The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Satisfied, he stood. He brushed the mud from his pants and jacket, wiped his hands clean. With a flick, he folded his knife closed, and holstered it. Only now did he let himself read the plaque. He hadn’t tried to look at it, when he was prying the grime away. It wouldn’t have been right, to view it like that.

  TNS ENIL

  CONSTRUCTED AT KESSINWEY SHIPYARD

  COMMISSIONED BY SENATOR MADELINE TORVEY

  17 JUNE 2533

  LONG MAY THIS UNION STAND, AND LONG MAY WE STAND UNDER IT, FREE

  Clausen stepped back, sucked in a deep breath of the damp air. He'd missed the war, been born too late. The Path had been an enemy a man could respect. Sure, they were obsessive, fanatical, and brutal, but they had had an honor to them, and had made their opposition clear. Like a great beast, they had climbed atop the mountain and howled their challenge. Not like the enemies today, who hid in shadows and behind civilians, who draped themselves in cloaks of friendship, and who favored poison over broadswords.

  Maybe the Authority had taught its enemies too well. The Path had lost when they tried to throw warrior codes and cultural pride against the might of the Authority's industry and networked military. No one was dumb enough to try that, anymore. Now, it was all counter-insurgency and asymmetrical action, fights in shadow and secret. The old Path was broken, the hardliners locked in the DMZ, forced to reach out through cells, converts, and subterfuge.

  The Faction were worse. Clausen had cut his teeth fighting their dead-enders, leaderless radicals desperately clinging to twisted dreams. The Faction had never shied from outright terrorism. They’d always believed the ends justified their means. Anything was justified, to get to that “post-human” utopia. Efficiency, was all they’d ever cared about. Without their Council holding the leash, it was just one thug after another, brute men seeking power, unafraid to take it by any means, hiding behind less and less ideology on each turn of the wheel.

  They got smacked down, every time. But at certain point, it threatened to stop mattering. Resources depleted by the unification wars, tension high, the Authority was in a dangerous spot. Both former rival, and former cancer, were more than happy to watch her burn. It didn’t matter if the fires damned them, too. This was a death-dance, and only one party wanted out. Time. They needed time. Time for the Authority to transition into a Republic, like Article Two promised. Time, to rebuild a broken world, or find a new one. Time was not on their side, and soldiers like Clausen were needed to buy more of it.

  There was still honor in this. He was the bulwark holding back the tide. Path fanatics, Faction terrorists, or seditious corporate mercs - it didn’t matter. They had to be fought, to buy that time. If only it was cleaner. If only it was clearer. If only he could look Sarah in the eye, and tell her, 'I stopped the beast' – if only he could talk to her.

  Black box mission, no communication off campus. The doctrine slammed down into his mind like a cast-iron counterweight. He had to stay focused. There was no time for anything else.

  He glanced up, to the broken statue of the destroyer. Once, Kessinwey had fought. For the Authority. For a better world. The city was long forgotten by most, but Clausen remembered. He could honor its sacrifice. He could man his post, fight one more fight. Just like Kessinwey.

  This old city would fight one last war.

  New maintenance and security companies had been sent to maintain the old facilities, as per long-given contract from the Authority. If those personnel now living and working in the once-again-secure facility happened to resemble a few of ASOC's “on leave” members, well, that was just coincidence, and since local governments were desperate to get any money flowing back into Kessinwey, they were more than happy to maintain a secure perimeter and not ask any questions.

  Whoever had set this up had been a magnificent son of bitch, Clausen had to admit, but rather heartless to this depressed region. There was no development coming, just a smokescreen. He didn't like it, but it was part of the job. The unit needed training, and this compound had the space, equipment, and secrecy to let them wind up for the strike. They were the bulwark, and if they needed to hide behind smoke and shadow to hold that line, then he would do his part. He owed them that much.

  His watch chimed. It was just that. A watch. Nothing more, because of the blackout on the operation. No tablet, no uplink, no VR set. If he'd had any of those, he could have called Sarah- no. He squashed the dangerous thought. The mission required a blackout, and dwelling on it only twisted the knife.

