The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Poole whispered, “Sweet mother of God.”

  Clausen felt the blood rushing behind his ears. He leaned forward, and wished he’d sat in the first row. Down there, in the center of the arena, stood Colonel William Halstead, commander of ASOC NORCOM. Clausen recognized the colonel the same way children recognized holovid mascots. He’d read the colonel’s book. He’d attended the colonel’s retirement. And now, here he was, back in the saddle, personally handing a mission to Clausen’s team. The whole room was silent. Halstead wasn’t just respected. The man was adored, on a religious level. He was the last of the old soldiers. The last of the greats. Any whispers of doubt were gone, and every eye was locked forward.

  Halstead stepped from behind his podium, and produced a laser pointer. The colonel strode forward. His gray hair and trimmed mustache shone silver under the holotable lights. When he spoke, his voice was higher than expected, dry with age and heavy wear, but not weighted down by a life of burden. Halstead said, “You may be wondering why you've been dragged away from your well-earned leave.” He used no microphone, no amplification. He simply spoke, clear and enunciated, and everyone listened. This was a man who commanded respect with presence alone, the kind of man who might upend the gravity of a chamber and pull the contents down onto himself, were it not for the restraint of his will. “I want all of you down here, please. Quit hiding the in the rafters and fill in the damned briefing like adults.” Chuckles, some abashed, filled the chamber. Halstead gave them time to move, and glanced to the side. On command, the access doors flicked to red, locked.

  When the rustles of movement had stopped, the Colonel tapped his remote, and the massive holoscreen hummed to life. “Everything I am about to say is classified blacker than black. This entire operation is boxed, and I need everyone to keep that in mind. There is to be no data trail.” Aides began to pass out packets of red paper. “Everything is hard-copy only. Memorize your data and burn it. Not a single bit or byte is to come anywhere near a computer until we are on site, with secure hardware.”

  Someone exhaled heavily.

  “That's right, son. This is a midnight blitz.”

  Clausen took his packet, passed the stack on. He flipped it open, and saw schematics of an airship, floor plans, drive papers, photographs, shipping logs… he was still flipping through when the Colonel continued, “I apologize for the lack of detail, but as you are all now keenly aware, this operation is compartmentalized to hell. More information will be made available as we approach the target date.”

  Halstead said, “The target is the Airship Plymouth. A rogue actor has set up shop on board, and is using the city's travel patterns to hide the distribution of weapons to a whole range of bad apples. Details on the target vessel are as follows: constructed in 2544 to serve as a combination of luxury cruise and exclusive gated community, the Plymouth houses a population of approximately five hundred forty people, with a crew of seven hundred twelve to run the operations of both airship and city. The keel of the ship is three hundred seventy meters, beam two hundred and sixty meters, height eighty-two meters plus- that's twelve decks and superstructure.

  “Power is provided by four Helios Three fusion plants. Propulsion is generated by eight ZRD-88 electroturbines, top sustainable speed is twenty-two knots. Lift is provided by three Bergman drives, ARC950s, each capable of producing up to seventy thousand tons of negative mass, which is good, since the Airship itself, standard load, is one-hundred-ten thousand tons.”

  Someone snorted.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing, sir. Just, I've seen carriers smaller than that.”

  Clausen whispered to Poole, “I've seen carriers dock in things smaller than that.”

  Halstead said, “Familiarize yourself with this monstrosity, boys and girls. Your packets contain detailed analysis of the infrastructure and daily operations of the Plymouth. Learn them.

  “Now, as to the OpFor: The enemy has contracted the private military company ‘Perimeter Defense Group’. Perimeter has made a name for themselves in the outer zones as a top tier asymmetrical force. They specialize in defense of material assets: mainly mines, factories, and occasionally personnel. All of this is perfectly fine, but if you'll review your packet, you'll notice a second series of suspected operations, being executed by 'non-persons' and fake identities. The Agency has reason to tie Perimeter to a long chain of suppression activities, black bag ops, and a whole pile of wet work.

