The Weapon - Passion - part 6
By Diana the Valkyrie
So we have to stop the civil war


"So we have to stop the civil war," said Wendy, succinctly.

"Can't be done," said George. Wendy looked at him and then at me. "Is he
right?" she asked, anxiously. "Probably," I said. "But not definitely," she
pressed. "No," I admitted, not definitely. "Then we have to try," she said.
"Mmm." "Duncan, we have to try. Even if there's only a ghost of a chance, how
can we not at least try?"

"Come off it," said George, "people have been trying to stop wars for
centuries. How can us four do something that even the United Nations can't
do?" "Because we've got assets that they don't," I replied, looking pointedly
at Wendy, "it's just like breaking up a fight, but on a bigger scale." Wendy
looked at me, quizzically. "Sometimes, you're at the pub, and people have a
few beers too many, and one of your friends starts getting into a fight with
another one. So what you do, is you try to break up the fight; take away any
weapons they've got, and keep them apart until they cool off. And in the
morning, they're glad you did. Because neither of them really intended to have
a fight, they just got themselves locked into a situation that they couldn't
back down from." "But these aren't friends," pointed out George.

"Look," I continued, "I'm going to make a few assumptions here, and my
justification for making them is that unless they're true, we don't stand a
chance. Assumption number one, is that that they don't actually want to fight
any more. My guess is, most people are sick of it, it's just screwing up their
lives, killing their children, and they just want it to stop, but they can't
stop because." "Because why?" asked Wendy, "why can't they just stop?"
"There's a sort of momentum, Wendy. Tit for tat. A killing sparks a revenge
killing, and then that has to be avenged, and so on. They capture a town, so
we have to recapture it. Like Vlyd said, they fight today, mostly because they
fought yesterday. I want to try to treat this like a pub fight." "You think
that will work?" asked George. "No," I said, "but unless someone has a better
idea, or thinks we should just give up even though we have two Weapons that
no-one else can deploy?"

"So what's the detail of this plan," asked George. "I don't have any detail
yet," I replied, "But here's my strategic thinking. In order to support the
orphanages, there has to be a functioning government that can levy taxes which
will support such social services. The civil service will already have a
mechanism for distributing funds to the orphanages, and will know where they
are. Before a government can function, we have to stop the killing, but we
have to remember that our objective is for the Ruthenia to form a stable
government as part of the peace agreement. So, we have to get the main
contenders to sit down round a table and talk about a compromise that ends the
fighting."

"How?" asked George.

"Yeah," I replied, "I'll get back to you on that."

Milly flew George and baby Rosetta back to their place, so at last I got my
car back, and I suggested to Wendy that we get an early night, since tomorrow
would be busy. "I don't need to sleep," she pointed out. "But I do, Wendy, and
I sleep a lot better when you're with me." She grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
"Bed" she said. "Er, actually, I was hoping ..." "mmm?" " ... a couple of
thousand feet in the air?" She pulled me into her arms, and we exited via the
window. "What about the baby?" I asked. "I'll hear if she wakes up," said
Wendy.

I slept soundly that night. Wendy's an expert at putting me to sleep, and
after she'd administered the Wendy Special Knockout Fuck, she held me close
and rocked me to sleep in her arms.

Next morning, I awoke in bed. There were three of us. Me, Wendy and something
small and helpless being given her morning feed, together with lots of love.
When Wendy saw I was awake, she started singing to her, too. "You know, Wendy,
we'll have to find out her name." "She's Mattie, Mattie Hrwglyth. Aren't you,
Mattie? Yes, you are. Yes. You. Are. My Little Mattie. Goo! Goo goo!"

I went downstairs to get away from this saccharine scene of babyfied bliss.

After breakfast, I told Wendy that were were going shopping, to the
supermarket. "Bread," she said. "Milk." Actually, we filled up five trolleys,
and a lot of it was tinned. Twenty one children eat a lot, I'd think, and it's
probably better to have too much than too little. "How will you carry it," I
asked her. "In my cape," she replied, that multifunction Swiss-army-knife cape
of hers. "And what about me," I asked, thinking about a sub-orbital trip
without Wendy's cape around me. "Ah," she said, "yes. I'll have to leave you
behind, Duncan, and you can look after Mattie. I won't be long." And I was
left, in the middle of the supermarket car park, holding the baby. I was
hoping that she didn't wake up and want feeding, or (worse) changing.

I went home, basketed the baby, and started writing up my plan of action. It's
funny how, if you go to sleep with a problem, and get a good long zizz, you
can wake up with the solution pretty much complete in your head. But, for the
sake of being methodical, I wanted to write it down, so I could check it to
see if I'd forgotten anything major. I spent an hour staring at the plan,
rearranging bits, amplifying bits, pricing things up, and then I spent another
hour trying to work out what could go wrong. Eventually, I decided that there
were just so many things that could go wrong, and if something can go wrong,
then it will. I'd have to rely on Wendy and Milly being able to improvise as
necessary. But if it all worked, then we'd end the civil war, install a decent
government, rescue the orphanages, solve my financial problems (caused by
having expenditures and no income) and end the scourge of teenage acne. Well,
maybe not the last two. I left our own financial problems as an open issue,
but one that had to be dealt with fairly soon, before the wolf arrived at the
door. Teenage acne would have to be someone else's problem.

