The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Only a couple of them left. One room to go, and the whole mission on the line. Clausen’s gaze was drawn, again, to the armored mercenaries. Where in hell did they get this kind of firepower? The scattergun in his hands seemed laughable, barely better than the subguns the others carried. Light infantry, my ass.

  “Okay, disable the net.” He reached for the manual switch. No reason to jumble his brain with this crap. With a single flick, the his eyepiece faded to transparent, clearing away the wall of static and errors. “We'll do this the old way.” Clausen pointed to the door. “Clear it.”

  Like clockwork, they flowed through the hatch. They had worked this breach a hundred times at Kessinwey, ran every variable, every vector. This hall led to an adjoining, which opened straight into engine room. Of course, in every successful drill, they'd had a full team, and Bravo Five on the opposite flank. Without TACNET, they were blind, and could only hope that Bravo Five heard the gunfire, and pushed to join.

  Unless they hit those heavies, too. Clausen forced his mind clear. No use dwelling on that crap. Forward.

  Rutman and Parvotti slipped to the edge of the T-junction. The power room was just ahead. Rutman peered around the corner, leaned out just an inch-

  Gunfire exploded down the hallway, tore chunks out of the clinical-white corner. A wall-extinguisher popped, spewed a plume of gray-white dust through the hall. Rutman crashed back, around the corner. He landed on his bad arm, cursed. Bits of hall spewed past him, carried on the curtain of fog. Parvotti whipped his subgun around the corner and counter-fired. He may as well have pissed into a hurricane.

  Rutman called out, “Two MG nests, fucking needlers, set up on the hatch. They're back-set on the damn power relays, so we can't nade ‘em.” Rutman winced. “Probably got a whole squad of light infantry on the flank.”

  “Fine, fine. Any bypass?” Clausen tried to recall the floor-plan.

  “Negative, Sarn't. Maurice tried to use a utility access while you were out, but it was rigged with mines.” He scrunched his face. “No thank you.”

  “Three minutes over.” Clausen muttered.

  Slim shoved a cleaning bot over, into the hall, trying to build cover. Gunfire stitched it, up and down, back and forth, and the poor robot shorted. It lay there, pitifully, wheels spinning in the air. A service panel coughed open, and revealed broken servos and shattered chips.

  Rutman scrambled back to Clausen. “Sergeant, they're not trying to stop us. They're just holding us.” His voice was grim. He didn't need to finish the statement. Holding us until those heavies return.

  “What the hell were those things?” Parvotti asked, as he cast a nervous eye towards the hulking corpses behind them.

  “Doesn't matter. These guns gotta go.” Clausen peeked around the corner, snapped back as another wave of needler fire screamed past. Forward. Always forward.

  It had been so damn simple. Secure the engine room. Expected resistance, light. Ten guards, no armor, disguised as regular security, nothing heavier than a subgun. Four and Five would secure engineering, then assist the rest of Bravo securing the lift units from the control center. Mission time, six minutes. Combat time, twelve seconds.

  They knew we were coming.

  He met Rutman's eyes. They'd been through this before. Belgrade, Tansana, Lao Dran. Enough time, and you knew each other closer than family. Clausen recognized resignation when he saw it.

  “They knew we were coming, Sarn't.” Rutman echoed, his voice flat. It was eerie, hearing his own thoughts. “More. They knew how we'd come at 'em.”

  “I know. Gotta clear this, or the other teams are fucked.” Clausen glared at the damned corner. He lacked the men to push, the data to flank. The timer was running.

  “Roger, Sarn't. How?”

  I have no goddamn idea. “Got any grenades?”

  “The relays-”

  “They're mercenaries, not pathies. They wouldn't hole up on their own lift unit and dare us to frag 'em.” I hope. Intelligence had been so very reliable. “Either that or we dance for the guns.”

  “Aye, Sarn't.” Rutman pulled a grenade from his vest, passed it along, and drew another.

  Clausen waved Slim and Parvotti from their positions. “Stack for entry! Next time they reload one of the guns! On three!” Forward.