  The alarm was his ten minute warning. He had to a meeting with Lieutenant Poole, in the converted Airframe Assembly Plant. The alarm marked the last moment he could leave the drive plant, where primary mission training was held, walk to the AAP, and still make it with a minute to spare. With one last brush over his shoulders to knock away the accumulated fog droplets, Clausen stepped through the door, and into the AAP, nine minutes early.

  Inside, the old hallways more resembled a rat warren than the managerial wing of an assembly line. Windows were broken from their frames, wooden paneling splintered and torn, and holes punched from room to room. However, the floors were clean of dust, the broken glass was cleared away, and bundles of cables (no wireless allowed) ran from office to office, lunging over those broken window frames, squeezing through door jams.

  Clausen nodded to the guard on duty, and proceeded down the leftmost hall, under the faltering yellow-orange glow of the old lights. He stopped at the fourth office, and knocked on the broken door. Inside, Poole conversed with Lieutenant Donegan from Second Platoon, both men relaxed in their chairs - Poole sprawled out behind his desk, Donegan wedged into the corner of two empty bookcases. Poole waved him him in.

  Clausen pulled the remains of the door shut behind him. Poole had requested this meeting earlier today, said it was important but informal, but he hadn't mentioned Donegan was going to be here. Sal Donegan was a good officer, for an EWO, but he was a bit strict in his adherence to doctrine.

  Poole broke the silence, “Sergeant, Sal here was just telling me about some issues we've been having with one of the mission assets.”

  Both officers waited for Clausen to ask a question. They're being circumspect. They want something. “Which asset, the college kid or the contractor?”

  “The college kid.” Donegan stated flatly. “The sociopath isn't causing any problems.”

  “Should that worry me as much as it does?”

  “Yes.” Both men answered him.

  Poole took over the conversation again. “Young Mister Firenze seems to be having some trouble adapting to the ASOC lifestyle, and is not performing up to par on his training.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be good, sir?”

  “Good? He's astounding.” Donegan admitted, his words dipped in sour venom. “Too damn good, he knows it, and he's piss-poor about anything in meat-space.”

  Poole clarified, “Sal means anything in real life, not virtual.”

  Donegan continued, “I know his type. Node running, mask chasing, fucking hard jacked rotary hat. Thinks he's better than anyone else on the net because he'll red-line his brain for kicks, and then when he breaks, he'll come crying for free medical.”

  “As you can see, there's been some personality conflict.” Poole noted.

  Donegan glared, but let out a heavy sigh. “He's in way over his head.” The officer leaned back in his chair as he explained, and admitted, with more sympathy than anger, “Agency snagged him right out of school, pulled a rope-a-dope on him, and blackmailed him into this operation. He doesn't want to be here, we don't want him here, and everyone involved knows he's not qualified for anything outside of the net, but...” Donegan trailed off for a moment.

  Poole finished, “But he's the best damn code jockey Sal's ever seen, he's the only one we've got, and we aren't getting a pinch hitter, so we need to make him work.”

  “Basically.” Donegan summarized.

  Clausen thought for a moment. “Can't your team do it, Lieutenant?�
�� He asked Donegan. “I know you did slicer school, and I've seen Ramirez and Hartsog blow through networks before.”

  “Not this target.” Donegan admitted. “It's got nasty ICE, recursive defenses, a full time counter-hack staff, and a Phalanx AI running netsec. Backhacking and burner viruses stacked to the limit, and unless you're willing to dance with the devil in hard jack, you might as well just trash your rig at the start.”

  Clausen blinked, uncomprehending.

  Poole chuckled. “Don't worry, Sergeant, I had the same reaction. Go ahead and explain, Sal. Start from the top.” He waved Clausen to have a seat.

  “It's NODA, Sergeant. That's where it starts.” Donegan began.

  “The AI?” Clausen asked, leaning back into the rickety chair.