  “Thanks to our friends at the Agency, we’ve gotten a hold of the names of these operators, and corroborated a few real identities. Look at these personnel files and you'll see a disturbing pattern. Dishonorable discharges, use of force violations, a few murderers for good measure, but all damn fine shooters. Learn these files. These are the bastards we’re going after.”

  There were a few moments of quiet, with only the shuffling of papers and the hum of the scramblers in the background. Suddenly, Poole looked up from his stack and declared, flatly, “Christ on a stick.”

  “Which file, Lieutenant?” Halstead had been waiting for that moment, Clausen was certain.

  “Sakharov, sir.” Poole said, his voice halting. “He was ASOC. Repeated decorations for bravery. Knight’s Cross! But he never made it higher than Captain. Noted psychological concerns after... 'Obsidian Razor'. What the hell is that? Suspected of initiating the Karolai massacre, charged with four counts of murder, sentenced to death. Escaped by murdering seven – seven! – guards. And the warden. Who was at home. Vanished for twelve years. ISA has him tied to shell identities in Perimeter with a trail of bodies on each name...” Poole trailed off, then looked up, and demanded, “Sir, is hell having a fire sale? This guy can't be real.”

  “He's very real.” Halstead stated. He paused, brought one hand forward to brush his mustache clean, and then continued, “We have reason to believe that Sakharov is running security operations on the Plymouth, for backers unknown. With a psychopath like that on the trigger, we can expect anything from the OpFor. He's likely to scuttle the ship if pressed.”

  “Sir, no offense, but why are we hitting this on the move?” Captain Lee asked, “I'd say wait till it docks, pump it with gas, and hit it with everything we have. A light force, on the move? We're just asking for trouble.”

  “The enemy is aware of our scrutiny, and the ship refuses to dock in any port long enough to cycle down its lift systems. The civilians aboard are hostages and shields, but the drive system is the real danger. The amount of 'boom' potential here is extraordinary. Any time the ship docks to take on supplies, it's docking in a large city, and if it went critical, it could wipe the entire district. Our only chance is to hit it over the ocean, which means, in motion. Any overt assault would immediately trigger a potential overreaction and endgame from Sakharov. The only option is a small force, inserted stealthily at multiple ports of call. These teams will need to act in concert and wrest control of the Airship without warning or mistake. Any delay, and this turns into a bloodbath.

  “Just another day at the office, kids.” Halstead said. “Several assets have been pulled in for this mission. Lieutenant Donegan, your platoon will be pulling babysitting duty on a civilian specialist.”

  “Sir? Thought this was black box?”

  “It is. Unfortunately, the Plymouth boasts top tier network systems and security, and we've had to pull in a special asset. You'll be keeping him safe and getting him trained up on squad integration before mission. Keep him frosty and locked down.”

  “Sir, yes, sir. He'll be brass tacks and jet fire.” Donegan answered, with just a hint of swagger.

  “Good. Now, there's one more specialist. A gift from the Agency. His name is Antonius Berenson, and he’s had inside experience with Perimeter's client. He’s the best data source we have.” Halstead scowled, as if he tasted something rotten. He added, “Unfortunately, he is not one of ours. His data is useful, and the Agency assures me that he will be reliable, but he is not one of the good guys. Do not trust him. I can not st
ress this enough. This man is more dangerous than anything in Perimeter’s arsenal.”

  “Then why are we using him, sir?” Major Bareille asked.

  “Because this is his mission.” Halstead answered. “Without his help, at least twelve hundred people will die. And that is something I will not allow. Not on my watch. Not now, not ever.”

  There was something about the way the colonel said that. Maybe it was the way his shoulders locked, or his fingers clamped down on the laser pointer, or the way he seemed to glare at something he couldn’t see, Clausen felt something drop in his stomach, and he knew, right then, that something had already gone terribly wrong.

