The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Up the escalator," I was told. "Sucks."

  Nodding, I wandered that way and up. There were lots of side rooms and staff offices down here, but all were in use as nurseries or such. None of them appeared to have outside doors.

  Near the escalators, I met Lara again, as she was coming the other way.

  "Need a hand?" she asked.

  "Just going to the restroom," I said.

  "Oh, okay. I can hold her for you. What's her name?"

  "Melanie," I said. "I'll be fine. Really. I hate putting her down."

  "Oh. Okay," she said, looking crestfallen but not suspicious. "Well, let me know, huh?"

  "Sure."

  I turned and rode up, along with a couple of other people. Upstairs was about the same, but more open. There were lots of back passageways. I hit the stinking, overused restroom first, then started to patrol.

  Yes, indeed. Lots of exits. All three roof hatches near the restrooms were locked with padlocks. I might be able to kick one open, especially Boosted, but where would I go? There were three other roof hatches at corners, behind "maintenance only" doors. There was a service conveyor that went down at an angle. It was locked off. The warehouse areas were dark and guarded by cops. Without lights, they were deemed unsafe.

  I wandered downstairs. I'd have to sneak out one of the two regular sets of doors. Easy enough. Fresh air or some other excuse should do it. I grabbed some soup as I passed, needing food.

  I'd reached our cot and sat down, Chelsea starting to stir a little. I mixed her a bottle and sat back to consider. Then I stopped considering, because the choice was made for me.

  A news load came on one of the channels, showing a flashing "terrorist alert" at the top of the screen. I couldn't hear and tried to move closer, then realized that might not be too bright. I was just close enough to hear, "—suspected terrorist may be traveling with a baby. Everyone should be alert for a young Caucasian male adult with an infant—" The rest was lost in a stir of voices.

  Sometimes, sheer gall is your best weapon. "Hell, that description could be anyone!" I said aloud.

  "Even you," a man replied, looking levelly at me.

  I replied, "Yeah. Even me. Watch it. I've got a loaded baby and I'm not afraid to use it!"

  Laughs scattered across the area, including the man who'd been momentarily suspicious.

  But it meant I'd have to stay here tonight. Leaving now would be a clear sign. I sighed. It would be a long night and I wouldn't dare sleep.

  I lay there under the lights, dreading every passage of the security, cops and staff. When would they swoop in like vultures and take me?

  I knew they'd get me sooner or later. Every time a guard trudged by, staring at faces, I cringed inside. When would it happen?

  As soon as it was light, I grabbed one of the offered breakfast pastries and checked out. "Leaving already?" the current staffer asked.

  "Yeah, got to find my folks," I told him, trying not to seem too eager.

  "Was your stay okay?" he asked.

  "Oh, sure. Warm, dry, fed. I can't complain, can I?" I said.

  "You'd be amazed how many do," he said, shaking his head.

  I muttered a goodbye over my shoulder and headed out.

  * * *

  A week later I was in another efficiency, trying to collect resources to move further. I was south and east of town now, near Zambrota. It seemed that every time I gathered enough stuff to make a good move, something came along and kicked it. Still, I'd learned patience. I could take as long as necessary.

  My enemies weren't patient, though. They wanted me dead. A current load on the news had a half-assed sketch of me. Mario was still giving me a fighting chance, and I owed him. I just wished there were some way I could talk to him. There were some really decent people in this rathole, if you could find them.

  I needed to keep moving. I also couldn't stay in a shelter, that one night had decided me. I could hop hotels, but not more often than I could apartments. Every move meant a different ID and I had two left. If I could just get a week to scavenge a few items, I'd be fine. The point of an apartment was to appear permanent and stable. I figured they'd look at the more itinerant population first.

  I was hardly sleeping. At any moment, they might show up to grab me. I was running out of time and resources. I considered myself expendable, expended in fact, but I had to get Chelsea off planet even if I died to do so. This was not her home and I didn't want her living in this hole, nor being reviled for her father, the butcher. Nor killed outright as one of "them." And if you think people won't kill children out of blind, stupid hatred, I invite you to spend a few months on Mtali.

