The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  The best place to hide a baby would be in our second cache, used for paper documents and keys. There was nothing to trigger a sensor. And it seemed they hadn't yet come in with a DNA sniffer. Their whole mission had been incompetent, rushed and more vengeful than practical. But I'd known that.

  I peeled back the floorboards and stared into the dark. I couldn't see anything, but there was a slight shifting of shadows and a tiny breath. I could smell baby, too. I wouldn't have believed it, but Chelsea was there.

  Deni apparently had time to shoot her with a time-release sedative, and the dose was hopefully small enough not to cause brain damage. The goons had no reason to look for an infant at the time, so hadn't. Chelsea is not the only child whose mother sacrificed herself to save her, but I think the circumstances warrant special notice. For that matter, three Operatives had died to protect her. The other two had undoubtedly kept the attackers busy while Deni successfully drugged and hid a child in the midst of battle. Based on the cost and effectiveness of the troops involved, this baby girl was one of the most valuable items on this planet.

  The poor little wiggler was wrapped in a towel, and it had gotten tangled over her head. I suppose that's a mixed problem at that age. On the one hand, it's scary to be trapped. On the other hand, she had no basis for comparison. I unwrapped her, and she squawled very healthily. I stuck a fingertip in her mouth to quiet her; I didn't need any undue attention. She had good reason to complain. She was undoubtedly hungry, and the towel was soaked and filthy. There was little enough to do anything with, so I gave up my jacket and wrapped her in it. It would be cold outside anyway. Why the hell hadn't I brought a blanket or spare jacket? I wasn't thinking straight.

  Exercise problem. Remove an infant from hostile territory. The Operative must assume compromised cover, no assets, no backup. Capture will mean torture and death, the infant will be captured, disposition unknown. The territory in question is a war zone in chaos. The survival of the child is necessary. Once the child is placed in protective custody, the survival of the Operative is useful but not essential.

  I now had a whole new timetable to worry about. This kid needed mother's milk or formula within the day. Diapers wouldn't wait much longer, but I had to have food. I kept her wrapped and close as I headed back to the safehouse. I'd have to leave it soon, too, and seek shelter away from here. Once they did an autopsy on Deni, they'd know to be looking for a child or corpse. Then I'd have to get off this planet sooner than I'd expected. Kids are a huge hindrance to clandestine movement. But she was a Resident through her parents, and I was one of those parents, and my legal and moral position was clear. She must be taken home. This was not and never should be home to a human being.

  Now I had to get back out with a squirming, fussy baby in my arms. I bounced down the stairs, retraced my steps through the tattered second floor, paused a chilling fraction of a second when I kicked a piece of glass that skittered across the floor, crashing and tinkling with others. I let it spin to a stop, scanned around to catch any other obstacles in my vision, then moved quickly toward my exit. I spread my ears to catch any sound of reaction. There wasn't any. I either hadn't been heard—entirely possible, I was hyperaware and it might not have been that loud—or else the guards assumed the noise came from random shifting or rats or such.

  Getting out was a bit more difficult. I had thought about the first floor, but nixed the idea. Too much risk of discovery. Once outside, I was on much safer ground to talk my way out of trouble, so I needed to get there quickly. I skated across the floor in a low crouch, scanned out the window for threats and saw none, swung up onto it and paused for a second. I took a breath, checked the bundle in my arms was safe and secure, checked the distance, and slid over.

  My shirt caught on a sliver of window or frame and tore, as did my back. It was a fiery line up the back of my ribs on the right.

  But I was down. It was the hardest damn landing I've ever done—letting my legs soak up momentum, keeping Chelsea balanced, avoiding crushing her between my knees and torso, not rolling out, which would be hard on her skull, taking the sting up my heels, feeling my knees grind, my ass bouncing off the ground and dinging my tailbone. But it was a good landing; I walked away from it. Now I had to go past the guard again, and there was only one way to do it, as sneaking, if I got caught, would be an obvious sign of guilt. So I loosened my stride and staggered just a little, letting my eyes appear to focus on nothing. I looked disreputable enough from days of angst and filth that I wouldn't be recognizable at once.

