The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. State’s paying.” Clausen said.

  “Usually that means lowest bidder.” Poole observed.

  Deacon shook her head, again, in disgust. “It’s a Reconstruction Bordeaux blend. Wasted on most of you.”

  Clausen nodded. Poole feigned insult.

  Deacon added, “And State-paid. So chug it.”

  Poole helped himself, and went just a hair past the two-finger pour. Clausen took note, and raised an eyebrow. The lieutenant waved the question away with one of his shrugs, and Clausen went right back to his beer.

  Deacon asked, “No date?”

  Clausen almost choked, and threw a reflexive glance to Poole. To his credit, Poole just shrugged, and admitted, “You know how hard it is to find a respectable escort for something like this? One that doesn’t look like an escort?”

  “Sorry to hear it.” She said.

  Poole gave that shrug, again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m getting to that part of my career, anyway. Gotta move fast, go where they say. There’s only room for one passion, you know? Maybe when I make staff…” He trailed off. “I’m fine with it. But, like I said… late notice.” He glanced to Clausen, “Speaking of staff, I’m actually surprised we got in. This was supposed to be light-bird and up.”

  “I bet he did something.” Clausen said, with a glance towards the stage. “I can’t imagine Halstead would let that fly.”

  “Well, good on him.” Poole raised his glass in salute, and the others answered.

  When the drinks were back on the table, Deacon made her move. She turned to Clausen, and asked, “So, are you gonna do it?”

  “Do what?” Poole asked, and leaned in, like a gossipy schoolboy.

  Clausen shook his head. Not now.

  Deacon said, “He’s avoiding talking to your Colonel.”

  Poole spun on his chair, and enthused, “Do it!”

  Clausen shook his head. Come on-

  “What would the team think, if they found out that Sarge chickened out-”

  Clausen shot Poole a glare that sent the smaller man reeling back in his chair, mouth slapped shut.

  Deacon, though, tugged on his arm, and implored, “You’d hate yourself, Bry.”

  He glanced from her, to Poole, and back. God damn it so much.

  “Fine.” He said, and rose from the table.

  “First to fight!” Poole declared, and flashed a thumbs-up.

  Clausen shot a glare back, and answered, “Last to quit.” His words were call-and-response, but his tone said, quite clearly, ‘fuck you, sir’. Poole just laughed.

  Irritated, he turned back to Deacon, but she waved him away. “Go! Do it! Bring back something nice!”

  Clausen stood, made sure not to bump anyone as he slid through the crowd. He didn't want to embarrass himself, not here. Half these people were wearing clothes that cost as much as his house, and the other half probably stamped his payroll.

  The music filled the corners of the room, a syncopated jazz number from the band up front. He used the thump of the bass-line as cadence, as he slipped between tables and hustling waiters. There, in the front, he saw Colonel Halstead, in a gaggle of suits and black dresses. The Colonel's family tried to stay in the background, but the old man kept diverting to them. He would pull his wife or a kid forward, wave to them, and angle the conversation onto something unrelated to the initial question.

  Even from here, Clausen could feel implied beats of those conversation. Maybe it wouldn't be best to bother the Colonel for war stories when the old man was so obviously transitioning out of the service. Clausen hesitated, weighed his options, and chose discretion. He stepped back, folded into the crowd into the crowd. He turned to walk away, when someone grabbed his arm, and pulled him forward.

  “Why, hello there, Sergeant.” The man said. He was middle aged, severe. He put his arm over Clausen’s shoulder. The movement looked friendly, but Clausen knew enough to recognize the setup for a choke. “What brings you down to this party?” The man asked, his leathery face pulled into a scarecrow-like smile. Clausen tried to step free, but the man stayed with him, twisting his arm behind his back, drawing Clausen back into the hold.

  Old man’s stronger than he looks. The man’s grip was iron, cold and harsh. Clausen tested it, weighed his options. Do I do this here? Start a fight?

  “Steady, boy.” The man whispered. “We’re being friendly.”