  My paranoia was necessary, but it kept me from sleeping, eating, showering. I did everything in short spurts, and kept an eye out the door. I'd picked an apartment on the back of the building again. While not wanting to fall into a pattern, it would give me a good escape route as it backed onto an industrial zone. I just hoped I wouldn't need it.

  It worked for a month. I'd acquired a few of the items I needed for the next step, and was ready to leave. Then my hand got forced.

  My hyperaware danger sense was alert for any input, and it got one. I must have heard a door slam, or a weapon clink or seen the reflection of vehicle lights pulling into the lot at odd angles. Whatever it was, I suddenly was that more alert, the way one knows a real threat from simple nerves. If you've ever been in combat, you know what I'm talking about. If not, you're fortunate.

  You'll recall that one of the things no one had wanted that I'd stolen were security cameras. I had one outside on the corner, small and invisible, with a tiny screen inside for me to monitor. It was showing a police tactical van in the parking lot. I quivered, shook, and became alert. I'd known they'd ID me sooner or later. Here it was, and I needed to move, fast. The complication was Chelsea and support gear. Ugly.

  A careful glance showed they weren't outside my door yet, but were still forming up. Modern technology, professional paranoia, and a bit of luck in keeping late hours had arranged to save my ass. I turned, scooped up Chelsea and started bail-out procedure.

  "DAaaaaad!" she shouted as I grabbed her, happy for more attention. It was one of her few words so far.

  "Shush, little girl," I said with a quick smile and a bump of her nose. She giggled. She thought it was great fun when I stuffed her into my rucksack. It took a few precious seconds to lash cord over her shoulders and snug the straps around her middle, then I grabbed the four bottles of water I kept prepared, the formula mix and a couple of toys and slid them into the side pockets. Her towel wrapped around her neck as cushioning, and she was able to only wiggle. She'd get frustrated and complain shortly, but this should all be over by then. I grabbed a couple of items including a pair of old kitchen shears which I twisted into two separate blades, and headed for the door while lugging the ruck to my shoulders and fastening the chest straps.

  They were outside already. I'd been afraid of that. Well, the only thing to do was to go through them. If you do it fast enough, the shock factor keeps them from reacting. We'd find out just how good Earth's best agents were. And we'd find out right now.

  I triggered Boost, ripped the top off a tomato sauce bottle, and splashed it all around me over the door, floor and walls. A pause with eye to peephole showed them lining up in standard entry fashion and preparing to swing a battering ram at the knob. I watched the swing, stepped aside, and threw the door open.

  The nearest goon stumbled in, as he'd been expecting resistance. I reached up and drove the sharp scissor blade under his faceplate, into his chin and up through the roof of his mouth to his sinuses and possibly brain. He shrieked like a warning siren, and dropped convulsing. I left the blade in him. He'd most likely survive, but would be in excruciating pain until they filled him full of narcotics.

  I was already stepping over him, and with the other blade I ripped a vicious slash across his partner's hand. The fool had neglected gloves, probably for a better grip on his weapon, probabl
y due to insufficient training. After all, what were the odds that an arrestee would slice his hand open? Well, in this encounter, 100%. He screamed, blood ran, and I stepped aside while shoving him backwards into the line of troops.

  The fall and splashes of red all around and agonized howls rending the air distracted the rest for a few seconds as they tried to figure out what had happened. Meanwhile, I stepped lightly on the environmental unit heat exchanger, then the windowsill, and hopped over the fence to the neighbor's porch, dinging my hip and knee as I did so. I heard the thuds of stickywebs and the crack of bullets thumping the fence, and trained reflexes decided it was better to make another pass than to try for the next fence. So I clamped down on the pain, turned left, twisted out of the gateway while reminding myself that I could not roll with a baby on my back—she whipped against one shoulder from the turn—and found the two trailing agents blocking the gateway to my porch. Others were still trying to crowd into the apartment, the distraction having drawn attention away from my escape.

