The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  The precise snap-click sounded through the rifle. Perfect firing condition. Clausen pulled the weapon from his face, lowered it to aim at the ground. Only then did he notice Lieutenant Poole, standing in the open doorway, just to his left. “Don't shoot, Sarge.” he stated, nonchalantly.

  “Evening, el tee.” Clausen replied, placing the CAR47 back onto the workbench.

  “You do know we have armorers for this, right?” Poole asked, as he stepped onto the cold stone floor.

  “Yes, sir. Just double-checking.” Clausen replied, and turned to face Poole. He made sure to set his face to neutral, not to show any sign of his frustrations. Carefully, he relaxed, trying very hard to look natural.

  “Sure, sure.” Poole said as he leaned against the corner below the staircase, just at the edge of the light. “If you don't want to talk about it, it’s fine. But you've got something up your ass, Brian. What was that you said about, 'clear and direct communication' when I got the squad? I think it helped a few times.”

  “Sir, respectfully, fuck you.” Clausen said, then smiled. “How's that for clear and direct?”

  “Spot on.” Poole agreed. He made no indication that he intended to leave, anytime soon.

  Clausen sighed, picked up the bore brush, and ran the bristles against his hand. The tips scratched and soothed at the same time, so he pressed harder, until it dug in, burned against the skin, and then brought catharsis. Poole, with his shiny plaques and expensive original manuscripts, was a fine officer, and had truly grown into his position, even if he did take far much care styling his hair. He deserved a respectful response.

  “You got me, el tee.” Clausen admitted. “I got hit with a question.”

  “Those can be painful.” Poole quipped. “But I've never known you to get hung on one.”

  “See, that's the problem. It wasn't one of those easy questions, like, 'how much octo do you need to blow out this bridge'.” Clausen picked up one of the empty magazines from the bench and tapped it on his leg. He always thought better when he was holding something. “He asked, 'why do you do it'.”

  “Someone has to.” Poole replied.

  “I told him that!” Clausen exclaimed. “Of course, you know that's not an answer...”

  Poole shrugged. “Never thought I'd-” he cut himself off, forming a better response. “It's an answer, just not enough of one.” He stepped into the room, pointing to one of the frayed and marred work stools. “Mind if I pull up a chair?” He sat down, leaning forward to emphasize his statements. “You know, I never thought I'd be having this talk with you.”

  “Sir?” Clausen asked.

  “You're always so sure, so spot on. What do we need to do? You've got it. I don't have something planned out and the pressure’s up? Boom, you're there. I never would have made it through Tansana without you, I know I've told you that.” Poole scratched his chin for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “It's Sarah, isn't it?”

  “I'm fine, sir.” Clausen responded, blankly.

  “Alright, that does it.” Poole declared. “Talk.”

  “It's private, sir.”

  “Not right now, Sergeant. This is unit health. I can’t have you in the mix with your head all gunked up. You taught me that. You know this.” Poole stared him down.

  Clausen wanted to snap back, to argue. Not too long ago, Poole had been some ambitious rank burner, a damn rookie. Clausen began to build a position, to declare that he was just fine, but only for a moment. Poole was his commander, and had grown well into that roll. He owed the man more than that, he owed the unit more than that; it just didn't help that the man was right.

  Clausen replied, “She asked me that, right after Monterrey.”

  Poole hissed, like a popped balloon, and recoiled. “No. There is no way she could think-”

  “She asked, and I gave her that damn not-answer.” Clausen slammed the empty magazine into his thigh, feeling the base of it thwap against his muscle. It stung, but he ignored it.

  “She knows better than that.” Poole said. It wasn't an accusation, it was a statement. “She didn't mean it like that. She couldn't have. I know her better than that, you sure as hell do.”

  “How does that look, all over the viewer, for weeks on end? Whole city burning, live fire from the damn Guard – did you ever check that body count?” Clausen spat. “All cause those jackasses at the Arsenal couldn't handle a damn riot.”