  “The one and only.” Donegan replied. Clausen began to ask a question, but Donegan answered it before the other man could form a word. “Yes, yes, they call lots of things AI, but those are not the same.” Another half formed question, and Donegan plowed over it. “Listen, AI is all around us, but not all AI is created equal. Most AI we deal with is 'Limited' AI, or 'Dumb' AI, not the real deal. The traffic grid, that's limited AI, same with the stock market. You ever wonder how there are less than five accidents for every hundred-thousand drivers? How you can be in the middle of rush hour in a city of two hundred million, and never drop below thirty kilometers an hour? That's the AI, right there. It takes the whole traffic grid, and treats it like data. Ground cars, lift cars, low-flying aircraft, the whole shebang, gets turned into a giant matrix of locations, targets, and priorities. The AI gets everyone where they need to be in the most efficient manner, without inducing gridlock or accidents, and allowing priority interference for emergency personnel. I'm sure you've seen traffic suddenly part, and boom, ambulance comes down the middle, and then you're back together again, and no one even had to stop moving? AI.”

  Clausen nodded. “Yeah, well and good, but how-”

  “How is that AI? It's not. Not compared to NODA, anyway, no more than a puddle is an ocean. That traffic grid, or millions of systems like it, right up to hunter/killer drones, those are limited AI. They perform one action, or one field of actions, very well. No human could run the traffic grid half as well as that AI, but it doesn't think like a human. It uses machine learning, sure, but it only reacts to events in its task, it cannot act spontaneously, it cannot logically reason, it cannot perceive qualia – what makes a chair a chair, or the apple-ness of an apple – the list goes on. We call them 'dumb', because they don't think like humans, perceive self, or perform the necessary tasks required for consciousness.”

  “And NODA did?” Clausen asked, trying to balance himself as the old chair wobbled.

  “NODA wasn't built for any specific task. It’s an unlimited, artificial general intelligence. AGI. Long story short: NODA was built, to build itself.”

  “Yeah, that sounds bad.”

  “There were constraints hard-built into it.” Donegan countered. “And they were desperate. How much do you know?”

  Clausen counted off on his fingers. “They built it right before the Collapse, it archived a lot of knowledge during the dark age, it built up the first version of the Authority, and then it committed suicide.”

  “All true, all far too simplistic. None of us has the time for a full run-down - this isn’t a class at uni. NODA studies is a field of science, and I’m doing it a hilarious disservice. But, here's the most basic version of the score: NODA was built to preserve humanity. Powerful, farsighted people before the Collapse predicted the end of their society, and laid the groundwork for NODA, the first and only true quantum computer – not quantum-mechanical – real quantum. It was built to grow itself, trained to identify and solve problems with tools that it constructed as needed. They built it, walked it through its training steps, and then let it run, building, growing, trying to solve its core dilemma: how to preserve humanity in the face of the coming storm.

  “It failed. At least at first. Most scientists believe that it was designed to save one portion of the pre-Collapse world from the fires, acting as an overly-large defense network, and in that, it did not work. The whole world burned, and NODA slumbered, deep underground, growing, building, devising. The men and women who built it died, and years, decades rolled past. This is the part you know. Somewhere in the dark ages, NODA suddenly springs into action, thaws out a bunch of science and military types, and turns them loose with an agenda to rebuild the world, under one government, so that the Collapse could never happen again. To a world that had lost its industrial base, and most of its knowledge, this was a godsend. They went out, built society, and NODA coordinated. Automated factories, automated farms, automated militaries, NODA delivered. Somewhere, down in its decades of thinking and building, the machine had redefined “save this section of humanity from the Collapse” into “save humanity from itself”, and it designed an orderly, logical world. People listened.”