  He controlled Clausen's steps, guided him free of the crowd. Clausen tried to get a look at him. The man’s smile was a used car salesman's, but his eyes never stopped moving. Clausen knew the look. The scan. He used it, himself. This guy was an operator. Gray at the temples, wrinkled on the brow, but still strong, still aware, and still playing an angle. Shit. The man said, “Now, I asked, why are you here?”

  “Wanted to meet the Colonel.” Clausen replied.

  “Another inspired youngster? Driven into the arms of the state by the shining example of the great William Halstead?” The man chuckled as he stopped a waitress and snagged a mixed drink from her tray. He never released Clausen, even when he downed the fifty-credit cocktail in one chug. No coughs, no blink.

  “Sir, you can't-” she started to protest, but he just smiled, all so politely, and she deferred, “Oh, of course sir, I'll make another.”

  “And bring my man here something, too. You drink whiskey, don't you, Brian?” The man passed back his empty glass.

  Clausen asked, “Sir, who are you? How do you know who I am?”

  The man's smile became real. “I'm the Agency, son. They pay me to know everything.” He laughed at his own joke. “Section Chief Raschel, at your service. I'm an old friend of Bill's, actually. We go way back.”

  Clausen relaxed slightly, as Raschel let him go. “Sir, why the goose march?”

  “Because you were about to run away, and I cannot abide cowardice. There's no retreat, didn't they teach you that, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.” Okay, he's crazy, but he's normal crazy. Clausen leaned back against the booth.

  “Now, you're here to meet Bill, correct?”

  “Yes, s-”

  “That was rhetorical. You already said as much.”

  “Yes, s-”

  “Goddamnit, don't let someone dominate you in conversation. It makes you look like a pussy. You're trying to woo Miss Deacon, correct?”

  “Ye-”

  “Never gonna last unless you man up and grow a pair. Steer the damn conversation!” Raschel grabbed the drinks from the waitress, “Thanks hon, been a ball. Bring another in exactly four minutes.”

  “Well, how do you know the Colonel?” Clausen tried to take control.

  “Amazing thing is, a long time ago, even he was just a goddamn lieutenant trying to make his bones. Misreading maps, calling in coordinates wrong – we had to use radios back then, no TACNET to hold your hand and prance through fucking posies – the standard goddamn lieutenant bullshit that you expect. Along came a helpful, savvy, and altogether overqualified Field Agent who helped him shit kick the Pathies back into the stone age.”

  “So you worked with him in the War?”

  “That's what I said. Don't ask questions like that, people will think you're stupid.”

  “But you asked me-”

  “That was a rhetorical question, Mr. Clausen, it's designed to allow me to establish control of the conversation. Basic Agency shit. Try and keep up, you're disappointing me. Your record said you were better than this.”

  Clausen had to fight the sudden urge to punch Raschel in the face. It might end his career and send him to jail, but it also might be worth it.

  Wham! The punch to Clausen's ribs knocked the air out of his lungs. The old agent could hit like a champ. Clausen staggered back, but Raschel held him up. No one around even noticed the blow. “What the fu-”

  “You were thinking about hitting me. Never do that.”

  “How did you kn-”

  “I deliberately provoked you.”

  “Why wo
uld you-”

  “Dominance. Keep up, son.” Raschel checked his watch. “She's late. It's been three minutes, and she hasn't come out of the bar.”

  “The waitress?”

  “No, the tooth fairy. Of course the fucking waitress. It takes two minutes to get from there to here in this crowd, she's going to be late. Fucking incompetence.”

  “Sir, I think I'd better get going.”

  “No retreat. You said you want to meet the Colonel, let's go meet the Colonel.”

  “I don't think-”

  “I've noticed. Come on, fun's over, let's go meet a goddamned hero.” Raschel reached over to goose-step the younger man down to the table, but Clausen slipped free.

  “I can walk myself.”

  “Good man. That's it, show some spine.”

  As they approached, Colonel Halstead glanced over, laughing, holding a drink in his outstretched hand. As soon as he saw them, however, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set. He turned to his guests, spoke quickly and quietly, and they departed. He motioned to his family, and they vanished into the crowd as well. Halstead turned back to them as they approached, face blank. The Colonel slowly set down his drink, and pulled his arms in tightly, like he was readying for a fight.

