The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Baby?" I heard a male voice ask.

  "Yah," I agreed.

  "Anyone else?"

  "Neighbors," I said. It seemed a fair thing to do.

  "Can they walk?"

  "Yes," I admitted, being honest before being smart. It would lessen the load on these poor but decent bastards if I kept people out of line. But this was their program.

  "Then they'll have to stand in line like everyone else," he said, with a pause before he softened it with, "sorry."

  He handed me a bottle of water and a food pack, a small blanket and a box with diapers and other baby stuff. He said, "Lemme see your hand," as he held up a scanner.

  Here we went. I shifted the entire armful around, prepared to drop it all if I had to. Chelsea went under my left arm like a football. I held up my right hand, splitting my attention between him and the scanner, watching for clues. He waved the scanner over my hand. Then again. It wouldn't read anything because there was nothing there to read. "Your safety chip is broken," he said.

  "W-what do I do?" I asked, trying to sound confused and scared.

  "Step over there and we'll do a DNA trace and get you a temporary one until we can ID you and replace yours," he said, thumbing over his shoulder toward a van set up behind him and far to the right. I glanced over. The occupants were classic goons. As for a DNA test, not a chance in hell.

  "Oh, okay," I said, and started to shift along the shoving, elbowing edge of the crowd, as if actually complying.

  "Go ahead and take the food," he said. "It'll save you a second trip."

  Why, how thoughtful, practical, non-reg and momentarily unlike an ant of him. "Thanks," I replied as he nodded.

  Once at of the edge of the crowd, with him too busy to notice, I merged with it, ducked under the rope and slipped back through the crowd. Twice I had to stomp feet to stop people plucking at my loot. That it was only twice was an indication of how helpless they were.

  Once clear of the press, I headed away at exactly the same speed as others. No way was I giving out DNA evidence on me or Chelsea. If I had to scavenge, scramble, hunt or steal to feed us, fine, but I would not risk the system finding us.

  * * *

  I supplemented the horrible emergency rations in several ways. Dandelion greens and such broke the monotony, as well as providing a little sugar, little enough of them there were, this early in the spring. With the brazier, I was able to cook salvaged packaged goods I found. I built a blowgun from a scrap of pipe, and used heavy wire and paper to make darts. It's one of the easiest primitive weapons to improvise in the modern world, is dirt cheap and almost totally silent. It's also one of my best. I could ease the end out a window, puff a dart downrange and knock prey off a fence at twenty meters. Despite hundreds of years of "development," squirrels and birds still run loose in Earth's cities. Both roast well. I nailed a cat once, and I won't apologize; I was hungry.

  Late nights, with Chelsea asleep and snuggling in the blankets, I'd sneak under the fence and loot the warehouses. No one responded to the alarms, and most of the thieving going on was for cars and jewelry. Truly valuable stuff like books and food and clothing was left behind at first. I took the best. Outer garments I had aplenty, underwear and socks were scarce. Chelsea had more than enough clothes, and I planned for her growth. I even found her some shoes for months down the road. A security camera setup was a rich find. It was a civilian door model, with no enhancement capabilities, but it ran off batteries and I might need it.

  I grabbed a stash of books to keep myself amused. There were some classics I hadn't read, including some Hemingway and Hugo. I can't recommend either as cheerful. There were a handful of kids' books, including one diabolical piece called Fox in Socks. This Doctor Seuss character was a literary sadist, but hysterically entertaining. I decided to keep that one, too. I realized I was thinking of the future, and that I intended to survive. At least at that moment. I dropped into the dumps again shortly.

  I found more fuel, including a mixed case of liquor to fuel me. I suppose I drank too much, but I had a lot of pain to cauterize. Oh, Deni, whatever possessed us to be martyrs? What possessed us to assume the right to execute six billion people?

  Yes, I thought of suicide. The pain, the anguish, the agony. How many words do you want? Do you know what it's like to kill? Do you know what it's like to exterminate? Do you have any idea what six billion dead people, three hundred million of them children, amounts to?

