The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  At once, every radio crackled to life. “Attention, all units, this is Alpha Six. Evacuate immediately. Abort all missions and evacuate.” Through the radio, Clausen could hear pain.

  Clausen motioned for his team. “Slim, Marcos, help Parvotti. There should be an escape boat... one deck down.” Overhead, the alarms began to bleat.

  “Sir, the el tee-” Slim began to protest.

  “We can't.” I'm sorry, Nate. I'm sorry. No man left behind. Trust your team. They will carry you home. The words were so clear, so steady. The alarms blared, and there was no time. I'm sorry.

  The chime sounded, over the ship speakers. The voice followed. “Attention, all passengers and crew. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points. Do not panic.” The computer's voice was calm, friendly. It repeated incessantly.

  The ship rocked, again. The power flickered. The computer's voice modulated. Everyone grabbed for a handhold.

  Clausen's radio crackled. “Bravo Four, this is Delta, uh, something.” It was Firenze. “I managed to get some of the net under control-”

  “You're late.” The words were far too cold. He knew this, even as he spoke them.

  “... I …” Firenze choked, and for a moment, Clausen thought he heard crying. The radio cleared, and Firenze pushed through, “Sir, you've got three squads of killer robots coming your way.”

  Clausen snarled, “I don't have time for-”

  “No!” The hacker's voice was desperate. “They've got some sort of armature-frame bots! They’ve got guns, armor - they’re coming down on you from above! I count - three dozen! They killed Lee - they - nothing works on them!” Firenze was near panic. I can't blame him. I'd panic, too, if I were here.

  Behind him, Rutman cried out, “Oh, fuck this! Kill bots? Fuck this!”

  Clausen steeled himself, asked, “How long we got?”

  “Uh... a minute? Maybe less…”

  Clausen glanced to Parvotti, the treasonous thoughts rising. There's no way we can make this, not carrying-

  “You can make it, sir. Not with me.” Parvotti said, gave voice to the shame.

  “We’re not leaving you.” Clausen stated. No man left behind. Never. We save our own.

  “Yes, Sarge. Yes, you are.” Parvotti was calm. “Doc, just stick me with some happy juice.”

  Everyone else shook their heads. “No way.” Clausen said. “We'll hump it-”

  “No, sir.” Parvotti declared. “I'm not giving you a choice.” Parvotti raised his service pistol, placed it under his chin, and pulled the trigger. Slim jumped back, screamed. Rutman dropped the fresh corpse, his eyes wide. Marcos turned back to say something, but froze.

  Frank Parvotti, with the failing knees, toppled backwards. Frank Parvotti, the infamous barracks pool-hustler, the man no one would play against, struck the ground. Frank Parvotti, who had feared his pending retirement, poured blood from the ragged hole in his skull.

  Clausen was in command of Bravo. Poole was dead. It was Clausen's job to get them home.

  Parvotti leaked blood over the deck.

  It was Clausen's fault.

  They were dead because he'd failed.

  Forward. There is no time. The cold returned.

  From the distance, came the clatter of metal on metal. Down the corridors, rang the infernal drumbeat of a hundred metal legs. “Run.” Clausen murmured.

  They ran.

  The corridors passed in a blur.

  Door, door, bulkhead. Clausen was back in Belgrade, in a sleazy motel, seated next to Parvotti. They watched through the ragged drapes, and laughed, as the one-legged mobster hobbled up the stairs.

  Door, door, passage. Clausen was on a golf course, under midday sun. He showed Frank how to swing the club, again and again, until Parvotti finally snapped, and broke a nine iron over the soda machine.

  Door, door, hatch. The clatter followed.

  No time to think. No time to remember. No time to fear. There was action, and reaction. Clausen grabbed a grenade, primed it, and hurled it back, over his shoulder. He never looked to the blast, for fear he might stop.

  The ship rocked. They crashed to the left wall. The right wall. The corridor pitched down. Slim bounced from the floor, tumbled forward, down the sudden incline. The ship pitched up, and Slim came crashing back. Clausen grabbed him. His hand closed on Slim’s retention-vest. The weight pulled him down. Momentum slammed him to his knees, and he crashed into the hatchway. The stern of the vessel hung, forty degrees down-

  Slim dangled over the abyss, feet kicking in the air. Clausen perched at the edge of the sudden “floor”.