  Poole qualified his response, quenching reason poured over Clausen's raw statements, “No, more than that, you know it. The mayor had the police, but he chose to use the Guard, they were undermanned, the general strike had escalated-”

  “Yes, sir.” Clausen acknowledges. “And the hurricane knocked out the power, the city spent a week over forty degrees, the food stock ran low, and the punks from Independencia started shooting and looting, first.” He paused, then finished, “But Brigadier Soto gave that fire order. The blood is on him and his.”

  “I think he knows it, Brian.” Poole stated sadly. “I don't know if I could live in his boots right now.”

  “We all do, sir. We all live in those boots. It doesn't matter that we're ASOC, that we're above that level of fuck-up, that it was one green unit and one poor commander. When they look at us now, they see Monterrey and dead kids.” Clausen felt something close in his windpipe. “I take pride in what we do, sir. I believe in what we do. But for the life of me, she was asking, 'why are you involved with this' and all I could do was pass the damn question!”

  “Jesus, Brian. Bad things happen. Monterrey was a fuck up of monumental proportions, and there will be a trial for it, but that was one event. She knows we're out here, holding back the dark. We do this job to stop Monterrey from being regular news, to keep bastards like Radek and Sakharov and Valerius and every other villain of the week in check. Me, personally, I do this because a century ago, any given kid had a good chance of being killed for their daily meal. I do it because rule of law must win over the savagery. I do it because I had the luxury of studying the Collapse, and the barbarism we're escaping. Wolves are still at the door, Brian, and herd needs protecting.” Poole's voice rose as he spoke, until he sounded more demagogue than officer.

  Clausen found himself nodding along.

  Poole had risen to his feet, paced as he spoke, drove his words home with his steps. “Monterrey's will happen. They will. They're tragic, but they are not what defines us. We're ASOC. We press through, we win, we go home! Our actions prove our cause.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clausen declared. “First to fight.”

  “Last to quit!” Poole echoed. The officer stopped at the door, shaking his arms to work off excess energy. “I must say, Sarge, I think I nailed that one.”

  “Absolutely, sir.” Clausen said, laughing. He could feel the tension leaking away. “Practicing your moto voice?”

  “You bet.” Poole tipped an invisible hat.

  “Give that speech to Mister Firenze, sir. Might work a lot better than my, 'I like shooting people' answer.”

  “You said that?” Poole burst out laughing.

  “Army raised me right, sir.” Clausen turned back to the workbench, picking up the next weapon, a scattergun.

  “You're good, then?” Poole nodded to the pile of weaponry on the workbench.

  “Yes, sir. I just like fixing stuff.” Clausen released the cassette from the weapon, then twisted the stock locking lever. “And, thanks. I'm gonna miss you when you get shipped to that water purification company.”

  “No, no, it's an arctic observation shack.” Poole declared as he stepped towards the exit. “Good to know you're still with us.”

  Maybe, when all this was done, he would go back and try and talk to Sarah. Maybe. First, there were wolves to fight.

  After all, someone had to.

  #

  The skyscrapers stabbed against the canted rain. High above, the lights blazed, hot and hazy through rolling thunderheads, nearly lost in freezing shadows that cut deep into the canyons. At the bottom, steel b
led into stone, and the rain shattered into a whirling, jagged mist, that roared through the crevasse, and battered the shuttered windows and pooled around the street-edges. Pedestrians pulled their overcoats tight, held their hoods over their eyes, and hunched through the freezing onslaught, darted from ragged tree to worn road sign. In the alcoves and doorways, behind raised stone stairs and in the nook of darkened alleys, the hopeless huddled, and took their comfort in drink, drug, and prayer.

  Dronetown had never been pretty, but after the numbing isolation of Kessinwey, the starkness was shocking. Clausen gripped the molded plastic of the steering wheel and turned his eyes towards the dashboard HUD, lest he meet the gaze of one of the unfortunates. He'd seen far worse, lived in it, fought in it, all without that flinch. That had been different. That had been ‘over there’, an insulating elsewhere that distanced him from the pain. This was home, and every sallow face cut deep.