  I was behind the first of the rearguards, and drove the shear blade up from behind, between his legs, behind his cup and into his groin. He kicked like a pithed frog and dropped. I stumbled, recovered, and faced the molasses-slow turn of the other. Before she could yell a warning, I was on her, and twisted her weapon aside. Her fingers popped and cracked as I did, I jerked back to dislocate her elbow, and left the improvised blade jammed in her chin as I had with the first. She fell forward and landed on it, ululating like a siren. All the running had Chelsea giggling with glee. It was just another twirl with Dad to her, but the macabre laughter had to confuse them further. That was one minor casualty and three criticals, one of them possibly lethal, in about four seconds of combat. They were armed, I wasn't, and if all had gone well, the remaining four should be totally confused and helpless for a few more seconds. I didn't want to get near their van, as they undoubtedly had backup and a medical team. I needed to disappear, so I dodged downhill across the dew-sodden grass while the twelve kilos on my back laughed and bounced, scrambled the fence into the dock area of the post office distribution center situated there, recalled once again and just in time that I couldn't roll with Chelsea hanging on, and tumbled. The downed branches and debris hurt like hell, but didn't cause any major injury. Behind me, the screams of pain continued. Good.

  The fence absorbed the next two shots of web, mostly, but I felt goo splash across my back and left arm. As long as it hadn't smothered my daughter, and I was fairly sure it hadn't, we'd be fine. I ran between the buildings, keeping them between pursuit and us and got to the front quickly.

  They would be expecting me to keep running, so I slipped out the one-way metal people gate that was next to the truck entrance, and dodged across the street quickly. That was a four lane, edge of city route, and most of the few cars were still on autocontrol, so they were easy to judge. I ducked into the auto food place located right there through its side door, and hit a restroom. A women's restroom. They'd not look there first.

  I locked the door, tried to recover my breath, all drenched with sweat from the boost, and doffed the pack and my jacket. I still had my regular knife, and used it to cut open pockets rather than reach through oozing goo, and pulled out my survival gear. It went into my pants and shirt pockets, then I carefully sliced the bottom of the ruck and eased out a wigglin' little weasel. She was fine, barring a few strands of web in her hair that I'd deal with later, and grabbed me in a big, laughing hug. I reached in and retrieved her bottles and formula, pulled some disposable towels from the dispenser, abandoned her regular towel because of the web on it, flushed my ID, rolled the jacket and ruck into a ball with the web inside, and we left.

  I ran lightly down the alley with her clinging monkeylike to shoulder and hip, stuffed the bundle far into a trash container that looked as if it was it due to be dumped within the day, turned onto a side street, and resumed walking normally. I was down to my last identity, and wondered how long I could keep up this fight. The war was over, I could demand to be repatriated, but it was clear that everyone thought me dead and the UN was trying to fulfill the belief.

  Somehow, I'd have to find assets to get me off planet, and take it from there. No problem, to a person with plenty of assets. I had a few hundred in cash, a low-limit credit chit, the clothes on my back, and a knife. I was among 20 plus billion people who'd rip me apart bare-handed if they ID'd me, and didn't dare show up anywhere my face might be photographed.

  And if anyone thought that would stop me, they'd find I still had mental resources I hadn't used yet. I just needed to be left alone long enough to get them rolling.

  I snagged a bus, deciding I was far enough away to be safe for now, and sat down in the back. It was quiet, I was undisturbed, and it took only a few moments to gum the web in Chelsea's hair with towel so as to not get me stuck, and cut out the contaminated hair. She'd look a bit funny until I could style it a bit better, meaning, shorter, but the obvious signs of trouble were done away with.

  We would spend the night in a classy hotel, I decided. It was convenient, I had the money, and it would actually be good cover now since they thought me out of assets. I broke open my last ID, credchits and related stuff, plus two cash cards, and waited for the regular stop at the corner. No need to draw attention by getting out early.

  The hotel I had picked was second tier. It was a luxury commercial operation, not one of the overdone palaces used by people living out royal fantasies. Ironically, the really wealthy are quite happy in the second tier, and real royalty won't touch the snobby dumps, but rather reserve mansions. This place had obviously been nice before the war, I thought as I entered through lifting doors that mostly worked. Now, it was a bit shabby. Glass and mirrors on the lobby pillars were scratched. Brass rails were dull and fittings had broken loose. The carpets were worn and threadbare. Hey, at least they were still standing and had electricity. That put them in better shape than a lot of the planet.