  #

  “You're leaving, aren't you!” It wasn't a question. Sarah stood in the doorway, blocking it with her body, arms crossed and fury so thick it nearly boiled her into tears. “God damn it, Brian! You're leaving again!”

  Clausen folded the last pair of pants and loaded them into the suitcase. He moved like a robot, focused entirely on his actions. Fold pants. Place on stack. Close lid. Retract arms. He slammed the lid too quickly. There was a spike of pain from his finger, and crimson dripped over the silver edge of the suitcase. Dimly, he was aware of the pain, and of the blood on his finger, but it wasn’t real. Not yet.

  He picked up his suitcase, turned towards her. He said, “I don't want to fight. Not here, not now.”

  “Might as well! Do it here! Now! Before you go and fall down a hole again- a year, Brian! A year, and all I get is 'sorry, it’s the buzzer'! I won't have it! Not again!” Sarah stepped forward, as if to rip the case from his hands.

  “Look, I'm sorry-”

  “Sorry! Sorry! How about telling them 'sorry'! All I ever get is sorry!”

  “I'm sor-”

  “I swear to God, Brian! If you apologize one more time-”

  “You said you wanted me to say-”

  “No! I wanted you to be sorry.” She shook her head. She had to breath in, hard, through her nose, before she spat, “But you don't get the difference. Do you?”

  “It's my job-”

  “No, it's your life. It's your life! We're just something to do, to pass the time.” She stopped yelling, and it got worse. The rage, he could deal with. Just apologize, avoid, make up, repeat. The quiet cut far worse than any knife.

  He wanted to say something, to break the silence that was strangling him, but she was so far away, right there across the room. Hug her? Say that she drove him forward? That duty was what he was, and that he couldn't betray her by betraying himself? He was drowning. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, needed to say, before they pulled him under. He should have held her tight. She was farther away every moment.

  Words moved beneath the surface, but died on his tongue. He said nothing, wishing he could say everything. She stepped back.

  “Go on, Brian.” The words were hollow. “You know where the door is.”

  Too late, he found his voice, “I'll be back before you know it-

  “I don't want to hear you lie.”

  “I wish I could tell you-”

  “You know what, I don't care. Six years of this, and I don't care.”

  The door-frame loomed. He held his suitcase. She stood by the nightstand, and watched him. One last chance. She was giving him one last chance.

  The dossier was in the case duffel by the door. It was pulling him forward.

  His mouth was dry, and a thousand arguments battled impotently in his head.

  I, Brian Clausen, do solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Charter of the Terran Provisional Authority against all enemies and threats, foreign and domestic. I will bear faith and allegiance to the Charter, I will obey the orders of those appointed over me according to the Laws of War. I solemnly swear-

  “Do you love me?” the question was so long ago.

  “Of course.” the answer was still true.

  “You never say it.”

  “I'm not good at talking.”

  One last chance.

  He should have paused longer. There was never really a choice. But he should have said something. He should have been a different man.

  Clausen picked up the duffel. He didn't see the tears when he turned away.

  #

  The microphone crackled as the speaker’s voice rose, but few of the well-wishers took note. They heard it, to be sure. All but the most socially oblivious had stopped eating when the guest of honor took the microphone, and it was too early for any but the most dedicated of drunks to have reached the level of disconnect required to miss the sparkling-crackle of an over-driven speaker. No, this omission was a willful one, the kind of memory-shaping that people did when they’d already decided that event in their lives would possess a certain emotional tenor.

  The retirement of a legend was at hand. The sort of human error that would cause an aging man to grab a mic too strongly, hold it too close, and speak just a little too emotionally, was completely lost on a room who had come to witness the ending of an age.

  The crackle subsided, and Colonel William Halstead finished his speech, “It's been a great run, ladies and gentlemen, and I just wanted to thank you, all of you- for everything. Someday soon, I'll be thinking of you, when I'm lying on that sunny beach. Here’s to… here’s to the ones that never made it.” The colonel may have tried to end with a joke. The rhythm of the speech seemed to call for it, but he couldn’t stick the landing. Instead, his eyes became focused on something in the air, halfway down rows of white-topped tables, and he choked on his own words. He squinted glanced at his notes, folded them, and retreated from the lectern. Not that anyone in the room noticed his hasty withdrawal, or the way he turned to hide his face.

