The Weapon

  "Bugünün lisanı Türkçe. Bütün faaliyetler Türkçe olarak yapılacak ve başka bir dil kullanan herkese kusturucu gaz verilecek. Derhal başlayın." I said. ("The language of the day is Turkish. All activities will be conducted in Turkish, and anyone using another language will be retch gassed. Get to it.")

  A couple of people muttered to the effect of, "What the heck did he say?" and were immediately spritzed by the current squad leaders, all of whom were Operatives or Blazers and fluent in Mtali Turkish. The victims shouted and complained and were roughed up further until they took the hint. They looked mean after that.

  Could they actually learn a language in a day? Goddess, no. The intent of this was to get them used to observing in unfamiliar surroundings. They'd have to pay attention to body language, hints, and goings on, and that would make them better at gathering intelligence for their own survival and the team's. When the newcomers were dragged out to an empty field, and after mowing it flat shown how to fold and pack a parachute, while the lecture was in Turkish, you'd better believe they paid attention. There was a lot of hands on from the instructors Mercer had drafted—my goal was to keep them alive, after all, but they looked rather pale as they were herded onto the railings of a VC-6 jump trainer.

  They all made it down alive. Then a few got gassed for cursing in English. C'est la guerre.

  The next morning, I said, "Hoy es el dia de Español. Usando qualquier otra lenguaje resultara en el uso de lacrimogena en la cara. Additionalmente, considera que desde ahora en adelante, su brazo derecha como descompuesto." (Same requirements as the day before, with, "Additionally, consider your right arm to be useless," tacked on.) That would keep them bothered. They were learning in a hurry not to assume anything. We used every language commonly available, including sign languages of different types. After realizing that I hadn't prohibited it, several people started carrying translation programs so they could at least hear. Eventually, everyone did. I made them train blind, with aural nerves blocked, with limbs either blocked neurally or simply on their own responsibility as unuseable. Anyone can be clever and competent when fully capable. A more important assessment is how well one operates when stressed from injury, lack of sleep, hunger, when in a strange environment of shifting rules. This was no minor risk like losing a squad. Any mistake on this op would kill all of us and possibly destroy our home. The training got rough.

  We ran through basic combat skills and PT as fast as we could, and gave everyone already qualified refresher training. And yes, I included myself in all of this. I'd been stuck behind a desk planning this, and many of my basic skills like diving and such had had only the formal bimonthly reviews. I needed the refreshers.

  We learned how to drive vehicles, and how to wreck them. It might be that we'd be chased on Earth, but a vehicle on manual is a weapon, too. We not only used simulators, but also brought in old vehicles from unit salvages, wrecks from insurance agencies that Senior Sergeant Kimbo Randall (yes, I promoted him again) and his tech crew rebuilt into useable shape as many times as they could, and crashed them from all angles. We even (at what I decided was an acceptable security risk) got a few new ones from manufacturers and insurers, under the pretext of doing "survivability tests" for diplomatic vehicles. They were as eager as we to see real-world results (as opposed to simulations) and made furious notes as we saw just how much damage different vehicles could take from different directions. We used all kinds, but the substantial presence of Earth vehicles got a few of the more astute troops nodding thoughtfully.

  Kimbo was a genius. We have no vehicle autocontrol modules in the Freehold, but everything we'd handle on Earth would. There're only a handful of planets where the traffic density is high enough to justify them. He found a few on Caledonia, shipped them in, and had his people practice assembling duplicates from parts, wiring them in, testing them, then building bypass circuits from parts found in hobby and electronic stores. They did it multiple ways on various budgets and with various qualities of tools. Then they'd put six functional vehicles together from every ten we wrecked, and hand them to us to smash again. The spare parts from the destroyed cars he used for training the Special Projects squads in the manufacture of knives, swords, cartridge firearms, and other improvised weapons.