  A wall of steel swarmed from below, articulated limbs that snapped and rumbled. Slim glanced down, then up. He stared at Clausen, eyes wide and white, framed against the fall. Clausen pulled him up-

  Below, the killbots steadied. They stabilized, gyros whirred. Emitters raised. As one, they fired.

  There was no tracer, no arc of light. The bulkhead burst in a dozen places. Jagged metal ripped across Clausen’s chest, left bleeding gashes up his armor. Something hot stabbed into his leg. A spear of metal flashed past. The air stank, of heat, hot plastic, and cooked meat. Red dripped from the walls, ran down the ceiling and floors. Slim was lighter. Clausen pulled him up, by the arm, onto the jagged, torn hatchway. Below Slim’s shoulders, his chest vanished into ragged, torn meat.

  Clausen let the body fall.

  Slim fell, into the clanking mass, the swirling, clockwork chaos.

  Gunfire fell from above.

  Rutman and Marcos poured fire down the slope, braced on the next set of hatchways.

  Clausen pulled himself free of the main, hurled his last grenade down the slop.

  The ship corrected.

  The computer spoke, again, infernally calm. “We apologize for that turbulence.”

  They ran. Clausen's boots rang against the deck. The rhythm of his sprint lashed him, every footfall a cadence that rang out in his mind. Serve and protect. Twelve hundred people.

  The door to the stairwell loomed. Leave no man behind.

  Clausen cleared the hatch, and Marcos slammed it shut. Rutman slapped a thermite block on the mechanism. Clausen ducked, and sparks rained from the lock. The metal slagged, and the track warped. The door was sealed.

  “Time check.” Clausen gasped.

  “Three minutes!”

  The radio keyed up. “Alpha Six to Bravo Four. Come in, Bravo Four.”

  “This is Bravo Four, I read you.” Clausen tried to recover his breath. Something banged against the door. The hatch shook. Even in here, he could hear the horrible clicking. Rutman pointed his subgun. Marcos aimed his pistol. Clausen clutched his earpiece, and tried to make out the Colonel’s words.

  “One last order, Brian.”

  “Sir?” Why now?

  “Get them out. And don't make my mistake.”

  “Sir? What-” Clausen motioned to his men. Keep moving!

  They sprinted down the stairs.

  “Don't sell yourself cheap.”

  “Sir?” Clausen gasped out, as he bounded over the landing. There was no response. “Sir? What was that, sir? Sir!”

  The radio squelched.

  The others were watching him. “Keep moving! Move!” Forward!

  Marcos kicked the door open, swung into the hall. Rutman followed, swept the opposite angle. Clausen was at the threshold, when the ship bucked, again. He caught the lip of the hatch, as the stairwell pitched away beneath him.

  Marcos grabbed him. He pulled him up, over the edge. They tried to stand, but the ship rolled back, and they slammed into the opposite bulkhead.

  “We apologize for the continued turbulence.”

  “I'm gonna kill that bitch.” Marcos screamed.

  From down in the belly of the ship, winding through the empty corridors, came the clatter of a thousand metal feet.

  Behind him, there was a whimper. “No. Not again.” Rutman said, hands shaking on his subgun. They broke him.

  Clausen grabbed bo
th his men, shoving them towards the escape shuttle. “Move!”

  They ran.

  His legs burned, his sides ached. Injuries bled through Slim's wraps. His HUD screamed in amber protest. Slim fell into the grinder. Run. Keep running.

  They rounded the final corner.

  Inside, two mercenaries stood in the escape boat. For a moment, there was stupefied stillness, as the two sides stared at each other. One of the men reached for the ‘Door Close’ handle. A rattle of gunfire rang. Marcos put a magazine into the man. The second merc tried to raise his rifle, but Rutman drew first. The mercenary staggered, the wall painted red behind him.

  Behind, the clicking grew closer.

  Marcos reached for the release switch, but Clausen knocked his hand away. “No! Civies-”

  “They ain’t coming!” Marcos cried. His eyes were wide and white, his hands shaking.