  “Good evening, Bill, good to see you.” Raschel stuck his hand out.

  There was too long of a pause. “Same.” They shook hands, stiffly.

  Clausen looked for an evac. The two old men were talking. “It's been far too long, buddy.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Teresa looks lovely-”

  “You stay away from her.”

  Raschel barely suppressed a chuckle. “Relax. Just here to wish you a happy retirement. You're a genuine hero, pal. It's the duty of the state to honor you.”

  “Thanks. Now, if you'll excuse-”

  “No.”

  Halstead stopped, slowly turning back to face the other man. “What was that?”

  “This man,” he pointed to Clausen, “was under your command, and he's a big admirer. Probably enlisted just because of your example. I promised him I'd get him an audience. Don't make me a liar, Bill. I'd take it personally.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you enjoy that golf. You earned it, really.” Raschel dropped the sarcastic tone he'd held until now. “And just so you know... I am sorry, for everything.” Raschel let that line drop as he turned, using it as punctuation as he vanished into the crowd.

  Clausen shifted his weight from leg to leg, sliding back into the crowd. How to recover from this? There was obviously some bad history here. How to separate himself?

  Halstead looked right at him and said, “Well, out with it.”

  “Sir, I'm not associated with him-”

  Halstead laughed. “I can tell. It's alright. Have a seat. First time getting Raschel'd?”

  “He does that to everyone?”

  “Usually. Or he shoots them and leaves them in a ditch. Agency. Best bastards in the world. But, he said you wanted to talk? What's on your mind?”

  Clausen immediately relaxed, the Colonel disarming his fears with a wave. “Just wanted to meet you, sir, let you know how much you've inspired me over the years, and to thank you, sir, for your service.” That was fast. Didn't mean to spill like that.

  “You know, that's the first time I've heard that said honestly tonight. What's your name?”

  “Brian Clausen, sir. Sergeant First Class.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brian. And thank you. It's people like you that made everything I did possible. Us old folks, we've all made bad deals, compromises. It's the boots on the ground that keep us on the straight and narrow. It's the blood of the young that renews, but I find myself wondering if it's worth it.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Halstead nodded. “Fire and steel, there, son. I recognize it. It's been a long time since I've been in your shoes.”

  “You went mustang, I know, sir. I read your book. Loved it, sir.”

  “HThat damn book nearly ended my career. Called out too many pencil pushers and political men that hadn't retired yet. Agency had me under a microscope for years after.”

  “It needed said. There's too much politics, not enough honor.”

  “I said it, I believe it, but the cancer is deep, Brian. The wars, they were hell, but they kept us pure. You want straight honesty? If something isn't done, this cancer is going to kill us. Too many flag officers care more for their payroll than their command, too many are eyeballing the private sector or Senate posts.”

  “We'll recover, sir, we always do.”

  “Good to hear it!” The Colonel sat down. “Pull up a chair. You here with anyone?”

  “My fiancé, Sarah.”

  “Bring her over, why don't the two of you join us for dinner.”

  “Sir!” Clausen glanced around, at the waiting lines of the privileged and powerful.

  “Bah, a couple of stuffed shirts have to sit in the peanut gallery. I'm retired. I no longer have to kiss their slimy asses and tell them it tastes like chocolate.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now don't you talk like that, Sergeant. You've got a great future.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Clausen snapped off a salute from reflex.

  Halstead returned it, deliberately a little looser than regulation. “Bring her on over. We can swap war stories and absolutely horrify everyone else.”

  #

  Once, the Kessinwey Industrial Park had bustled and rumbled with the chained engine of industry, toiled night and day to feed the war machine, churned out a wave of steel that flowed straight to the front lines. Seven thousand people had lived on the sprawling campus, worked the foundries, the assembly lines, the data centers, the food courts, the water park – Kessinwey had been more than a factory town, it had been a model community, staffed by the families of its workforce. Through both the System Wars, Kessinwey had produced aircraft, and later, Bergman lift vehicles, laid the keel of the destroyers Marduk and Enil. So great had been the pull of Kessinwey's governor/executive, that the Authority had promised, with great ceremony, that never would the city be allowed to wither, that it was the heart of the great production-warfare machine. Citizen soldiers, fighting with their productivity and ingenuity, enabled the battlefield soldiers to win the War, and Kessinwey would never be forgotten; in return for its service, it would be rewarded with a hundred year stipend, free education for its population, and a guarantee of law and order. In the middle of the Second War, the factory city had taken a break from its grueling production to stage a great festival, even left a great ferris wheel standing in the square, as a monument to a better future.