Wendy got back two hours after she'd left. "What kept you?" I asked, knowing
that she could have gotten there and back in 40 minutes. "I told them a story,
I told them the Saga of Scarpur." "What's that?" "Oh, it's just something that
happened a few billion years ago, part of the history of my people." How come
she never tells me these stories? "OK, fine. Now, listen up, Wendy. I have a
plan, and it's a doozie." I explained the outline of my idea to her. "And
you'll stay here, Duncan?" "Ah, no. Key part of the plan, I have to be with
you, you need a Wielder." "It could be dangerous, Duncan." "Not in the
slightest, Wendy, I'll have you with me at all times." She looked doubtful.
"I'd rather ..." "Wendy, if you can see a better way, say so. Otherwise, we go
with this." She shut up, but kept the stubborn look that meant I'd just lost
another argument. "And another thing," I continued. "You've never been shot
at, we have to get you some practice at that." "Why?" she asked, "all I have
to do is nothing." "Incorrect," I replied, "it's like everything else, you
don't know what might go wrong until you've tried it." "But we don't have a
gun," she pointed out.

Yes. True. And I couldn't see a way to legally acquire one in a hurry. I
didn't want a dinky little squirrel-gun, I wanted one of the heavy-duty
man-killers that the Ruthenians would be using. I'd thought of setting up a
catapult that gave the necessary kinetic energy to a lead pellet, but I
discarded that, on the same principle of "you don't know what might go wrong
until you've tried it". "Well, don't just stand there," I said. "You know
where you can get one, and this time, do not tell anyone any stories."

By the time she got back, George and Milly had arrived. And little Rosetta, of
course, carried in a sort of papoose-bag in front of Milly. "Does yours sleep
at night?" asked George. "Sure, doesn't yours?" "No," said George, succinctly.
"Oh?" "She keeps waking up and asking for something, Milly thinks she's got
wind, or she's hungry, or needs changing; I think she just likes being
cuddled. Dunc, I tell you, that baby's getting more of Milly than I am."
"Them's the breaks," I told George, "that's the way it often goes. Just be
grateful that you've got Milly at all, think of all the Milly-less
multitudes." He pulled a face. "How come I got the noisy brat and you got the
angel?" "I'm not sure I'd call Wendy an angel, more like a goddess, I think."
"I meant the baby," explained George. "I'm not a goddess," said Wendy, "are
you two going to bicker all evening, or are we going to try out this
goes-bang-stick?"

Since we had an illegal gun, we had to find somewhere quiet to try it out.
Plus, people might get the wrong idea if they saw us shooting at Wendy and
Milly. I didn't want to be on the wrong end of an attempted murder charge, so
we went to the King George V Reservoir, inhabited mostly by birds,
birdwatchers and yatchsmen. And they all go home at night, except the birds.
"You want to hold the babies?" I asked George. He shook his head vigorously; I
thought he needed to get with the program here, our Weapons were obviously mad
about babies, and life was going to be full of them from now on. Deal with it.
But since I was holding the babies, that meant George had to do the stuff with
the gun.

Wendy went first. "Age before beauty," said Milly. She stood in front of the
reservoir, about a hundred yards away, and George picked up the gun. "It's
heavy," he said, "how do you use it?" Ah. No manual. And none of us had ever
used a gun before. I bent close and shone my torch on it. "You point the end
with the hole at Wendy, and you put the wooden end up against your shoulder,
and you pull that little lever-thing there," I said, drawing on many years of
watching spaghetti westerns.

He did all that, and nothing happened. "Safety catch," I said, remembering
numerous episodes of Kojak. He found that and clicked it to the "unsafe"
position, then tried the trigger again. There was a hell of a bang, and George
fell over backwards. "You OK, Wendy?" "I heard the bang but I have no idea
where the bullet went." I thought about this. George was going to have trouble
hitting a barn at 100 yards, so I beckoned Wendy closer, until she was ten
yards away. Even then I wasn't sure that George would be able to score a hit,
so I shone my torch on her, so he'd get better aim.

Sure enough, his next go missed, but at least he didn't fall over again. "Ow,"
he said, "it keeps bashing me on the shoulder, it's got a kick like a horse."
"Persistence, George." On the fourth try, he got a hit, and we found out what
happens when a bullet hits a Weapon. George was thinking that the bullet would
bounce off, like Superman, but I was pretty sure that wouldn't happen, because
Wendy isn't hard like steel, she's soft like, well, like Wendy. So a lot of
the energy of the bullet was absorbed as it tore through her tunic and then
her skin and the stuff under it. I'm not sure how far in it penetrated, but
you could see the damage before she repaired it.

