could only imagine how discovery of us would "prove" the danger of private business and thus smash any future hope of anyone escaping the utopia of working for the government or a multi-quadrillion mark megacorp.

  The initial inspections had been done, the plans approved, and we got to work. "Doug" (Kimbo) had his lists ready, and called in the contract construction crews to build our warehousing operation. While that happened visibly, underneath we went out to acquire tools legal and illegal, parts and supplies, and prepare to work beneath, between and behind the official work. It took twelve weeks, with me sitting in "Marquette's" apartment, still fearing discovery by his neighbors. I needn't have worried. The mindset on Earth was as I said; not to talk to anyone one didn't have to, not to interact with neighbors lest one find a flaw and report you to the government, not to question anything.
I found this out first hand, when a robbery took place in broad daylight in a convenience store.

  Two punks came running out to alarm squawks, carrying illegally imported knives, and took off down the street, climbing into a car and rolling off. They didn't even try to hurry. I watched from afar, wondering when anyone was going to stop them. No one did. I heard mutters of "Where's the cops?" "Why aren't they stopping that?" and similar comments, as if it was up to someone else to deal with the problem. I wondered if these people expected someone to "do something" about the problem of unwiped anuses. I decided I didn't want to know.

  But ironically, it did make me feel safer in my current location.

  * * *

  We called our contractors to rough everything in. They were paid by a combination of government grants, government loans, investment capital from "my" savings, and, for the important parts, cash in untraceable low value cards. The initial building inspection, which was actually the third, there having been a "preinspection" and a "starting inspection," took place without us present, the general contractor explaining everything. That way, we couldn't be questioned. Everything was official, and to question us would require that the inspector find fault with the plans that were already approved by his department. That does happen. However, the contractor dealt with this often and had his own lawyers to keep the inspectors honest and him employed. My presence wouldn't help and could hurt.

  Eventually, that work was finished. We then moved in and did our own share of work, which was technically illegal. We had things we didn't want anyone to see until later, however. Kimbo supervised. He didn't enjoy it, but he got it done. Then we had to face our own ordeal.

  The building inspector arrived at ten. I was glad to see him. Really. Mister Gerry Hanaka, Winchester City Building Inspection Division, was unremarkable. He wore a better than average suit, was neat and clean, slim enough but with the soggy muscle and pallid skin typical on Earth, and carried a small doccase as well as a comm. I stood and shook hands and he said, "Mister Marquette?"

  "Yes, I am," I said. "Where should we start?"

  "Oh, I already looked at the outside," he said. "There's a couple of cracks in the foundation you need to seal, but they aren't serious." He was a helpful type. I wasn't yet sure if that was good or bad. Deni handed him coffee and a pastry, and smiled just enough to hint that bribes other than cash might be available, if called for.

  Kimbo went with us as facility engineer, and I'd ordered him to speak only when spoken to. Yes, I trusted him, but this was my op. We started on the ground floor and worked our way up. Hanaka was quite observant, and glanced around. "What's the length on those bolts?" he asked, pointing at the floor studding that supported the dividing walls.

  "Hunnerd fi'ty millimeter," Kimbo replied. "Want me to pull one?"

  "No, that's fine," Hanaka replied. He kept walking, ticking off notes. Occasionally, he'd ask a question, and Kimbo or I would give him the correct answer, studied from the same reference he carried.

  "Is your vehicle door in compliance with Ninety-Seven Dash R?" He asked, indicating the rollup door tenants would drive through to unload.

  "Impact resistance rating Z, channel material three millimeters, double sensor beams, self-resetting code box, double rack mechanism, emergency release on each side, " I said, smiling with faint smugness. That was better than code by one level on each requirement. "I take my customers' safety seriously."

  Hanaka smiled back. We were making his job easy, and that had scored us points. Now to put him to use. "Everything looks good down here," he said. "Let's see your upstairs." He indicated the freight elevator, and checked it over. He might or might not ask to see inside before we were done, but it was all squeaky clean, too.

  "Certainly," I said. "Although we aren't finished up there yet," I admitted.

  "Not finished?" he asked. "What are you still doing?"

  "Oh, the document storage is done," I said as we entered the elevator. "But we're still working on the back half, which will be offices and a break room. That's why the front office is so cluttered." The front office was "cluttered" only by the standards of a sergeant instructor. He looked faintly impressed yet again.

  We wandered around upstairs. There was some rough framing, which we'd left on purpose so he could see how sturdy it was—and it was. We were serious about the job. "Offices here and here, break room over here," I said, indicating a larger area. "Restroom here, we already have the fittings in, and that back there will be closed off," I said, pointing at the back half.

  He frowned just barely. I made a signal behind my back to Kimbo, who said, "Uh, boss, I need to get back down for that dolly delivery."