  Clausen snapped back, “We have to-”

  Rutman said, hollowly, “They’re dead, Sarn’t.”

  Clausen commanded, “We hold this door! As long as possible! We give them every chance-”

  Heat flashed over him. Marco’s chest burst, like an invisible jackhammer had punched through him. Clausen fell back, blinded by the flashover. Someone screamed. The clatter rose to a roar.

  Killbot laser.

  Clausen toppled.

  The floor was cold. The blood that covered him was hot. This is how you die. A murder. A coward. Alone and blind. Torn apart by spiderbots. The screaming was louder.

  Rutman. Rutman was still alive.

  Clausen forced himself to his feet. His vision was hazy, dim, the image of Marcos’ boiling end still burned into his retinas, superimposed over the world. He staggered to the door. The bots were right outside, a shifting wall of grasping metal and hungry sensor-eyes. Their emitters shifted, and he saw the silent black lenses, straight down the bore.

  Get your team out.

  Heat slammed into him. Something tore into him, like a thousand claws on his chest.

  He slapped the release.

  The door slammed shut. He fell.

  There was a window on the ceiling. The darkness fell away, to reveal open sky. High above, the Airship bent, her spine broken. She twisted, spewed gouts of fire, like some speared beast.

  He slid to the floor. He was cold. Something smelled burnt.

  In the distance, he could hear the call of the kestrels.

  Zero Hour

  Karl Vonner hadn't slept in a week.

  His eyes burned. The drops had stopped working days ago. When he blinked, it was like dragging canvas over sand. His head pounded, and the pills just made it worse. His breath tasted like stale coffee and cheap mint, and he couldn’t stop belching. His suit had turned two days back, and he didn’t have a spare. He stank. He ached. He was a ghoulish mess. Dunks in the brain tank weren’t cutting it, and the go-go pills just made him vomit.

  And for what? So he could watch the world burn?

  Eight months ago, he'd been a made man. He'd known the right people. He'd gone to the right parties. He'd worn the right goddamn tie. Field Commander by thirty. Brilliant. Charismatic. Agency's best. When Section Chief Raschel came to him, and asked him to ‘look to media’ at the source, Vonner had put on his best award-winning smile, thanked the man, and started planning for his newer, bigger house. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Now look at me.

  His tie hung loose. His shirt was stained, yellowed at the pits and collar. His once-coiffed hair was matted to his head. He had a beard - a beard! - and a patchy one, at that. His face glistened. He stank of sweat. It was madness. He'd always planned to be well dressed, at the end of the world.

  Eight months ago, that damned city blew up in the gulf. Eight months of warning, and he'd missed the sign. He'd seen the news. He’d watched the feeds. Bodies that rained from the sky. A city, in flames. A comet, that boiled the sea. Flash-frozen palm trees and hissing crimson waters. He should have seen it, when the street-preachers took to their corners. He should have listened, when the riots started. He should have known, when the lockdown came. This was the end, and he had a front-row seat.

  The control room screens rose around him, a semicircle of light. He bathed in the blue light, the thousand-window menagerie of infotainment. A hundred anchors bantered with a thousand reporters, on scripts his teams had approved. He heard the metatext, the narrative framing he’d so carefully assembled, regurgitated in a million voices. Nothing was broken. Everything was under control. Remain in your home. Let’s talk about local sports. How about a feel-good story. Everything moved in lockstep. Every voice on the net, that spoke to more than a dead-end fraction, was circling the same drain - feeding from the same trough. One mention of riots, one call for investigation, one break in the drumbeat, and he’d pick up his phone, and change the story. Such was the power of the ISA.

  It wasn’t enough.

  He was just papering over holes, not fixing them. He was impotent, and he knew it. He’d tried to call in his resignation. He’d tried to request a transfer. He’d made the call, he’d looked his boss in the eyes, and he’d choked. Before he could speak, Raschel would say, “We need you on that switch, Karl. I need you. If something, anything, gets out of line, you shut it down.”

  Vonner had asked what to look for, but got no answers beyond, “Keep them on script.”

  So he sat under blue-gray screens, stinking and sweating and watching, and caressed the phone that changed the news, but never altered the facts. His team had gone home. Some had asked “to be with their families”. That was a code, a code that meant they'd read the signs, knew how dire it was. They weren’t coming back.