  Clausen shrugged and said, “Yeah. The Authority conquers under NODA's banner.” He could still remember the reconstruction paintings from grade school, of the armored trucks in a circle, cannons blazing into the wasteland marauders. He recited, “North Hub falls in under two years, some by treaty and diplomacy, some by supreme force. Water, power, medicine, and guns. Forces are launched to the other continents, start doing the same thing, and then NODA kills itself. Don't see how this matters-”

  “It matters because everything ties to NODA!” Donegan was becoming uncharacteristically excited, bouncing to his feet, and pacing the room as he spoke. “NODA propped us up as the solution, made sure we were going to survive, and then completed its programming. Everyone says NODA failed, but it didn't. It redefined its parameters into “preserve humanity”. Under those conditions, what should it do with the most powerful weapon ever constructed, one whose existence threatened all life on the planet? Eliminate it. NODA recognized itself as the primary threat, and dismantled itself. The war machine became a pacifist, and irony died of laughter.”

  Clausen brushed that aside. “Sir, I'm not seeing how any of this is relevant-”

  “It's relevant because we didn't let NODA die.”

  “What.” Clausen declared flatly, not as a question, but a statement of non-comprehension.

  Poole nodded in agreement, taking a drink from his coffee mug, and Donegan answered, “The net is built into NODA. It was the largest computing network ever built, still is, and now it was dormant. Its antennae and nodes littered three continents by this point, all capable of communicating and processing vast amounts of data. When NODA collapsed, the Authority lost its complex VR networks, and was forced back to simple point-to-point, but the hardware was still there. NODA - the consciousness - was gone, but the body was still intact. We cannibalized it.”

  Clausen sat straight up, now paying complete attention, torn between a morbid unease and practical utility.

  Donegan nodded. “That's right! The net we all use? It's running from NODA's husk. They rigged the hardware back to life, used the dormant firmware to run it. New nodes were built, by copying the old, and they expanded the network. Why not? It's still the most powerful net around, a cloud computer linked through the old quantum base.” He paused. “Which means, to interact with the net, you need to interact with portions of a whole which no longer communicate. It’s not unlike hitting a frog's leg with electricity, to make it kick. Humans can’t do this directly, our brains are incompatible. We need an interface into the net. I'm guessing you're a goggle-jockey, Sergeant?”

  Clausen nodded. “I think so. I've used VR goggles and data gloves, if that's what you mean? I prefer keypads or touchscreens, myself. Don't trust any computer I can't throw out a window.”

  “That's how most people are. They stick to physical interfaces. They get squeamish around too close a connection to their hardware. Reminds them that they're not really running this world, not anymore.” Donegan sat back down, finally. “Your techie types? Hackers, modders, hobbyists, some profess
ionals, they use what's called a 'soft jack'. That's a series of programs that translate brain activity and direct commands into computer code, and execute this code in the virtual realm. It's like VR goggles, except, once linked, you can interact directly with the world. It looks real, with headphones sounds real, and with the correct scent clip on your nose it can even smell real. But you're still limited to the hardware and software you buy, the code you write for yourself, and what you download from others. You're pulling levers, making things happen, but you're still just interacting remotely.”

  Donegan took a deep breath. “And then there are hard jacks.” He let the pause hang. “These are very popular among a subculture of node-runners, super-hackers, and singularity-worshipers. Some Agency types have them for dealing with these cultures. I have one, for cracking special objectives.” Perhaps unknowingly, Donegan stopped his pacing, touched his left arm, rubbed at some unseen modification. He continued, “You need to understand, these are far different from anything else I mentioned. A hardjack links you into the net. Truly. You are part of the network, and it's part of you. Now, again, the human brain can't do this directly. You can't write code the way your body knows how to breathe. You need a translator, something to liaise between biological brain and electronic network. We call it an 'adaptive mask'.”

  Clausen nodded, and Donegan continued. “A mask is an interesting thing. They all start from a template, some government made, others brewed by the runner scene itself, and grow with you. At first, a mask is little better than a soft jack, just a collection of tools and suggestions. You have to train it.” Donegan shifted, perhaps from discomfort. “Again, we took from NODA. Masks use the same growth algorithms that NODA pioneered. They are the closest thing to true AI besides the old beast itself, because they're carved out of its flesh. Makes sense, since they need to interface directly to the net, and it's the only successful evolved computer, but it's always struck me as a little...”