  Sure enough, the guard noticed me. He couldn't not see me. I wasn't quiet, and stumbled along without apparent notice of my surroundings. "You!" he challenged me. "What are you doing here?"

  "G-getting out of town, officer," I said. "My wife's dead . . . I've got to get my daughter to safety." This was where it could all come apart, if they'd found out Deni had delivered, and if this character had been told.

  "How'd you get down here?" he asked. "The other end is guarded."

  "I dunno. I wasn't stopped," I said.

  He leaned closer, looked back down the alley, and muttered, "Asshole needs to wake up down there."

  "Pardon me, officer?" I asked.

  "Nothing," he said. "Get going. Good luck."

  Nodding, I said, "I could really use some transport."

  "So could ten million other people. Sorry, pal."

  "Okay," I said with a sigh. "Goodnight."

  "'Night."

  I ducked and ran, trying to act like a scared refugee. It wasn't that hard.

  * * *

  It was a long hike back out to the suburbs. It was reminiscent of Special Warfare training all over again. My ears went numb, then my lips, then the rest of my face. I was racked by shivers, my gonads froze, then my fingers and toes lost feeling, leaving only a warm lump against my stomach. Under the paralysis the cold caused, there was a biting, stinging pain in every nerve. Cold, ash-laden air misted, fogged and turned into filthy freezing rain. I occasionally stuck a fingertip inside the jacket to determine if Chelsea was okay, if she wasn't moving and crying at that time, and she seemed to be. I fought the temptation to stick my hands into the bundle to warm up. All I'd do would be to freeze her to death while still being cold myself. I simply kept slogging at a fast walk, alternating with jogs and sprints, taking shelter from the wind when I could. When I'd pass back onto a route open to the west, the wind would peel me raw again. It, burned the exposed skin, chilled the cold rivulets running down my spine and turned me to stone. I lived in a cold, gray world. Cold, gray buildings, roads, the few people I passed. I'd thought they were colorless before. They were absolutely frozen in clear monochrome now.

  I staggered the last kilometer, leaned against the door and fumbled for the key I'd hidden. I was glad that I hadn't stopped earlier, because I probably wouldn't have started again, simply stayed still and died. Movement is your savior in the cold. I'd learned that long ago.

  That thought revitalized me a bit. I'd done this before. I was an Operative. There was nothing here I hadn't trained for, nothing I couldn't handle. It would hurt, it would suck, and it might even kill me, but I'd get done what I had to. Rowan Moran had taken nine bullets in the chest and saved someone not even under his protection, while killing eleven terrorists. All I had to deal with was the environment. The bullets might come later, but all I had was environment. One problem at a time.

  I'd already gone over all this. What I needed most of all was to think.

  I stumbled in, closed the door with my back and put Chelsea in the shower stall. It was the best bassinet I could think of. I wrapped her in a warm towel, stuck her in for the support and restraint it gave, and dug into the meager emergency baby supplies. It was convenient, having the bathroom open off the kitchen.

  I couldn't feel my hands and had to direct them by sight. That was what I was looking for—it was a small squeeze bottle I could adjust for minimum flow. I filled it with lukewarm water and rubbed the tip against her lips. She clamp
ed on tightly and stopped yowling. I knew she needed to be held, but I was still cold enough to freeze her, so I propped the bottle up with her towel and set to work warming myself.

  What I needed was a hot shower. What I used was a hot, wet towel. I peeled off my clothes, grabbed the towel, soaked it in the kitchen sink and started laying it over my torso and working out across my limbs. It was as hot as I could get it, and I hoped that I didn't have any actual frostbite. The heat on frozen skin would make things worse. But I didn't dare delay warming my core temperature.

  The second steaming cloth went over my head. I hissed to avoid shrieking as it cooked my ears and scalp. A rush of bloodflow made me dizzy. I clutched at the counter and held myself up until it passed. Then I warmed my torso again. It took a while, but gradually the pain turned to ache to blissful nothing. Then I started wracking coughs. My lungs had been damaged by the cold and dust.