  Yes, I personally was only involved with two million total casualties, after all was said and done. Thank you for making me feel much better. It had all been on my orders and intelligence, though. And I'd thought the village on Mtali had been bad.

  I suppose it had to be done. My own people were being slaughtered, and I swore an oath to protect them, and do believe our way of life superior. That doesn't mean I feel a need or desire to kill those who aren't quite as enlightened. They're still human beings, and their lives still matter, even if only to them. And I'm babbling. This is just history to you, right? Unless you're on Earth, in which case you want me dead. Well, first you have to catch me. I'm not suicidal anymore, just remorseful.

  One of the first things those assholes did was to repair the implant ID system. Really. Apparently, being able to track people was more important to them than feeding the masses. And those masses seemed to agree. Granted, the press were cheap whores, owned body and soul and sucking off bureaurats for headlines, but the interviews they did had tens of people stating how relieved they were that an important system would soon be working again, and how it was proof of recovery.

  It didn't bode well for me. I'd have to scavenge to feed my daughter first, and take whatever I could find that was left over. If their intent was to catch the few Operatives still at large, it was a pretty piss-poor, incompetent and economically infeasible way to do so. So I have to assume they needed control of the masses in case those serfs woke up to the true threat. It didn't bode well for Earth's future.

  And I realized I was in a quandary. The war was over. We'd won and the UN was suing for peace on our terms. Nothing required me to enable the deaths of more Earthies. At the same time, I needed to maintain my cover. I had a duty to report back, but an oath to help those in need. Should I share the food and expertise I had, or not?

  First was to see what orders I had. Or even an offer of a ride home. It was a nice idea. The nets were down, however. Official traffic and authorized business accounts were operating. None of the civilian ones were. Mass mailings had stopped. All out-system messages were being scanned and any "not relevant" were deleted. I was cut off.

  Sighing, I went "home" and worked on staying alive.

  I acquired more clothes, food, some bedding. Toys I improvised—sterile plastic is fine for infants to chew on, and it would be some time before more was necessary. Things like blocks and such wouldn't be hard, and I could write and draw simple children's stories. It doesn't take a lot of money to raise a kid, if you aren't obsessed with name brand goods.

  Chelsea started as a wiggling blob, turned into a baby a couple of months later, and progressed into a toddler. It had been a long time since my sister was that small, and I was glad to see that all the caregiving came back to me. I got to spend all day every day with her, which is almost worth being dirt poor and having to scramble for everything. I was cold and hungry more than once, but I never let my little girl miss anything. Snuggling with her was very cathartic, and it's amazing how much heat a baby puts out. That's useful when the power keeps failing all winter.

  The twigs I'd gathered for fuel were running out, in part because I'd shown some of the neighbors how to build braziers. It was now necessary to devise some method of chopping wood. Mario Sullivan and I spent a long day using pieces of scrap metal wrapped around wood to make crude wedges, which we hammered into deadwood with small logs. Every few strokes the tools would break apart and we'd start over. Blisters, nicks and dings were the order of the day, but we kept at it.

  "Ron?" he asked
after a few hours of frustrating labor, "How do you know so much about this? Gathering, hunting, cooking, medicine?"

  I'd prepared for that question, though my answer wasn't the best. It was all I had, though. "I was in the Forces. A Special Unit," I admitted, trying to sound as embarrassed as a UN vet would. "I learned a lot on Mtali." And it was all true, too.

  "That must have been nasty," he observed with a slight shiver.

  "I managed," I said as I banged another log into two pieces and lost another wedge. It landed in the dead, brown grass but was broken anyway. I grabbed another sliver of wood and started grinding it to shape on the concrete walk.

  A few minutes later he asked, "Any idea why they did this?"

  That was one line of inquiry I didn't even want to start on. I grunted noncommittally.

  He said nothing for a while. When he finally did speak, he said, "I suppose when you're a small country being beat on by a large country, you get desperate. But I think they overdid it."