  Applause rippled through the “borrowed” hangar, from one blue and gold frock to another. Brian Clausen, clean cut and freshly shaved, bore a childlike grin on his broad face. He turned to his fiance, and declared, “I can’t believe it.”

  Sarah Deacon turned to him, placed her wine glass carefully onto the blue napkin, and said, “Just try not to squeal too loud.”

  “I don’t squeal!” Clausen protested.

  “You made very squeal-like sounds.” Deacon objected, and glanced to the ceiling, as if to recall some lost bit of data from her graybox. “Pretty sure those happened.”

  “I was excited.” Clausen said, defiant. “There weren’t that many spots open-”

  “I’m not judging. I’m just saying.” She stated.

  “Yeah, well… he’s still a goddamn hero.” He grumbled, and snatched his beer from the table. A quick sip, and he turned his attention back to the stage. It only held there for a moment, however, because the scrape of a chair let him know someone had just dropped in to his side.

  “Good evening, Sarah. Brian.” Nathan Poole made his appearance an understated show. He arrived, and let himself in, just subtly enough to be recognized that very deftness.

  “El tee.” Clausen acknowledged, with a friendly nod. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Miss this? Jesus, that kind of faux pas-” Poole cut himself off, turned to Deacon, and said, “Now, Brian’s not being too enthusiastic, is he?”

  Immediately, Sarah switched her stance. “No, no, never. He’s just got a lot of respect for the Colonel.”

  “We all do.” Poole acknowledged. “I think he’s pretty much required study at the Citadel these days.” He glanced aside, to think about something, and he got that distant tone, like he always did when he was imagining something other. “Just think, sitting there, in the cowboy days - fast and dirty, whole world’s on your back. Just you, and a crack team. No budget. No rules. Just a job that needs done and your own code - a lot of guys would’ve gotten lost in that soup.” He tilted his head towards the stage. “He’s the one that didn’t. He’s the one who gets books.”

  Clausen nodded, and said, “Mandatory reading. Everyone on the team. We do group sessions-”

  “We have a shrine.” Poole said. “Offerings-”

  Clausen added, “
Prayer circles.”

  “Ritual chants.”

  “Enough.” Deacon stated, her hand raised to stop their conversation. “Stop. I get it. You’re fans.”

  “I have a shrine.” Clausen said, deadpan.

  She turned from her fiance, to glance to Poole, looking for any help in the verbal joust.

  Poole gave a slight shrug, and admitted, “Madam, I am an officer. I can afford a temple, and have provisioned it, accordingly.”

  She replied, “Well, Brian’s going to have to go without. Isn’t that right?” She glanced to Clausen, who gave an enthusiastic nod. “I think a week on the backwater will help him get over going without his ritual ablutions.”

  Clausen pointed his fork at her, and said to Poole, “I can’t even spell that word.”

  Poole snickered, and asked, “Honestly, Sarah, I don’t know how he keeps you around. Have you ever considered trading up?”

  She glanced to Clausen, in mock terror, and stage-whispered, “He ties me up when I try to leave! Please, sir, help me escape his foul clutches!”

  Clausen protested, “Hey, I thought you liked-”

  That earned him a kick under the table, but when Sarah spoke, her voice was nothing if not professional. She said to Poole, “The point is, Nathan, that I’m dragging this lump out into no-man’s land, and we’re going to have a lovely time. If you even think of calling him back in, you’ll be eating through a straw and shitting in a bag.”

  Poole nodded, sagely, and said, “I now understand why you two get along so well. Mutual grace and charm.”

  That brought laughs from both of them, and Poole pulled out a seat, dropped caddy-corner onto the table.

  “What are we drinking?” He asked, as he reached for the wine bottle.