  Chelsea was asleep again when I looked over. At least I hoped she was. She wasn't moving. I gently probed her shoulder with my finger, and she wiggled slightly. Good. Her temperature seemed okay. I was worried, though. She'd been in a coma, in dust, in frigid cold, without food or water for three days. I couldn't take her to a doctor, and had to hope she would be okay.

  Once we were both warm, I ran outside to make a recon patrol. It only took me a few minutes to find what I needed. Three doors down from me, the trash container outside the door had not yet been taken to the dumpster. There were diapers in it. The tenants there could help. I ran back home, bundled Chelsea in the only dry blanket I had, went back to the door, stepped up and knocked.

  Soft muttered voices inside stopped. There was slight movement at a curtain as I was examined. Shortly, a muffled masculine voice called through the door, "What do you want?"

  I said, "I'm Ron Draper. Three doors down. I've got a newborn and I need some help."

  There were more mutters, a careful slipping of locks, and the door opened a crack. He was tall, dirty and needed to trim his beard. Well, I was in the same state. "What do you need?" he asked.

  "Formula, bottles, diapers. Whatever you can spare," I said. It wasn't hard to look miserable. "My wife's dead. It's just us." Was Deni my wife? We'd known we loved each other, but was that what we were? Stupid thing to be wondering about. I suppressed it.

  "We don't have enough to spare. Sorry," he said.

  "Please," I begged. I wasn't going to kill anyone, though I was running out of options. This was my daughter.

  He grumbled wordlessly, then said, "Wait." The door closed and I was left standing in the cold.

  It wasn't long before he reopened it and handed over a bag. "All we can spare. Good luck," he said.

  "Thank you . . ." I said. I'd almost added "Sir." He probably wouldn't have twigged, but I was shaky. I needed to get back in control.

  "No problem," he said, nodded and closed the door.

  I got back home and found the bag contained a baby bottle, a baby outfit, ten diapers that were too large but would have to do and enough formula to last a day or two. Considering the odds of anything else being available, he and his wife or ladyfriend had been more than generous. I hoped we'd all come through this.

  The power was out everywhere, and even after it came back, it was sporadic. I was lucky in the choice of safehouse. Backing onto an industrial area, there were both scrub trees and scrap working timbers lying around. I used both as firewood. Our brazier was a small metal box with vent holes punched in it, and set on concrete squares on the tiles inside the door. I laboriously cut a hole for a chimney, using a saw blade wrapped in my rag/towel/baby blanket. The chimney itself was a joint of pipe set at an angle. It smoked horribly, but vented enough to prevent suffocation. With the sheets tacked around to keep the heat in a two-meter square area, and us snuggled under the sleeping bag and quilt, it was warm enough to keep her alive and mostly healthy. I developed a brutal respiratory infection. Then she did. I could hear liquid bubbling in her chest as I held her close. It was frightening. I'd made myself a refugee in this war, and I had a sudden appreciation for the nightmare.

  Infants are so tiny. I'd forgotten what my sister had been like at that age, but that was sixteen Freehold years previously and I'd been young myself. I never did roll over and suffocate her by accident, but the risk was real.

  I got to experience first hand what it's like to be a refugee in wartime. I had no ID, and had to come up with cover story after cover story to explain why my implant wasn't working. The Sullivans (the helpful neighbors) agreed, without too much prying as to why, to break in and take Chelsea if I was gone more than two days. It was a terrifying adventure.

  There was a refugee point nearby, and it would have baby supplies. I had food for me, and water still flowed out here at the edges of the city, at least when the power worked. And I had a few containers ready at all times. My survival wasn't an issue. What was important was my little girl.

  I dressed her in her outfit, a task akin to stuffing an octosquid into a sack. The cleaner towel of the two turned into a carrier with some creative tying. I stuffed clothes and paper around her as extra insulation. Paper is a wonderful insulator. Remember that in case you ever need it. I had a proper jacket for me, and braided a headband of socks to keep my ears warm. She was asleep when I finished.