  I left that alone and considered it. Was this idle curiosity? Or was he putting my competence together with the situation and coming up with a conclusion? "When I was on Mtali," I responded at last, "we usually over-reacted to everything. If you take fire, you call for artillery and air support, maybe even an orbital strike. Because if you don't, you may not have enough power to do the job, and even if you do, most of what you ask for won't arrive."

  "I suppose," he said. Then he met my eye as I stood up and added, "But I think this was obscene."

  I stared back at him and said, "I agree."

  "And even understanding why they thought they had to," he said, "if I thought I'd found one of them, I'd want them dead." He tossed a split piece at my feet. The expression on his face was dark and his teeth were clenched.

  "Can't blame you for that," I said, stacking it. "There's a list of people I want dead, too. It's not politic, but it's human."

  "Yeah," he said. "Makes me wonder about the people they sent to do it. Hard to imagine they had families of their own."

  "Things are different now that I have a kid," I agreed. "Chelsea and I were lucky to get out when we did."

  "Sorry your wife didn't make it," he said.

  "Thanks. So am I," I said. Oh, damn, was I sorry Deni didn't make it. If it wasn't for Chelsea, I don't think I'd have had any reason to stay alive myself. I tried to control the pending flush of heat to my neck and ears, and hoped he wouldn't notice.

  "Are you going to be staying around here?" he asked.

  A ripple ran up my spine. "Probably not much longer," I said. "I need to try to get hold of her family and move closer, where I have more support."

  "That's probably best," he said. "It's still pretty bad around here, and it might get worse. Especially since they don't know if the terrorists are dead or just being quiet."

  He knew. The man was no fool. My high-G build was hard to hide. The odd schedule Deni and I had kept. My competence in disaster skills. He didn't know about the food we'd stashed, and that was good, as it was a dead giveaway. There was the odd, archaic name my daughter had that I wasn't about to change because it was Deni's legacy. My intelligence. My lack of family locally to ask for help, since most everyone on Earth had friends or relatives nearby. He'd put it all together, probably along with the guilt that had to emanate from me, and he knew. Chelsea had saved my life by giving me a reason to live, and was saving it now because he figured I had to have some redeeming characteristic within my own soul if I was caring for her. He realized I'd had my own reasons for doing what I'd done, but he couldn't forgive the carnage I'd wrought.

  So he was giving me a subtle warning before he called the Unos.

  We resumed chopping, keeping the conversation light. We quit at dark.

  That night I left.

  I had to abandon most of what I had acquired. I took all the baby clothes and formula I could manage. I grabbed the Dr. Seuss book. One bottle of whiskey would work as bribe goods. I had the clothes on my back, extra underwear and shirt. The little remaining ID and a few cash cards would have to do me.

  I was in quandary over the food. If I left it, it might be taken as a bribe, or used as evidence against me. If I burned it, it would be obvious. I couldn't think of another way to get rid of most of it quickly. They might think it poisoned and avoid it. They might be angry that I hadn't shared before. There was no good answer.

  I left it. I closed the door softly and left it unlocked. The food would be useful, I hate wasting resources, and it wasn't that big a clue. Besides, Mario and Becky deserved it. I turned and walked off, Chelsea tugging at my hair and quietly staring around at the scenery. She hadn't been outside much; her world had been a six meter box. I'd have to remedy that.

  I walked south and east. There was little in that direction, but less in any other at this point. It was slightly less chill. It seemed a warm front was moving in. I looked at the clouds, backlit by an early moon, and saw impending rain in them. Not good. I should have paid more attention to them before I left. On the other hand, I hadn't had much choice.

  Traffic was light. Apparently, cities not hit and farther suburban areas were resuming operation without too much hassle. They were busy enough straightening out their own problems to be able to provide only the barest help to survivors. Earth would be digging out the rubble for another year or more, and not worrying about anything else in the meantime. The UN Star Nations and the Colonial Alliance were grinding their political axes on the husk of Earth. We'd succeeded. Somehow, I still didn't feel good about it. Perhaps if I knew how bad things were back on Grainne it would be different.