  He wouldn’t do that.

  He wouldn’t abandon his post. He was more honest than that. He never kept a family during his rise, so he would not cling to one for the fall. He would man his station, and document every step. In hindsight, it was all was so very clear.

  First came insurrection. Protesters flooding the streets, demanding government reform. Police clashing with rioters. Terrorists struck law enforcement and rallies alike, and the streets were bathed in blood. It peaked in Monterrey, and the world had reeled.

  If they'd been wiser, they would have paused there. A few concessions to the protests, a few ministers fired, and hoist the colors. It would have bought a peace. Instead, they'd bet on passing fancies, and the old creeds of security, and duty. The storm would pass, they'd said, if we just held course a little longer. They’d been wrong.

  Vonner had thought Monterrey was bad. Compared to the Plymouth, Monterrey was a Sunday brunch. The trials weren't enough by then. It didn't matter that the unit was rogue. The flag was stained. They should have hung the traitors, from Halstead on down to lowest trooper. That might have been enough. Probably not.

  The Airship was a catalyst. Vonner could see that now. When it plunged into the gulf, it took the Authority with it. Before the wreck was settled, before the dead tallied, the riots were in full swing.

  Then came war. The Path seized upon the civil unrest, threatened to breach the DMZ and dared the Authority to assault them, knowing that the masses would never support open conflict. Ishtan Radek seized power from the moderates, struck back for his long-lost cause. Radek had grown old, but never timid, and he waltzed across the demarcation line. The Authority had no choice but to respond, and mobilization required a draft. The draft fed the riots.

  Then came plague. With nowhere to turn for escape, the drone towns plunged into the cheapest new high. Mind Blade ran through the veins of every slum, taking its users far from the hell, at least for a while. Then, of course, there was the come-down. The side-effects. The dependencies. Hallucinations and psychosis. The riots melted into chaos. Dronetown after dronetown was sealed. City stacks were closed, all trade subject to search and seizure, all citizens subject to curfew. Blade continued to spread. Riots continued to grow. Civil services began to fail. The police could not contain the pandemonium. The citizens protested every move. Anarchi
sts waged war. Addicts rampaged. The Path advanced. The noose grew tighter. Each action fed the other, and the feedback loop grew with each botched raid and violent protest.

  Field Commander Karl Vonner sat alone in his control room, making sure the media talked about sports and the weather instead of burning cities, playing the fiddle while the all of Rome burned around him. Sometimes he raged. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes, in weak moments, he almost reached for his phone, to call family he hadn't spoken to in years, or some complete stranger, and carve himself open. He hadn't broken yet. But he was grew closer with each turn of the spiral.

  He’d had seen the numbers. He’d read the studies. The world couldn't survive another war. It couldn't survive without central control. There wasn't enough left. No food, no space, no metals, no fuel. Just power. Raw power. Too many guns, too many bombs. Too many Bergman drives. Without the Authority, without unity, the whole damn place would burn.

  We dragged ourselves out of the Collapse for this? Three hundred years of rebuilding, unifying, pulling ourselves up from barbarity and famine, and this is how it ends? With a bloody whimper?

  Vonner had trained his whole life to see patterns, to connect dots, to make sense out of madness. He was one of the best. Field Commander by thirty. Hoorah, me. There should have been a reason for this, some guiding hand. But who would profit? Who would gain? Not the Path, no, they'd die in the first fires of the war. Not the Authority, they'd fall right after. Not the people, the high or low, they'd starve or freeze or choke on the ruin.

  Cui bono? He'd stayed up at night. He’d stared at his mirrored ceiling, and asked, who gains from this?

  Days passed, and still he watched his boards and screens. He drank his stale coffee. He washed his face in the sink. His agents came and went, fewer every day. Vonner never left his post, but stared at the wall of screens and rolled the numbers over and over, and waited for his answer.

  He was at his post when the Emergency Broadcast System chimed. He slumped in his chair, eyes riveted to the myriad screens, half-dazed. He wasn’t awake. He wasn’t asleep. The slivers that remained of his consciousness were glued to the blue glow, adhered from eyestalk to datastream. The chime was deafening.