  The distance was only a couple of kilometers; they were set up in the parking apron of a mall. What they called a mall. It was a cast concrete excretion surrounded by hectares of parking, tens more large buildings, countless small buildings and twisted, confusing access roads. Esthetically, it was a good thing it would soon be lost to history. The weather was cold and overcast but dry. That was fortunate.

  The crowd started some distance back from the trailers and vertol that were the supply point. There were a lot of guards doing traffic control, trying desperately and unsuccessfully to stop these panicky rabbits from gridlocking their vehicles. They'd actually broken programming and not used the marked and edged parking spaces, rather just stopping the vehicle where they found convenient and leaving it. Some of them didn't bother to lock them, even leaving the doors open and motors on. Idiots.

  I waded through the crush of drab humanity, Chelsea held high on my shoulder, clutching at my shirt for reassurance, then crying. Yes, baby girl, Dad's here. Dad is going to get you fed. I pulled her under my arm but still high up from the people pressure, and slipped the bottle to her. I rearranged blankets to hold it in place and didn't stop my forward momentum to do so. I progressed through the crowd's Brownian motion gently enough not to anger people, urgently enough to get up front. You do this by pressing in the direction you want to go, slipping in a knee or elbow wherever a hole opens up, and never backing off. Some few tried to push me away, just as gently. Some of them yielded to the baby on my shoulder, others gave me the "Tough luck, pal, me too," look and forced me to detour.

  Eventually, after an endless patient but anxious time, I was near the front. All the way there I'd been listening to their orders, echoing by speaker across the area. "Stay calm! The vertol will return shortly with more! We have plenty for everyone. Please try to form a line, people. You, stop shoving or we'll pull you out! Okay, folks, when you get here, we'll need your ID and we'll give you enough for your house for two days. If you have casualties, please don't be greedy. We need this food for other people. It won't seem like much, but if you're careful, it'll last. Split it into six servings and spread it out. There's also a book with directions for water and staying warm. We have to urge you again not to start fires inside. Between the poison gas and the risk of setting the buildings on fire, it's a no no. I'm not sure how most of you are starting fires, but you have to stop! There isn't any fire response right now, or any emergency response at all. Yes, there will be shortly. We're told there will be no more attacks. The government has it under control and we're discussing peace. You need to get what you need and go home. You will be taken care of—" and on it went. Do nothing, stay helpless, come here for food like cattle at a feedlot. I had m
y doubts about the peace talks, but it wasn't something for me to worry about right then.

  Then I was in a chute between two rows of plastic barrels, armed guards with joltprods on either side. I didn't try to shove past, just waited until they waved me into line, nodded and stepped forward. I ignored the guy who squeezed past me. The guards screamed at him but did nothing, and someone else shoved in behind my left shoulder. Then they actually had to shock a few back to make them wait. I'd seen it earlier, and realized that in this case, the thugs were doing the right thing and that it would be best to go along with the program.

  One of the guards wound up alongside me, which instinctively made me nervous. Between jabs at the crowd, he glanced over and deduced that the bundle was a baby. "How old?" he asked.

  "About a month," I said.

  He nodded. "Mother?"

  "Dead."

  "Shit," he said, shaking his head. "Oh, I am so sorry, pal."

  "I guess we'll manage," I said. I didn't want to talk about it.

  "Yeah," he agreed. "Ain't it terrible what some people will do over politics?"

  I grunted an affirmative and we parted ways as I stepped forward and he back. Yes, it's terrible. Pity you assholes didn't think of that before nuking our towns, slaughtering my brothers and sisters in service and trying to enslave my people. I felt fresh loathing for these bleating sheep, for my orders, for myself and for the human race in general. What had we come to?

  Then I was up front. From the trucks, rescue workers were handing down armfuls of supplies, just shoving it off for the runners on the ground to take to the supervisors up front. I looked at their capacity, shot a glance at the crowd from this angle, and figured they'd be at this task forever. And there was no reason for it. Out here, where people had grass and trees, there was plenty to eat if they only knew how to harvest it. Fools. The basic human skills had been so suppressed, along with the intellect and instincts that this was, in fact, a pack of domestic animals.