  The desk staff looked at me a bit funny as I checked in, but I had a great credit rating, and I told the clerk I'd had an accident. There were still enough odd happenings because of the war and they didn't question me further. I'd chosen an expensive place because they are far more tolerant than the lower echelon, as long as you pay and are quiet. They hate having flashing lights outside. It's bad PR. They get political deals, organized crime, etc. Cheap hotels scream to the cops if they see anything suspicious. Really cheap dives I don't want to use if I don't have to. Besides, why would they look for me in the most expensive chain in town?

  I paid too much at the hotel micromall for more clothes, a manicure kit with scissors so I could trim Chelsea's hair, one shirt and a pair of pants and other accessories. The front desk sent up a complimentary toiletries kit at my request. We showered, cleaned up and dressed.

  Once fed by the overpriced mediocre crap from room service, I teased Chelsea into giggles and exhaustion, and got her to sleep. After that . . .

  I'd been dealing with this for near an Earth year. Life had been a living hell. I'd been shot at yet again. There was no way to get what I needed, which was off this stinking shithole of a rock, so I sought solace in mindless pleasure.

  I called for an Earth escort. Since it's illegal, they use euphemisms. I found "massage" listed in the directory, called for one to come visit, paid the fee and while waiting made a quick dash downstairs to draw a few extra UN marks in cash as tip.

  The girl arrived, and I mean girl. Legal age was 20, she was no older than 22. Pretty, but with no style of garb, just vaguely disaffected and dressed to not clash with the décor and guests. Nice blonde hair. Pity she'd dyed the roots black. She was cautiously friendly but unsophisticated, although she warmed up a bit when she found I was free with cash, decent-looking and not wanting to abuse her. Conversation was not a practical option—she couldn't hold a light one and I didn't want to talk reality with her. The sex was okay. What the hell, it was relief, human contact and body heat. I tipped her a bit extra, got her s
tage name and said I'd call next time I was in town.

  Chelsea had stayed asleep in the corner, hidden by chairs, and I never mentioned her. She might have hurt my cover and I just hadn't been interested in the sympathy ploy. I felt a bit better, a bit braver, and refreshed. The UN could fuck itself—I would get out of here yet. I turned on the vid. I craved alcohol, but quashed the urge. I needed my wits and I'd been drinking too much.

  There wasn't anything on the news, which confirmed my opinion. They didn't want to admit I was still alive, they didn't want to admit they'd failed miserably, and they didn't dare let the Freehold learn about the issue. That was all to my advantage. No pictures on the news kept me safer.

  Sighing, I picked up the little bundle and crawled into bed. I wrapped an arm around her. How she could put out that much heat I'll never know. But it was comforting, and I slept. And I managed not to dream.

  Chapter 28

  It was another long march. I was getting used to them. But with Chelsea on my back, curled up deep in the new ruck, I had one less thing to worry about and her radiated heat was a comfort to me. The tools I had were wrapped in the ubiquitous blanket to hide my intentions, except the small shovel I carried through the straps.

  Far south of the metroplex, I sought a cache that had been hidden for us when we were only in the prep stages. It would have more than I'd need for this problem. The trick was to get there.

  Outside the cities, there are grids of roads, unlike back on Grainne where we have only a few. They're paved too, rather than being fused. I found the mark I needed at the edge of the southernmost suburb of Preston. Now I would head four squares south and three east: 11,200 meters.

  The dark was a comfort, as it closed out visibility. Operatives live by night. Of course, criminals do, too. I slipped down into weeds the three times vehicles came by. I might cadge a ride from one if I looked helpless enough, I also might be questioned or attacked. It was still chill; spring comes late to those latitudes, and the environment was still a mess. Every time I lay down, I could feel the cold seeping through the wet spots on knees and elbows and eventually chest. It didn't matter. This trip here should set me up.