She said it hurt at first, which surprised me. I'd kind of assumed that since
she couldn't be damaged, except temporarily, then that meant she couldn't get
hurt. Then, on reflection, I realised why it hurt her. Of course she had to
have sensors to tell her about damage, just like we do, and those sensors
would raise an interrupt so that the priority message "Something just damaged
you" would get noticed. And that's what we call pain, so that's what she
called it. Of course, there's no way to compare how much it hurts, but then
you can't actually do that between two humans; we just assume that we all feel
the same amount of pain. But maybe we don't. Indeed, was there actually any
relationship between what George or I would call "pain" and what Wendy said
she felt? I didn't think there was any way of finding out. Well, you can get
too deep in philosophical questions like that; let's just assume that when
Wendy said "Ouch" she meant that it hurts.

But it only hurt at first; she shut down the message once it had gotten
through, which is something one hears that some people can do, although I've
never known whether to believe that. And the repair was pretty fast.

I told George to put the gun on to semi-automatic, and fire a few bursts at
Wendy. "Ow," she said, "I didn't like that at all, not at all. Can we stop
now?" Her body looked badly sliced and damaged, and her clothes were a mess. I
nodded, and she came back to stand behind George, who changed the ammo clip.
"Your turn, Milly." Milly looked at me, like a dog who's been told "bath".
"I'll go again instead," said Wendy. I was a bit baffled by that, it didn't
make sense, the whole point was for Milly to see how it feels. Then I realised
- Milly was Wendy's daughter, and Wendy was offering to take her place so she
wouldn't get the pain of being shot. "No, Wendy, you stay here. Go on, Milly."

Milly went to stand in the target area. George raised the gun, sighted ...
then lowered it again. "Dunc," he said, "I ... I don't think I can do this."
Mutiny! "It hurts them, Dunc. I can't do it." I shook my head. "Sure it hurts,
but you know what they say, train hard, fight easy. She's going to experience
this sooner or later, and a fraught combat situation is not the best
introduction. Now pull yourself together, man, and do it." He raised the gun
again, Milly smiled nervously, and he put it down again." "No." "Give it
here," I said, passing the babies over to George.

George was right about the kick. And Milly screamed when the first bullet hit.
I changed to semi-automatic, took aim again, fired, but I didn't hit Milly.
Wendy had put herself between us, and the stream of bullets hit her, ripping
into her body and legs. When I realised what was happening, I lowered the gun,
but not before I'd done a lot of damage. I watched as Wendy repaired herself,
and told her to get out of the way. "No," she said. Mutiny? This was open
rebellion! Wendy walked towards me, and pulled the gun out of my hands. Then
she bent the barrel into a U shape. "No more, Duncan. That's enough." Milly
agreed, "I don't like guns, they sting."

Oh well. At least now they knew what to expect. "OK, OK. Dump that thing
somewhere where it isn't going to cause trouble, Wendy." "I'll get rid of it
next time we're in orbit."

Wendy spread her cape on the grass by the reservoir and we all sat on it; the
moon was low in the sky, and we could see a galaxy of stars. I leaned into
Wendy and pulled her toward me, nuzzling her ear. I stroked her shoulder, "I'm
sorry I hurt you with that gun, Wendy, it was so that you'd know what to
expect." "I know, love, I'm fine, don't worry about it."

George passed Mattie back to Wendy, who decided that now was a good time for a
feed, so Milly did the same with Rosetta. You know, you might not be able to
have sex with a woman while she's feeding a baby, but you sure as hell can
kiss her, and Wendy had at least one free hand. "Tomorrow, George, send Milly
round first thing; she and Wendy will be off to Ruthenia, to start the
process." George nodded. We all sat there, holding hands and kissing like
romantic teenagers, except that teenagers don't usually have a couple of
babies to look after. I wondered how long it would be before we could do this
again; it could be weeks before our efforts in Ruthenia bore fruit. If ever.
And then I suggested that the cold damp night air might not the the best thing
for small babies, and then we all flew home.

That night, I rather clutched at Wendy, because I knew I'd only see her
intermittently for a while. I know it's very selfish of me, but I want to be
with her all the time, and I really hated the idea of her spending a long time
fighting a stupid battle to stop a war for people we didn't even know. And I
told her that. "But Duncan." "Yes, I know, I know. It's for the children, I
know. I just can't help wishing that it wasn't necessary, you see?" Wendy
looked beyond me, into the distance, her thousand yard stare. "It's always
like this, Duncan. People lose track of what's important. But we'll remind
them." Then she focussed on me, and said, "But tonight, my Wielder, my own
baby, tonight is for you and me." And her body pressed against mine, and her
hair covered my face, and her smell filled my nose, and she loved me, fast and
slow, hard and soft, and thoroughly.

. . .