  We followed that with vehicle chase and surveillance training. For that, we went on the streets. Jefferson is nowhere near as large or crowded as our target cities on Earth would be, but there's no autocontrol. It would actually be a decently complicated sim, if different. We started with training in observation and surveillance of our own people, then of strangers who likely wouldn't notice, moved up to executives and Citizens who should notice anything suspicious, then back to Operatives who were looking for tails. We got everyone trained to a level I was happy with in a fairly short time.

  Combat driving was tougher. We needed to learn as much as we could before playing games, because wrecks would cost us money here, and get us killed there. We had to do it, though. You train by doing a chase late at night when it's quiet, then at slower times of the day, then during rush times. Sooner or later, there is going to be a crash. No question. We had a bogus insurance company set up to pay claims, relying on prompt and generous settlements to dissuade questions. We'd still have to justify a few payouts to the chain of command, though.

  I had my own driving test, administered by Reza Asadourian, who had been a diplomatic driver on Novaja Rossia, which had some of the most offensive drivers anywhere. He devised tests that were truly unique. In my case, he had me follow one of his deputies at rush. The bastard waited until I had lunch on my lap as I circled downtown waiting, then told me I had a target and to pursue.

  The food hit my lap and oozed and burned into my pants. I nailed the throttle and brought the crappy electric ground car up to speed. We were rehearsing worst-case scenarios, and that meant Earth type vehicles. You ever try weaving through heavy traffic in a kid's toy, chasing a high performance vehicle while dinner soaks your crotch? Without causing a wreck? On a tight schedule, and without being IDed by the prey or called out by City Safety because a thousand other drivers are complaining and swearing out charges?

  I taught a few subjects myself as well, and proctored a few tests to ensure things were progressing. All of us already qualified or with practical experience were trained on the curricula, then took the rest out for exams after training. It was a group gestalt, everyone learning from everyone else. The technical experts from the schools and the Special Projects people were hit hardest. We sucked their brains dry.

  We started on reconnaissance and infiltration of dwellings. That was tougher here than it would be on Earth, which was one bright spot in this nightmare. Think about it: On Earth, people "mind their own business" and "wait for the authorities to handle it." They just assume that someone else will deal with a problem, unless it has specifically been laid on their plate. We don't have that option. If someone sees a problem here, they deal with it. Whoever is closest takes the job, because there is no "authority" to do so. You look out for your neighbors because you want them to look out for you.

  Consider that when breaking into an apartment for a sneak and peek. You don't belong there. The locals will notice you. If you do anything untoward, they'll come looking and be armed while doing so. They might call city safety for backup but you can't count on it. It might simply be the business end of a shotgun that comes for you. Now: get into that apartment, find the intel you've been asked for and get out without anyone noticing. Then, to make it tougher, do it again a week later. Then we started stealing stuff and returning it later, with apologetic letters about our "kleptomaniac" brothers or sisters, who were sorry and needed help. Then we started doing it at night in occupied dwellings whilst the occupants slept unaware. Then occupied dwellings in the daytime whilst the occupants were awake . . .

  Okay, I'm kidding about the daytime. But you believed it, didn't you? We might have to actually do a daytime job at some point, so we practiced what we could. I'd name a r
esidence, tell the students to get info, and give them a time frame, either short or shorter. They'd fake uniforms of delivery companies, food delivery people or whatever, and try to bring me at least the number and ages of residents and approximate value of contents, etc. I was training a pack of professional thieves, even more so than Operatives already are.

  We added theft from and of cars and finally, major business offices, which were on the lookout for industrial/commercial espionage and had been known to arrange "accidents" from time to time. Eventually, I even staged a few raids on secure military offices, requiring them to start naked, since that was socially possible on Grainne, and precluded them hiding assets among clothes.

  Learning to break and enter isn't hard. Almost any reasonably intelligent person can do so. What's hard is the right mindset, avoiding the fear of getting caught, which is what leads most people to screw up and get caught. As we'd be risking our lives, our mission and (though most didn't know it yet) our homes, we had to be cold and unshakeable.

  I set up much of that myself. It was good training for me, too. I chose residences, dug up ID on the occupants, then sent Operatives in to confirm. I enjoyed that. I'd sit well away, well concealed, watching as they eased up to the residence, then hopped in a window or picked the lock. If challenged, they were "friends," or "maintenance" or some other innocuous cover. They'd offer fake ID and continue as if they belonged there, which is one of the key traits of a professional.

  Afterwards, they'd come to me. "What do you have?" I'd ask.

  I'd be told, "Occupant is a female, approximately eighteen years old. Long red hair, pale skin, green eyes. Likes bright makeup in a variety of styles. Clothing tastes run toward neofunk and dash. Employed by Critical Business Services in reception and referral, approximate income, twenty thousand credits annually. One pet parrot, small aquarium. Likes Italian cuisine. Exercises frequently and takes dance lessons, rides—"

  "What kind of dance?" I'd ask.

  "Er, jazz and ballroom. Rides a bike in lieu of driving. Prefers men as partners . . ." and on it would go.

  I'd have them report on every facet possible, and grill them on anything they didn't mention, to see if they'd noticed those facts too. "Where does she shop for groceries? Clothes? Entertainment? What net provider does she use? What net chatgroups? When does she sleep?" Some of this required making inferences from other data. They had to get inside a subject's mind in only a very short time.

  We took turns at different activities, but after two months we went out to run a small exercise on strict combat tactics. It was great cover of our actual activities, good training for them as a group and a chance to see how they interacted and handled stress. We convoyed out the old fashioned way: trucks on the road.

  It was a day long trip from Maygida to the deep valleys north of Mirror Lake, so we went out for dinner as a unit for the first time. It wasn't much—a buffet style steak and chicken place with a few odds like kangaroo, buffalo, ostrich, alligator and hippopotamus, but it was hot, fresh and free. None of my kids would say "no," or I'd discuss with them the practical aspects of the Scavenging and Procurement Military Technical Specialty. We pulled off the road and parked on the grass, truck after truck being convoyed in, a security detail left behind until the first squads finished and relieved them. We piled through the door into the prefab building and across the red tiled floor.

  The cashier looked nervous, even though she wouldn't be the one cooking. Our line ran out the door and would obviously fill every table. "So, what can I get you?" she asked, sounding unsure.

  Tyler's a clown. "Meat," she said, pointing at a menu item at random.

  "The kilo hippo filet?" the girl asked. "How would you like that cooked?"

  "Sure, why not?" Tyler replied, grinning.

  While the girl was trying to decide how to reply, Kimbo cut in. Tyler should have taken lessons. "Enough of that," he said. "We want a buffalo, medium rare. Milk it first, then shoot it. A truckload of salad, another of baked potatoes and a drum of sour cream. Start dealing it at the front and keep going until we say we're done." He pushed past Tyler in the tight confines of the railed alley and headed for a seat while I doubled over laughing. Efficient. Rude, but efficient.

  The poor girl really looked bothered, as did one of the cooks, leaning over from the grill. I said, "Just start cooking anything. Someone will eat it. Make the portions large and don't worry about excess. We're hungry." It seemed to clarify things for them, and they jumped to it.

  Three days later we headed back in. I'd seen enough. Three days may not sound like much, but we slept not at all and were on foot and moving for most of it. There were a few people who couldn't handle the stress and talked too much. I'd ease them out over the next several days.

  Shortly after that, I had to admit that we would be on Earth for part of this. While I'd like to not tell anyone, we would be going there and had to fit in. That's easier if you have time to prepare, naturally. Especially for small details like body hair. Most of us remove it. Most Earthies have pelts like apes. Everyone had to flush out nanos or stop shaving.

  I went into excruciating detail over our cover. It would only get better as we got practice, but I wanted the beginning to be as flawless as possible as a confidence builder. We pored over maps and tourism guides, local documentaries and entertainment vids. We ate foods local to the areas in question. Everyone took languages from tutors we brought in. I even found five culturalists who were transplanted Earth "citizens." We met with them all day for a few days to refine our accents and usage of slang.

  For North America, we hired one Kendra Pacelli. She'd escaped from the UN as a political refugee, and she'd been a UNPF logistics sergeant. I had reservations about a veteran possibly making our cover, and she was astute enough I think she did. But if she did she kept the knowledge to herself, not even telling the two reservists she was involved with, who were carefully and quietly debriefed to determine if she'd leaked. Not a word.

  There was nothing easy about this. I had to use people who'd never been on Earth, and I had to ensure they would fit in once they got there. I had to have cut outs, ID and ways to stay in contact set up ahead of time in virgin territory.

  One major problem was maintaining contact. The only ways to send messages were by ship or by relayed radio. One was impractical—I couldn't get hard copies or rams to ship crews we could trust to be loyal on a regular basis without falling into a pattern that would blow cover. Transmissions were not possible at all. I'd need a "licensed" transmitter, a license to use that much power, and even with a directional antenna or a coherent beam, there'd be signal leakage. No joy. Nevermind that I'd be transmitting to Freehold registry ships about to jump.

  What we could use was the free mail servers on the nets. Those were all tracked by the UN security agencies, but we would only be using each one once. We came up with a list for me to setup at my end for transmission, and they'd be checked automatically at the other end. Another list was those I'd receive on. The messages would have to be encoded into innocuous, plain language messages that wouldn't trigger the security protocols, and each address would only be used once. There was no need to memorize them—I carried them in a comm as a data file. The servers I worked on a strict rotation, and could in fact use whichever was most convenient. It was only the prefix address that would be awkward to memorize: we had to use combinations that sounded normal or at worst as mass-mail "spam" headers, and weren't recently in use. Even if discovered, there'd be no incriminating messages, as all that would be sent in response would be comments like, "Sounds good (or, 'I hope not'). Hope things are well. Stay in touch, my friend." It would be hard to prove espionage over that. Not that the concern was them proving it on us, we were concerned that any agent not be able to prove to his buttonpushing superiors that it was suspicious. As long as the bureaucracy wasn't spooked, we'd be fine. If they got antsy, they'd provide money to do a search for us. As with any war, this was a logistical fight; without properly assigned resou
rces, they'd lose.

  We developed a backup plan whereby we actually hid data within the message, by masking the relevant words with an algorithm I memorized. We hoped it wouldn't come down to that. There was also the likely chance that all contact would be lost. "If that happens," Naumann told me, "you continue to gather data, send what you can, and decide on your authority as an independent command what to do. If you can, hurt them enough to make them back off, at least for a while. If that's not possible or won't help us significantly, then evacuate your people off Earth, try to get back here if you can and help us directly. Otherwise, head for a neutral or friendly foreign power and fight a political and clandestine war. But don't give up."

  Now, aren't orders like that reassuring? The only thing he didn't add was, "Tuck your head firmly between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye."

  We agreed that I might be able to pull a favor from Princess Annette under such circumstances, that Novaja Rossia would probably give us refugee status, and that I should wait a couple of Earth years before going on a smash and destroy. If it came down to that last, we were to leave testimony of our existence and reason for doing so, and hurt them as badly as we could. That of course meant we would die.

  The biggest apparent stumbling block is the implanted ID chips everyone on Earth has. The stated purpose of these is to locate missing persons. As very few people actually go missing, it's economically ridiculous. A secondary purpose is to track criminals. Still economically ridiculous. It also has the side effect of making it virtually impossible for dissidents to hold meetings, stage riots, etc, without being located. That is the truly valuable purpose to a society. "Only criminals are afraid to be seen," they say. I can't argue with the logic. I can argue that it is absolutely dehumanizing to do it. I mean, if people generally are so inclined to crime, it is a natural human event, no? If people wish to rebel, you should be asking what's wrong with the society. The monitoring reeks.