  "Go ahead, Doug," I said. He departed, leaving me alone with Hanaka. Bribes are always offered alone, so both parties can deny their existence.

  Hanaka continued, "I normally do my inspection after everything is done. Walt handled the preliminary last month."

  "I am sorry," I said. "It's taken a bit longer than I expected. We had delays getting good materials."

  He looked around again. Everything in sight, from nails and bolts to tools, was neatly stacked on workbenches or in corners, wireless power receivers all grounded, everything name-brand and at least one grade better than code called for.

  "I understand," he said. "But you should have called and rescheduled."

  "I am sorry," I said again, with an embarrassed look. "But is everything okay so far?"

  "It's fine," he agreed. "First class work. I don't see this level of care very often."

  "Doug's very good at what he does," I said. "He keeps all the codes on file and tries to anticipate updates, so we stay ahead. It's actually cheaper in the long run, and a few saved marks is not worth an accident."

  "So true," he agreed. And it is true, even if the regulations take megabytes. Rational people impose such standards on themselves. People disinclined to be rational sneak around them anyway, in the same way I was about to for my own reasons.

  "Is there some kind of clearance we can get, for Doug to finish up? It would save both of us a lot of time, and you can see that he isn't cutting corners."

  He hemmed and hawed for just a few moments that there wasn't any official way to do so, then admitted that unofficially, unofficially of course, he could see that we were earnest. Five hundred marks later, in an anonymous cash card, he said, "Tell me honestly what's going in up here?"

  "Just the office, the break room, and a couple of beds," I said. "There will be a fire escape. You know how it is—work late, and not want to walk out on the streets. I really don't want my employees to worry about that."

  He agreed that that was a responsible idea, and hinted that he wouldn't notice it during the annual inspections, meaning that the bribe was good and he saw no reason for a recurring kickback. The five hundred covered his small risk in ignoring it, he would be happy with that because our stated purpose, while technically illegal, was based on good motives.

  He left a few minutes later, and we were good to go.

  Of course, there might be changes to regulations and other problems in the future. Hopefully, we'd be here two years at most.

  Two years. It wasn't a thrilling prospect.

  * * *

  Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a good cover? We had twenty Operatives hidden in various parts of the building, but only five with good enough ID to work. We five had to feed all twenty, hide that outrageous amount of food from the authorities, plot our targets for our eventual mission and still work our cover jobs.

  Then there were little things. Everyone in the modern parts of Earth, and certainly in North America, has a phone attached to them like a bad smell. They chatter half the day, meaningless but time-wasting babble. We had to do likewise, while never mentioning anything suspicious and sounding as if we were locals, in case a random monitor listened in. So we had to watch enough vid to give us a background to chat.

  That was another necessity. We had to have vid and comm access fo
r every admitted residence and business. It would be so unEarthy not to that it would be an instant flag. We made a point of programming for certain series of shows and adjusted the schedule in part according to ratings. Periodically, someone would flip through the channels in the break room at Storage Center, just to make it seem as if we were paying attention.

  All this took time and money. Think about it—maintain the life you have now, learn a new culture's idiosyncracies, support five of your friends, hide the illicit money, keep an arduous schedule of physical conditioning (done inside where no one can see) while wearing weights to compensate for the low G, eat bland, boring local food you aren't used to and plot the overthrow of the most repressive regime in existence. Do you understand why I'd picked the people I had, and why I dreaded some mistake bringing everything tumbling down around our ears?

  It wasn't more than a few days before additional problems reared their ugly heads, spread their hoods and hissed. I was upstairs in the break room, flipping channels with one hand while loading maps on flash chip from the library into my comm with the other. It was an Earth comm, black marketed with its codes changed so as to be hard for the police to trace as stolen, then Kimbo had done some diddling so its feedback circuit was completely missing—all Earth comms are plugged into the nets so they can be traced. This one officially didn't exist. That also meant I had to load all data manually.

  The maps were civilian grade only, of various dates. We had to scour libraries one by one, but not too often, because that was not in character for Earthies. They have expensive, well-staffed libraries with lots of mediocre, out-of-date info that hardly anyone uses. Really. So we had to sneak around something as mundane as going to a library. And no, we could not log on through the nets for this data, lest a pattern was drawn. However, since we had created personae that did use libraries, we had to log on periodically and look at meaningless crap as another method of cover.

  Back to these maps. They were mostly old, mostly travel oriented, did not have decent grid coordinates (what they had were accurate enough to call a recovery vehicle or the cops, assuming your transponder and implant had failed), did not show relief or contour. They were very unsuited for military purposes. For the cities, we had to try to determine traffic flow and density of occupancy and chart it over time and location. It was a task to take months, which had to be done when not doing other things, such as the interruption that morning: