The Weapon

  My ears were on automatic, picking up the occasional bird amid the rustling, sighing, whispering trees. What did the trees make of this? They had CO2, a cool environment, and were being left alone out here, but stripped to the ground in their few remaining camps in the cities. Above, or below all those natural sounds was the pervasive, muted and barely audible soft rumble of the city. Even this far out, the omnipresent reminder of humanity intruded. How could one live on a planet like this?

  I was suddenly alert. Something was wrong, but what? Bird sounds stopped. Threat, but what and where? Footsteps in soft ground, behind and to the right. About fifty meters. Closing. Run, or engage? Engage. My brain, trained as a battle comm, sorted through what it needed almost without me thinking about it. The ripple of natural adrenaline was followed by the surge of Boost, and I turned with the short shovel in hand.

  My attacker was surprised as I spun. He'd been sure he had the edge. The tape-wrapped chunk of cable in his hand made him a threat, not a supplicant, and I struck, the edge of the shovel batting his crude sap aside before shattering his right shoulder as I brought it down. "No!" he yelled in denial. Scream. He collapsed. Whimper. "Fuck you, asshole, you shoulda been mine." No hope of salvation in this piece of shit. Cock back for a lethal blow to the skull . . .

  . . . turn and keep walking.

  I couldn't do it. He was no threat mentally or physically. He was a waste of my time and his death would serve no purpose.

  Behind me, there were animal cries of pain. I was used to them by now. I kept walking. Shortly, I turned east.

  From the mark I'd sought, I followed a buried hydrogen line by its markers for 150 meters. From that bend in the line, I continued ten more meters. It was a dangerous spot, so close to a farmer's field, but northern wheat didn't grow that deep. The harvest I sought was far below.

  I dug. Digging is meditation for a soldier, because we do so much of it. I kept Chelsea in the ruck, and had it on the ground next to me, always at hand. I stopped periodically to refill her bottle, check her diaper and drink a few swallows myself. Then I returned to digging. The small shovel, E-tool really, made it slow work, as did the need to keep the fill pile low. I acquired blisters right through my gloves, but at least I was warm from the exertion.

  Then she started fussing. Baby cries travel a long way, and I had to stop them. I picked her up and she clung like a monkey, heels and fingers clutching my jacket. She quieted down at once.

  But I had no luck in giving her a bottle and putting her down. She wanted to be held. One cannot argue with an infant, they have no higher functions. I couldn't have the noise. I had no way to sedate her and would be reluctant to do so anyway. So I turned the blanket into a sling and placed her under my right arm, a hindrance but not an incapacitance. I just hoped the digging wouldn't take much longer.

  Two meters should be my depth. I was at two meters. Nothing. I hoped I wouldn't have to try again another night, or dig laterally. Perhaps additional soil had been laid above by the farm.

  That was the case. At 220 centimeters, I struck crate. Eager now, frantic even, I cleared away one corner. There were stress lines that could be broken in an emergency. This was an emergency. I snapped off the corner.

  Riches! I had more clothes. I had at least four IDs that would work passably. I had weapons. Everything but a Q36 nuke was here. Even this far out, Earth's sensor field would have found the anomaly, so we hadn't left any. Which was fine. I wasn't here for weapons.

  I looked longingly at a Merrill Model 17, the brand new 11 mm killer. Lovely, but a dead giveaway. My weapons were my wits, these mere tools. I left most of the tools where they were, except for a good folding knife. I took the clothes, the IDs and risked a double armful of battle rats. I took cashcards and credchips that matched the IDs. I wanted a standard military shelter, but that, too would reveal me if found. I settled for the plain but adequate inflatable civilian tent within. I abandoned the cheap backpack for a better grade of camper's ruck. The whole process took minutes.

  Then it was time to exfiltrate. I rigged fuses to a five-kilo demolition block and shoved it far back into the case. I rigged fuses on three Magburn incendiaries, the proprietary mix that was evolved to cut titanium struts, hardened concrete and weaken structural whisker composites. It had been so long since I worked with professional explosives, but my fingers were sure in trained muscle memory. Insert fuse to detonator, butt, crimp, insert, place. Rig a second detonator for every charge as a backup. Uncoil fuse. I couldn't test burn the fuse, but it should be 300 seconds per meter. I'd have to rely on the estimate, and I'd need approximately twelve meters of fuse for each of eight detonators.

  I climbed out, piled the dirt back in as fast as I could, using it as quick fill and not worrying about compaction. There was no visible fill pile to indicate anything, and hopefully no one would look for yet another few weeks. There was bare gray in the east when I finished. Looking around for observers and seeing none, I spoke aloud, the textvid safety formula now a ritual to remind me of who I was.

  "I am ready to strike. The area is clear. Fire in the hole. Strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike." At each "Strike" I clicked a fuse igniter. As soon as I confirmed them burning, I pulled the igniters free with the tip of my knife. I scooped them up and wrapped them in a rag, still hot. Then I began walking.

  An hour later, I was five squares east. I glanced at my watch. Right now. In that cache, the magburn was melting the unused explosives, the crate, the weapons and the ammo. The ammo would be sputtering as its matrix decayed in the heat. And right now, the explosives to the side would be blowing the molten pool into slag mixed with dirt. Should anyone find it, they'd assume it had been caused by a gas leak. The hydrogen utility would check, see it wasn't their problem, and ignore it. If they recognized signs of explosives, they'd call in experts. After some days of checking, the experts might deduce it had been a cache. That would tell them there were infiltrators on Earth. Which they knew. Very careful checking might show the possibility that the cache had been used after the attack. That would tell them that at least one Operative might be alive. Which they knew. I reminded myself again that I was safe. Then I turned and kept walking.

  Later that day, I came to a small town called, of all things, Caledonia. It had four small hotels. I had a cab take me to the cleanest-looking. They were glad to see me, after I knocked long enough to make them realize they had a customer. They took cash with no questions and I slipped into a room. I scrubbed and soaked—they had hot water, the power working reliably out here. And lucky for them—this far from anything, they'd have all died without it. Or maybe not. They were less antlike than the city dwellers. I cleaned Chelsea up well, scrubbed our old clothes and tossed what was damaged beyond use. Then we slept. I sprawled in a comfy bed and wrapped myself around that little bundle of heat. She was stirring and excited, but I calmed her down with whispers and caresses of her head and spine, until she conked back out the way small children do. I slept like a log. I was so out of it, I didn't notice her get wet, until I woke in a puddle. Oh, well. I'd lain in worse things.

  Our new persona was not "refugee." It was "slightly inconvenienced survivor." I dressed decently and would travel likewise. More walking followed by rented single autocar took us to Eau Claire, from where we took surface train down through Illinois, taking side routes to avoid Chicago. I had an idea what Chicago might look like. I had no wish to confirm. Louisville had not been hit, and was in a better environment. It would do for now. I still had a duty to recover other survivors, and it might take time to do that. Along the way, I could use public comms if I could find any.

  I found one in Rockford and risked using it, changing trains after the fact just in case. There were still no messages from anyone. Their orders had been to send me a quick, "Dear Bill, we're okay. Just a quick note. Please call when service resumes. Love, whoever." There was nothing. That meant they were either dead, or so woefully out nowhere that there was no net service. Unlike
ly. Either they'd died in the attack, or they'd been hunted afterwards. Or maybe some of them had managed to sneak off Earth. But if so, I should have messages relayed through various locations and a "We're home" message. Nothing equaled nothing. They were all dead.

  It was chilling at first. Then I wondered how everyone would feel about it, and perhaps they'd feel better dead. Then I had to give credit to the odds; two hundred Operatives, likely three billion casualties were our share. One Operative, one city. I really couldn't blame anyone who wanted us dead. We'd succeeded beyond anyone's dreams. Nightmares. Hell, part of me wanted to arrange to wipe out my own planet as a threat to the species.

  * * *

  Louisville hadn't been hit. It had still had some rioting, and a spate of refugees from Cincinnati, Indianapolis and even Memphis. It was intact but crowded and depressed. I found us a small efficiency far out in the Taylorsville suburb. It was musty but adequate, almost a twin of the one in Minneapolis. A cookie cutter planet. I paid for a month, signed a lease for five more, and mentally burned the ID I'd used. I'd leave when it was convenient and they could charge off on the debt. Yes, the debt collectors on Earth were still in business. Scavengers and parasites are always the hardiest of lifeforms.

  Ironically, I was slowly making my way back to Washington, that being the best place to arrange travel off planet. I was thinking again now, and plotting my exfiltration. There was no more intel to gather. Anyone still alive I wouldn't be able to help from this distance, and we'd known that beforehand. Exfiltration was on our own authority. No one would expect me to head toward the center of government, and I'd move toward it, taking my time, waiting for a Freehold or Caledonian or Novaja Rossian military contingent that could pull us out. Or maybe a humanitarian mission I could con into lifting us.

  I took it a town at a time, a few weeks at a time, asking locals for intel and checking maps on the nets as I was able. I'd check for reports, too, just before I actually moved location. It was frightening how few people knew anything about anywhere other than where they squatted. On the other hand, that made me safer. I was asking about towns in all directions, which would slow down pursuit. I switched from adequately well off to poor and back, staying in small apartments or back rooms but never in shelters, because the government goons running them might happen to be alert enough to notice me. I was alternately growing and shaving my beard. Yes, with a shaver. Earth has always been that primitive. Nano and chemical depilation just never caught on. I don't know why. I used every trick of accent, cosmetics and misdirection to make myself invisible and throw the most astute tracker onto a dozen false trails.

  The problem was that Chelsea couldn't help being what she was—a bright, cheerful little girl with hair that coiled manically in back. I might be hard to track, she would not be. I did what I could. She got her hair bobbed and became a boy for a while. I dyed it several colors with shoe polish, which would wash out in a few days. The stuff was cheap; no one was using it. It was cheaper than the bleach I used on my hair.

  * * *

  It's been almost two Earth years now, and there's enough infrastructure back up that I can actually plan for our departure. I've been amazed at Chelsea's development recently, as she picks up a new word every day and learns to solve problems and get into things. She brushes her teeth before bed, picks up after she eats and is quite neat. It must be a trait from Deni, because I tend to be a slob. She built a tower of boxes and chairs up to the counter the last week, and came back holding a kitchen knife. Clever kid. Typical, I suppose, but I'd forgotten to expect it. I told her she was a bad girl, and she curled up on the floor, sobbing. After a while, she unwrapped herself, stood up, threw herself on me and said, "Dad, Ah'm cryning!" She was still sobbing in remorse at upsetting me.

  How can an adult with any humanity be mad at a kid when they say things like that?

  I was able to do some research of what was unclassified about the war. Casualties were horrific, but we kicked the crap out of a force nearly a hundred times our size. Training, logistics and sheer bloody-minded determination won that war. Our people simply wouldn't back down, no matter the odds. Naumann ordered Operatives and Blazers to blow UN ships and space installations. Every one of those was a suicide mission and almost every one of those soldiers accepted his mission. Virtually everyone I knew in the military is dead. If one of those self-styled, hypocritical "pacifists" ever tells me that soldiers don't understand the true cost of war, I'll likely rip his jaw off on the spot and piss in the hole. I owe it to my brothers and sisters.

  I discovered that Kendra Pacelli, our invaluable source on North America, joined the FMF and advanced to warrant leader. Not only that, she was awarded the Citizens' Medal for selfless bravery, holding off UN infantry long enough for more than 250 troops to fall back and regroup. Most people back home will never know just how much they owe her for her technical data and innate knowledge of the UNPF mindset and operating philosophy, in addition to her actions at Braided Bluff. I owe my life at least twice to data she furnished me. Thank you, Sergeant Pacelli. I'm glad you survived.

  Sorry about your hometown.

  So far, no Operatives have reported in to me. None. How many others are hiding as I am, afraid and ashamed? Few, I presume. Most must be dead.