  High over head, the Airship Plymouth loomed, stretched out like a ponderous manta ray, blocked out the shimmering sky. Tremendous, it commanded the skyline, its prominent hull jutting forward from the drooping wings, the secondary hulls bulging from those same lowered flanks, alight with the glow of the Bergman drives. The light bent around the great flying city, fractured through mist and heat waves as it passed, contorted through the brilliant glow of the radiator fins and swirled into the cool black of its shadowed underbelly.

  There was no sun in the sky in dronetown. It had long vanished behind the monolithic knife-edge of the towers, and left this world to shadow. Instead, the light came from the Airship, the liquid radiance of the heat-vanes, burning the sky as it hung, in defiance of Newton. That defiance carried a price - the storm that beat down upon dronetown came from the Plymouth, as sure as the light. The boiling clouds rolled, under the center of the ship, fled from the blazing light of the flank nacelles, and poured out their wrath on the streets below, in waves of heat and flashes of freezing rain.

  The Plymouth road upon this storm, astride a chariot of lightning that arced from outriggers, and flashed fury through vast farms of turbines and vanes. Clausen’s grip tightened, as a wave crashed over the windshield. The wipers struggled, to push the crush of water away, and whined in protest. Another flash from above, and light stabbed down, burning the fog away. Even from here, inside the car, Clausen could feel the waves wash over him - hot, cold, and hot again, the fickle winds blasting down from the titan above.

  High above, atop of the great ship, it may have been a perfect day, far removed from the thunder. Clausen had memorized the cityscape of that ship. They all had. The entire surface of the Plymouth was a model city, designed to conjure the optimistic visions of the postwar euphoria. Wide, bricked streets flowed through parks and low, curving buildings, while pedestrian travel was enhanced with a light monorail and bike stations. Every inch was perfect, from the manicured green lawns to the corner shops and smiling city servants.

  God only knew what it looked like now, inside those perfect walls and babbling brooks. For a moment, just a brief moment, Clausen felt a slight satisfaction as he watched another torrent blast through the scummy streets of dronetown.

  From the back seat, Firenze gave voice the thought, “Hey, Sergeant, you think they would care so much if Sakharov hijacked dronetown?” The hacker leaned forward in his seat, gripped the headrest of the passenger side, his wide eyes drawn to the storms high above, so they seemed to pop from beneath his mop of tangled hair.

  “Damn straight.” Clausen replied. “Killing bad guys is what we do.” He flashed a grin into the rearview mirror, sending every signal of confidence.

  Firenze nodded slightly, let go of the headrest. His knuckles white as he worked one hand over another. His laptop was between his bony knees, and he reached for it, pulled it tight, like a toddler with a security blanket. His mind must have wandered away, again, because he became very quiet, simply staring at the cascade of heat from the starboard hull and moved his lips silently, his breath fogging on the window.

  Seated beside Firenze, Lieutenant Donegan rolled his eyes, the expression obvious even behind his aviator glasses. Donegan wasn't coming aboard the Plymouth, not today or on any other, but was placed in charge of spoofing security during the boarding process. He'd moved from town to town, helping smuggle soldiers and material through the check gates. Once they were aboard here, he'd drive to the next stop and repeat the process. He’d not kept his displeasure a secret.

  For the third time since they entered dronetown, Donegan pulled at his collar, as if to exorcise some hidden irritant. Firenze glanced from his window at the sudden motion, but ducked away when he saw Donegan's glare. The officer didn’t speak, didn’t grumble, but everyone in the car could read the anger furrowed on his brow: it should be me, up there.

  Clausen couldn't disagree. Donegan, for all his faults, was one hell of a netboss. Time and again, the unit had relied on the Lieutenant and his team to get in, get out, and keep TACNET smooth. Never once had Donegan failed. Never once had he even shown a chink in his armor.

  From the passenger seat, Staff Sergeant Kawalski stole a glance towards Clausen, her face as clouded as the sky above. He knew that look. Kawalski was a consummate professional. She blew out “kill-house” records every time she ran them. She had the “power-tower” on her dress blacks - airborne, orbital, and Pathfinder, and she mirrored it with top-five marksman qualifications, four years running. She'd run a squad through the hell of Tansana, when they'd all earned their stripes. She did what was needed, took the point, and never complained. She might have even liked her job, if she could be said to honestly enjoy anything besides gunfire. The icy look she sent Clausen said everything.