  I watched the few cars drive by. None would stop to offer a ride, of course. It might prove dangerous. In the aftermath, they were cooperating with each other, but only close friends and neighbors warranted that help. Strangers were still a threat. Plus ça change . . .

  I was not paying attention. I didn't notice the police car pull up along the roadside. "Hey, buddy," a voice called.

  I snapped to attention, tried not to show any panic and said, "Y-yes?"

  The cop was getting out of the car and asked, "Where you going?"

  "Nowhere particular," I said, and realized it was the wrong answer. Evasion wasn't the way. "Eventually my folks' place," I said.

  He looked at me. His driver sat and waited, not getting out yet. That was a good sign. Unconsciously, he heaved at his gunbelt, low on his soft belly. That wasn't a bad sign; they all did that. "There's a curfew of dark. Hadn't you heard?"

  I'd heard, but hadn't seen it enforced. This looked bad. I felt everything around me, from slightly gusty wind to spongy ground to buildings too far away and too separated for cover. "Ah, I guess I forgot," I said.

  "Why are you out in the dark?" he asked, still probing.

  "Dunno." It was all I could think of. Playing stupid often works.

  He shook his head, looking slightly bewildered. "Get in back," he said, turning and opening the door. "We'll take you to a shelter."

  I did not want to get in that car. I would be trapped and helpless. But if I didn't, he'd know something was not right. It was almost certain he had an image of me on his gear. That image would go to everyone and might match up with a file from their patrol cameras.

  "Wow, thanks," I said, and stepped forward. There was nothing else to do at that point. I climbed in and sat down, awaiting the sting of a baton that never came. I awaited a high-speed drive to a building with more cops. That didn't happen either. They actually took me to a shelter. It was set up in that local mall. An old department store had been converted and was lit up from within.

  We arrived and he let me out again, then walked me to the door. "I'm fine, really," I said.

  "It's no trouble," he said. "I'm supposed to help people." There was also a hint of "I'm not letting you sneak off again, you loon." He figured the stress of the events had gotten to me, and he wasn't far wrong. At least he left after opening the door for me. I'd have to check in then leave out the back in a hurry.
/>
  "Here y' go," he said to both me and a harried woman running the admissions desk. Then he was gone.

  "Name?" she said. It was an actual desk. They had only a portable comm and one data line.

  "Uh, Martin Lee," I said.

  "ID?" she asked.

  "Broken," I said. "I have a card, but no chip. Got to get it fixed." I was still sizing up escape routes surreptitiously. Escaping here wouldn't be the problem. Not being IDed for file would be.

  "We've had some of those," she said without suspicion. "What's your daughter's name?"

  "Melanie," I said. She was asleep on my shoulder by this time.

  "All we've got is cots and soup," she said, sounding apologetic.

  "Oh, soup sounds so good," I said, sounding relieved.

  "Great. Well, Lara here will show you where to go," she said. A teenage girl came around, all cheerful.

  "Hi!" she said. "This way."

  "Thanks."

  She chattered as we walked. "That is such a cute little baby. Girl?"

  "Yes," I agreed. "About six months." She was eight months, but always the cover story.

  "Good! She'll be big before you know it."

  I said, "She's getting heavy now," while casually looking around. Large open area, lots of people on cots and occasional vids. Pillars. Several cops. I'd have to be subtle.

  Giggling, she said, "Well, we'll put you right here in the middle. If you need help, just let me know. I'm roving around helping."

  "Thanks," I said. I tried to sound grateful.

  I laid down and snuggled Chelsea, trying to act as if I was resting. Had Mario made that call yet? Would I get associated with the description? How would I get out of here?

  A bathroom break seemed like a good idea. I stood and looked. None were immediately visible. "Restrooms?" I asked in the general direction of a family nearby. I shouldered my bag. I wasn't leaving anything lying where it could be swiped.