  The grenade weighed heavy in his hand. Right here, in the pause before the storm, he could remember all the facts of it: two hundred twenty grams of octo. Produced an effective lethal radius of two meters. Secondary fragmentation up to twenty meters. He could hear the armorer’s voice. The grenade was cold in his hand, the rim at the waist pressed through his glove. Things seemed slower, the closer they got to the center of the fire. Things seemed clearer. He was never so focused as in this moment, never so aware.

  Rutman had his grenade primed. Parvotti and Slim stood back, readied theirs.

  The fire from the southern gun halted.

  “One!” Clausen whisper-yelled. The words were clear in his mind. Remove safety clip. Insert index finger into pin loop.

  “Two!” Remove pin.

  “Three!” Throw.

  Clausen side-armed the cylinder around the corner, and three more followed a second later. He ducked back as gunfire roared, chewed the remains of his cover to pieces. No choice now, the order had been given. His body was on automatic, the course set. Now, in the back of his brain, terror rose, screaming: Oh God, oh God, I’m dead! Run! Run! Run! He knew he was afraid, he knew he was staring into hell, but he could not feel it. He'd done this before. There was no choice. The order was given.

  One blast. Two. Three, four blasts.

  Clausen screamed as he rounded the corner, sprinted towards what might be. Two guns, spitting hot death.

  The scene clicked, cold and automatic, as he recognized the carnage he'd unleashed. One gun nest was neutralized. Three of the grenades got inside their cover. Blood everywhere. What does that feel like, as the concussion punches your guts into goop? The second gun was damaged, but effective. The gunner tried to force the hopper into the receiver. The loader was screaming, a piece of rebar punched through his gut.

  Clausen felt the scattergun shake. The action slammed open, and the high pressure casing hurled out. The air stank like cordite. Hot wind gushed from the port. Fire blossomed from the muzzle. The stock pushed back. Double tap. Ride the recoil. Confirm the kill. He didn’t think. He followed instinct.

  The first load of tungsten darts shredded the gunner, slammed him back into the bulkhead. The second shot pulverized a corpse. Clausen vaulted the sandbags. The injured loader reached for his pistol. The scattergun spoke again, and the hand fell to the floor. Clausen dove into the cover, as enemy rifle fire fell on him. He toppled beneath the line of sandbags and consoles, pressed himself as flat as he could to the hard deck. Ripping thunder poured over him, a thousand buzzing bits of metal just centimeters over his back.

  Down into the bloody pit, half-drowned in gore, he ripped the silenced machingun from its perch, slammed in the hopper. He pulled it tight, levered it up, over his shoulder. The gunfire slacked. The enemy was engaged with his men. He charged the weapon. Deep breath-

  He swung the weapon over the lip of the nest, locking the feet of the bipod into the bags. Someone must have seen him. He saw the infantry turn, could see the panic on a man’s face. He and squeezed the trigger. The man was gone. Two mercs crouched behind a console, exposed to him as they tried to reposition. Fire licked out. The machinegun thumped. Target neutralized. Acquire. Another merc, dazed from the concussion grenades, staggered into the open. Short bursts. Target neutralized. Watch your ammo. Eyes up.

  Deeper in the chamber, a mercenary braced another heavy weapon against a cooling regulator. Needler support weapon. Thirty-six hundred rounds per minute. Needlessly excessive. The guns began to spin, and Clausen tried to displace.

  He knew he was too slow.

  Even as Clausen dove, he saw the barrels spinning, the weapon sweeping onto his position-

  The gunner jerk
ed, toppled backwards, the blue-white arc of fire from the Needler lancing harmlessly into the ceiling. Rutman walked fire over the dead man, precise and professional.

  Trust your team. They are your life.

  “Clear!” The first cry went out.

  “Clear!” The echo came back.

  “Clear!” Another call joined the chorus.

  Clausen swept his weapon over the flank. Nothing moved. “All clear!”

  Reality came back to him, snapped him like a rubber band. The cool, slow comfort of the assault was gone. It was darker, blurrier, faster. It stank like gunfire and blood and hot metal. Someone was crying. A snap-crack rang out, and the crying stopped.

  “Check in!” He barked.

  Slim was securing his sidearm. “Fucking possum.” The medic showed no emotion.

  “Secure the area! Get those guns back up. And someone get that damn needler.” Clausen ordered.

  His blood throbbed in his temple. Pain came in waves, between the cool hiss of his suits automated dope. He couldn't slow down. Not now. Get to primary engine control. He'd memorized the layout of this room, the operations of its equipment. Check status of lift systems.

  “Sarn't!” Rutman called. He stood on the balcony, over the main discharge shunt, above the rows of gargantuan cooling silos and pump mazes. “Something ain't right! The drives! They're... modified.”

  Clausen pushed a corpse off the main console. He called up the schematics, bypassed the locking codes with one of Firenze's viruses. At least something works. The diagram was flashing. This doesn't look like the briefing. Too many connections.

  “They're ARC950s, but they’re... uh... frankensteined.” Rutman pointed out beyond the safety barrier, to the cooling systems. “Multiple rewires, looks like extra power, and they're looping the n-mass system back into the field. What the actual fuck?”

  “More bad news, Sarge!” Parvotti yelled, as he ripped into one of the breaker panels. “I just got a look at the relay. It's smoked. Looks like the secondary cooling is offline, and it's put a lot more load on primary. I'd say this baby's got about three hours of flight before the emergency stop kicks in.”

  The pressure in his head grew. This was wrong. No time. “Nothing we can do about that. I'll try to steer us over open water and take her down easy.” Lots of people on here. “We need to be prepared to evac-”

  “No go! No go!” Parvotti yelled, sudden panic in his voice. “Fucking emergency systems are fragged! They've locked it in, and the power- ”

  The lights flickered. Slim glanced up and said, “Uh, sarge, is that-”

  The whole ship rocked.

  The deck rose, fell, tilted-

  Bodies and equipment rolled to starboard. Slim bounced from the wall, nearly crushed by a falling sandbag.

  The ship heaved, and righted.

  The lighting pulsed, again, and the relay popped.

  Parvotti screamed. He tried to push away, but the ship shuddered, then dropped. Clausen was tossed into the air. He free-fell, as the ship descended-

  The deck met him, hard and fast. Pain burst through his chest, through his mouth-

  He tasted blood.

  Again, the ship fell, and Clausen was thrown in the air. He struck the deck, rolled with the incline. Pieces of the needler slid past him, bounced down an open hatchway-

  It was like some diabolical god-child had placed its dolls in a box, and shaken them.

  The ship listed, harder. Clausen bounced from console to nest and back, as the ship righted, and rolled to port. The floor fell away, and he bounced-

  He crashed into safety glass, stared into the discharge gap of the main drive.

  The ship pitched, and he was hurled back towards the nest.

  It stopped, as quickly as it had started.

  The ship steadied. The lights came up. A clipped, precise computer voice came over the speakers. “Emergency Lockout is in effect. We apologize for the turbulence. Please, remain calm.”

  Someone screamed. Clausen pulled himself to his feet, dragged himself towards the controls. “Status!” he bellowed.

  “Rutman, here!”

  “Slim, here!”

  “Parvotti- God- my legs! I can't-” Parvotti lay in the corner, the deck streaked with blood. His armor was blackened, his sleeves half-melted to his arms.

  “Slim, get him!” Clausen yelled. He snapped back to the screen. Red lights, everywhere. “This isn’t-”

  A side door flashed open. Clausen reached for a gun that wasn’t there-

  Marcos staggered in, dragged Lieutenant Poole behind, a pistol clutched in one hand. He was covered in blood, burned, and staggering. Clausen felt a wave of relief pour through him. At least someone was alive. At least Poole was still in command.

  Rutman called out, “Coast! You're alive! Thought you got fragged!” He helped drag Poole towards Slim.

  “Grade A, too. Fucking mercs. Had a goddamn fire tube.” Marcos was covered in flash-burns, and one eye was milky. “Didn't have a chance till TACNET came back.”

  “It's back?” Clausen demanded. “Where's the team?”

  “Net came back up after the ship tried to blender us. Your life signs checked in, but you wouldn't radio.” Marcos collapsed, slumped against the wall. “No one else is alive within three decks.”

  Rutman just glanced over at Clausen and gave a small grimace. Fubar.

  Marcos continued, “El Tee is really bad. Really bad.”

  Slim finished his vital checks. “Massive internal injuries, three bullet wounds. He might survive, if he gets to a trauma center in the two or three minutes.” He paused. “We're too far out.” He pronounced the sentence calmly, stuck the officer with a painkiller, and moved to Parvotti.

  Clausen felt something cold shift in his gut, but he pushed it away. The mission came first. He snatched Poole's radio, and barked, “Authorization Clausen, Bravo-Four-One-Niner-Tango.”

  The coms unit chirped. “Acknowledged.”

  Clausen said, cool and precise, “This is Bravo Four, for Bravo Six.”

  “This is Alpha Six, I copy.” Halstead's voice was strained, and gunfire could be heard in the background.

  “Sir, we have secured primary objective, but have sustained heavy losses. We are combat ineffective, and the enemy has sabotaged – I think – sabotaged the lift systems.”

  “Tell him we noticed.” It wasn't Halstead that answered, but second voice. It was lighter, thinner, coated in sarcasm. Berenson?

  “I acknowledge. What did they do?” Halstead replied, steady as legend.

  “Sending the images to you via TACNET.” Clausen aimed his guncam at the new schematics on the screen, then at the cooling system. “Cooling got damaged in the fight. We're going down in less than three hours based on original schematics. I can't tell based on the changes, but that shaking did not give me confidence.”

  “Roger that, Bravo Four. Give us a moment.”

  There was a moment of silence, the only sounds were Parvotti trying not to whimper, the hiss of damaged pipes, and the sickening thrum-whum of the engines.

  “Bravo Four, this is Alpha Six.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “I'm going to need you to place demolitions on the central ARC950, adjacent to your position.”

  Clausen stepped back. “Say again? Over.” That could not have been correct. Demo?

  “Place octo charges on the central ARC950's primary power coupler. A single kilogram should do it.” Halstead was ice cold and steady, even as he gave the order for slaughter.

  “Sir, that could very well-”

  “I'm firmly aware, Sergeant Place the charges.” There was no waver in the old man’s voice.

  Clausen froze. That charge will sever the drive units. That will blow this whole ship to hell. All these people. The facts hammered him, called from briefings and drills. Five hundred forty passengers. Seven hundred twelve crew. Twelve hundred souls. Kaboom.

  “Bravo Four, check in.” Halstead was still on the radio.

/>   “Sir, that will drop us like a rock, even if it doesn't blow us to pieces.”

  “Acknowledged, Sergeant.” The Colonel's voice betrayed no crack. “Looking at the way they have these drives rewired, it appears they're staging an overload. If we don't short it out, it will build negative mass until the system blows out from material failure. All safeties have been disabled. Our course is locked, heading for the coast. We blow this here, or it blows itself, a lot bigger, right over Tampa.”

  Another voice spoke up from near the Colonel. “We do not get the choices we want. We get the choices he gives us.” The voice was so cool, so assured, so proud.

  Clausen snapped, “Is that Berenson? I thought we couldn't trust him!”

  “Bravo Four, you will follow your orders and scuttle this ship.” The colonel commanded.

  And if it blows wrong? What if there's too much heat left? What if there's not enough? Twelve hundred people. Children.

  Poole was bleeding out. Parvotti couldn't walk. So many dead, and this was on him.

  They were heading for a city. Of course they were. Clausen felt the rage start to build. He was powerless. There had be a better way. The clock was ticking.

  “One kilo, sir? We can do that.” He replied, smooth, just as cool as Halstead, before he'd even realized he'd decided. The calm was a lie.

  “Acknowledged. And get your team to an escape boat.” Halstead finished, in just the same steady voice.

  Clausen motioned for Rutman to plant the charge.

  Rutman froze.

  Something in Clausen broke, and the rage boiled through the ice. “God damn it, plant it!” Clausen screamed.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Rutman's voice was robotic. His eyes accused. He wired the charge. “How long?”

  “Alpha Six, this is Bravo Four.”

  “Roger.”

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Roger that, sir.” Clausen tapped the channel closed. “Five minutes!”

  Rutman tapped the demolitions charge and slipped it into the conduit. Clausen refused to look away, as the package vanished into the dark. It's done.