  She should have been running one of the assault teams, instead of babysitting. Firenze wasn’t running with the assault teams. He wasn’t that kind of netboss - he wasn’t even an EWO. Instead, he’d be parked in the back for the entire operation, stuck in a fall back position, behind all of Delta. That meant Kawalski, and her team, weren’t tip of the spear. They were grab-ass rear guard, sitting on a civilian asset, while every ball was in the air. It was a critical position. She'd do it without complaint. But she knew, everyone knew, that if Donegan were on the net, she’d be in the mix, where she was needed.

  Donegan stared down the kid, through his mirrored shades. He harumphed, and let his scowl show through.

  The kid blinked, but refused to meet Donegan's eyes. “I know.” Firenze said, in agreement to the unspoken complaint.

  Everyone knew. The Colonel knew. But Berenson wanted Firenze, and Berenson got his way. The kid had been trained, fast and hard, and, truth be told, could pass for a decent soldier by this point. Problem was, decent wasn't damn near good enough, and everyone knew that, too.

  It wasn't his fault. Blame the Agency. Blame that bastard Berenson. Blame whoever you wanted, but it was the kid in the hot seat, and they had to carry his slack.

  “You'll be fine.” Clausen said, putting more belief into his words than he felt. “You've trained for this. You're a goddamn wizard on that net, and we'll screen you. Just keep it cool, and think of this as a field trip.” You know, one with gunfire.

  In the back, Firenze nodded, loosened his death grip on his laptop. In the passenger seat, Kawalski added, “No one's gonna get through me, Princess.”

  The hacker smiled ruefully at the nickname, and looked back at the airship, perhaps with less fear than before. Beside him, Donegan added, softly, “Just don't bumblefuck it.”

  “Right. No bumblefucking. Got it.” Firenze agreed. He sighed, staring ahead as the car pulled free of the storms, diving into one of the skyport's underground garages. Rows of light flashed overhead, like gates into the underworld. “This is it, then.”

  “Don't be so damn morbid.” Donegan snapped. “You've got to keep your shit cool.”

  Clausen had drawn one of the early insertions, taking Firenze into the hornet's nest. In theory, everything should be fine. Satellite reconnaissance had shown the surface of the
Plymouth to be running “normal”, with happy families and well lit gardens and even an twilight orchestra. The Airship was a gilded cage. It looked like Sakharov was trying to prevent a hold off revolt with a soft touch, and hide his iron fist. Until he needed it, that was.

  The Airship kept taking on passengers, kept sending communications to the outside world. Everything was fine, everyone said. Everything was perfect, and they never wanted to leave. So they never did. The Plymouth had taken on hundreds of passengers in the past month, but let out only a handful, and those were Sakharov's men. Of course, its food intakes hadn't increased, nor its fuel use. That led to only one macabre conclusion. The Plymouth was the worlds nicest roach motel, and no one checked out.

  The first team had been sent aboard five days ago. The last would board in four days, triggering the start of direct action. In theory, the first teams would be disguised as maintenance staff and passengers, deployed throughout the Airship, gaining access to key systems and making last minute changes to the dozens of attack variations. They would lie in wait, barely communicating, until the final trigger was pulled, and then seize the entire ship in one bloody decapitation strike.

  In theory.

  If something had gone wrong, if the early teams had been burned, then they were walking into a trap. They might not even get aboard the ship proper, but be gassed in an airlock and then dumped over the ocean with the rest of the waste.

  Those were possibilities, but they were not useful possibilities, especially not to discuss in front of Firenze. If the mission was blown, then they were already dead, and there was nothing to do about it. Plan for the worst, hope for the best, but only so far as you could do something about it. One might as well plan for an asteroid to take off your head. It could happen, but dwelling on it wasn't useful. Clausen ground his teeth together, worked his fingers on the wheel. There was no turning back, not now, not ever.