  And I had to fight parasites recently. Fleas, lice and worms. Must have wandered by on a stray animal and been tracked in. I found these disgusting little black dots doing handstands all over Chelsea, and over my lower legs. Along with them came lice. Filthy lifeforms, both of them. I've never understood the slobbering sexual fantasies surrounding vampires that crop up in literature every few years. To me, a person who gets off thinking about bloodsuckers needs a swift whack alongside the head with a club to shake their brains up. I shaved my head for the lice and went through hers with a comb and kerosene—it was still impossible to find basic medicine in stores. It took chemicals, garlic on the skin, and regular plucking with tweezers to kill the flea infestation.

  Worms I didn't get, but Chelsea did. Common enough. What wasn't common yet again was any medicine. I finally did it the hard, battlefield way, and force-fed her a hundred milliliters of kerosene. Yes, kerosene. It's being used in heaters until the power grid comes back up totally. She screamed, spat and howled, but next day she spewed into five diapers and the little bastards were gone. It stank like you wouldn't believe. She'd been drinking water to get the oily taste out of her mouth, so she didn't dehydrate, fortunately. I don't think they teach any of this in basic parenting class. The more primitive the conditions, the tougher it is to raise kids. Anyone who wishes for the simple days of the village and all the mothers staying home to care for the commune of chillun is living a misguided fantasy. I want modern technology, modern drugs, prepared foods and a support staff, as I would for any combat operation.

  Chapter 29

  And now we're going home. It wasn't that hard to arrange, and I could kick myself for not doing it sooner. On the other hand, the only office until recently was near DC, of no help to me in the Midwest, and I had to remain in the field in case my people needed me.

  I met with one of the Freehold contingents here to help recovery. Most Terrans won't go anywhere near them, so there was no worry about being seen, nor any need to wait in line. Their office was small, discreet, and well guarded: an entire squad was stationed there. It bothered me that my own people scanned for weapons. That's an ominous trend for a society based on personal freedom, but it did seem a good idea, under the circumstances.

  I used my best Capital District accent, and explained that we'd been here on business for a Jefferson based company. I told them Chelsea's mother was dead, and since the little weasel looks older than she is anyway, they didn't question me. "You'll have up to a year to arrange residency without penalty," I was told.

  "Oh, thank you!" I said, sounding even more relieved than I was.

  "You're welcome, Mister Ravahan. Can we give you a ride to get your possessions?" the aide asked me.

  "I have
everything that matters," I told her, and it wasn't hard to look rueful. "We're ready now."

  It was so easy. They didn't even charge for the lift to the spaceport. I took one last look back in pity at the mudcrawlers of Earth, waiting for someone to "do something," while we Freeholders simply did whatever had to be done and moved on. I said a quick prayer for Deni and Tyler and then for everybody we left behind. I shouldered our bag in one hand, carried Chelsea in the other arm, and she waved, "Bye-bye!" to the techs as we entered the terminal. Everyone loves a grinning, cheerful child. They make great cover if you want to be unseen. Just please, in the name of God and Goddess, get them out of the line of fire before it gets ugly. With a Freehold diplomatic pass, we went straight through a nearly empty concourse and boarded.

  I suppose a few readers are amazed at how much effort I put into the kid. Others may think I had some sort of epiphany over the children on vid who caused me so much discomfort, or over finding Chelsea alive. Well, both and neither. I've always loved kids. I didn't avoid Deni's pregnancy and Chelsea's birth from distaste. Deep in my soul, I was terrified that I would have to kill, or worse, order killed, Chelsea to maintain cover or to let us escape with our data. I knew I couldn't do that if I didn't remain remote. Seeing other kids killed to prove a political point, no matter whose, made me ill. Doing it was a torture straight out of hell.

  I've recorded this narrative in part for Naumann, who is still alive. Consider it my final addenda. Fuck you, you bastard. You'll never send me to slaughter civilians for you again. Do your own killing. I've attached my final debriefing, I'm retiring, and I don't think you have the means to find me. Part of me would rather die than return to Grainne, but that's the place I know best and the easiest place to hide and still have modern facilities for Chelsea. Of course, I may be lying and headed somewhere else entirely. I'm not looking forward to what I'll have to do to get set up and hidden, but for this little girl, I'll do it.