  The rotting metal skeleton still loomed over the abandoned husks of Kessinwey. The winds of early autumn whistled through the creaking wheel, caused it to sway and teeter, groan with the weight of rust and age with every gust. Clausen tightened his coat, watched the top cart of the wheel rock against the steely clouds. It wasn't cold enough for the coat, not yet, but the edge of winter rode the wind, and out here, below the rust and decay, it felt so much colder.

  Beneath the great wheel, the grass was brown and cracked, no longer rolling over the gentle hills of the park. Neglect had left the ground unkempt and was the buried under piled waste. After the war, the recession had slammed Kessinwey harder than most. An entire economy built on warfare, mobilized for generations, driven by promised money and sacrifice, had locked up like a sand-filled engine, spewing heat and gears in all directions, rending towns and families that had lived on the same promise as their government. They'd won the war, and died to peace.

  Kessinwey made tanks, but tanks weren't been needed. Kessinwey made aircraft, but too many companies and factory towns made aircraft just the same. Kessinwey made guns, but the Authority couldn't afford the guns it had. Kessinwey made lift drives, but lift drives were toxin engines, demonized by burgeoning environmental movements and the unshackled press. Kessinwey collapsed, empty factories produced nothing, unable to find a role in t
he shrinking economy. The governor begged the Authority, dropped to his knees in a senator's office, wept like a child, but the Authority offered nothing. The War was over, the debts were due, and no one could pay.

  They’d had paid for wars on credit. Placed their dreams in a locked box. After the war, they said, we'll have all the food we need. After the war, we'll have a nice house, and we'll have picnics under blue skies. After the war, we will vote, like they did before, and every man and woman will be a nation unto themselves. After the war, we can stop counting slices of bread and rationing rubber and turning off lights. After the war, our children will be free.

  The war had ended, and when the victory parades stopped, that lockbox was found empty. The problems remained, the enemy was gone. One riot would demand a food dole from the Authority, the next would demand the Authority step out of the agriculture industry. The third riot would be about unrest, the fourth over police overreach. There wasn't enough space, not enough resources, and now there was no one to blame.

  The war had blinded people - it had let them blind themselves - the great masses lied to themselves and said, 'this hardship is temporary, we will be rewarded'. The peace had shown the truth. Scarcity had not been solved. Human nature had not been solved. The war economy imploded, and Kessinwey paid the price, just like so many other towns.

  Clausen paced the winding pavement, past dulled windows and empty doorways, until he came to the central plaza. Here, they’d built a monument, bronze over stone, in the heady days after the treaty. The statue was of the Enil, sharp angles and gentle lines that clashed and synergized, the grand Destroyer presented in one to twenty-four scale. The golden beams were mottled, spurs of the lift drives smashed out of the frame, crushed by some unknown vandal, and the entire model hung limp from its mount, dangled precipitously over the cracked and splintered pedestal.

  Clausen squatted, pushed the leaves and vines from the base. Below the black dirt and half-rotted twigs, green-faded bronze waited, under pooled water and stained moss. Clausen plucked his utility knife from his belt, dug it deep into the muck. With clean, careful strokes, he peeled the moss away, let the tarnished bronze breathe, again. He worked along the edges of the lettering and pried the filth from the grooves. He needed a better angle. He knelt, into the soil and weeds, reached under the lettering, scrubbed until the names returned. Names were important. This ship was important. This place was important. Buried in this neglect, the plaque meant nothing. That wasn’t right. This town had given too much. Kessinwey didn’t deserve this. The people who’d toiled here? They didn’t deserve this. Clausen knelt, and scrubbed, until the bronze stood clear, for all the ghosts in the empty plaza to see. He owed them that much.