The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

“Does it eat you?” Hill cracked. Firenze knew that smirking drawl, anywhere.

  “Yes.” He answered.

  There was a long, silent pause, that only Firenze found funny.

  He continued, “Well, not really. But, kinda. Now, there's very little of this stuff. So little, in fact, that humanity never found any for thousands of years. Reason is, it's antithetical to existence. Look at normal matter. What I’m describing is sloppy, I admit, but if you're trying to 'make' normal matter in an accelerator, that requires a lot of energy, slamming everything together, trying to get a few particles out. Now, you can ‘release’ matter back into energy: it does this normally through radioactive decay. Basic truth is: lots of energy goes in to make matter, lots comes back out when you break it. Follow?”

  In the darkness, Firenze could almost make out the bobbing heads.

  “I'm not being truly accurate, just close enough to get the point across. I've got some buddies at the university who can really go into –”

  Clausen coughed.

  “No? Okay, we'll just continue.” Firenze said. “Now, negative matter, in keeping with it's inverse nature, and the fact that it is really weird, releases energy as it gains negative mass, and then removes it as it is negated.”

  “What?” A voice asked.

  Firenze said, “I know! Weird stuff. As negative matter - let’s call it n-matter - is formed, it releases energy as if an inverse amount of normal matter had been annihilated. Mass and energy are linked, but this perverts the normal equivalence. This is why Bergman got ignored for so long. Now, after his work with Indra Singh, there was no denying that this stuff could exist, because it did, but it's still not right. You make two kilograms of n-matter, you get a yield of energy, mostly heat and light, as if you'd just annihilated two kilograms of matter.”

  “So, what's the issue? Just make it somewhere far away?”

  “The problem is, that seems to violate thermodynamics. You can't get free energy and mass. But don't worry, idespite being weird, n-matter is also conscientious, so it takes care of that paradox for us! At the risk of anthropomorphizing it-”

  “What?”

  “Making it seem human.”

  “Oh. Go on.”

  “At the risk of making it seem human, maybe it knows that it's wrong for our universe, and tries to slide on out the back door. Again, inverse. Normal matter decays, releasing radiation. This stuff immediately starts pulling in energy, and rapidly. It's highly reactive, massively endothermic. Everything around it gets drained: heat, light, electromagnetism, even bonds in normal matter get harvested for energy, and as the negative matter gains energy levels, it sheds mass, returns to equilibrium, and removes all the ‘extra’ energy that it injected into the system. Think of it as a big sump, and it needs to fill up before it's gone.”

  Most people just stared. A few nodded, eyes bobbing in the darkness beyond the laser cloud.

  “So, yeah, it's very dangerous. Some theorize that in extreme situations around the universe, this negative matter is produced, but only as particles, which simply negate themselves against their surroundings. Never enough to really have a noticeable effect. But we're dealing with vast amounts of it, enough to lift vehicles, even cities. We're dealing with a substance that is ridiculously difficult to handle, that pumps out tons of energy when produced, and then tries to negate itself by consuming the energy around it. Lots of fun.” For most people, that last statement might have been sarcasm. Not for Firenze.

  “I just thought my car engine was toxic.” Lieutenant Poole commented. When did the officers sneak in? Firenze took another deep drink of his coffee, now more metallic and bitter than ever.

  He tried his best to act natural, and answered, “It is. Sort of. The Bergman drive produces an absolutely absurd amount of energy. Read that as heat for most purposes, but there are some fun kinds of radiation that have to be shielded, hence the size of most lift devices. Remember, the n-mass is being used to lift the vehicle. Now, on something like a car, that's a small amount of energy from the sump, maybe equivalent to, I don't know, a rather large nuclear bomb.”

  Poole recoiled, and Firenze nodded, tipping his cup towards the point in the shadows. “Think about that, next time you take it for a spin. You’re harnessing a nuke. And on something like the Plymouth, the energy is somewhere along the lines of a not-insignificant fraction of solar output. That's world ending.”

  “That's insane!”

  “No, this is progress!” He paused for effect. “This is where the n-matter comes back into play. Remember how it absorbs energy? So, they way to do this is to start small, generate a few negative particles, then a few more. Let the release of energy from the new particles get absorbed by the very-slightly older ones. Make a few more. Now you're making atoms. Keep increasing the amounts, slowly but surely, until you have a few ounces. Then kilograms. Then tons. Now you're riding on the chariot of the gods. The energy gets poured out, then sucked away.

  “When it's time to lower down, you just dial it back, produce a little less n-mass than last cycle. Slow is the key here. A little less each time, until all you have left are particles. There's a reason these engines take so long to spin up and down. Now, there's waste, there's always waste, even in a precision juggling act like this. You'll notice the immense radiators on any lift vehicle? That's for the tiny, tiny fractions of stupendous heat being lost. The armored belts of variable density shielding materials? For the even smaller loss of cute little rays, like gamma. And the power plants, the giant fusion plants on the airship? Those are to pump energy into any negative matter buildups that may occur, to give them something 'easy' to chew on.”

  There was a moment of quiet. Finally, Rutman asked, “And we're going to break this thing? On purpose?”

  “Well, fortunately, the systems are designed to chew themselves up in the event of failure. It won't end the biosphere, it will just either detonate like a multimegaton bomb, or consume that much energy, or maybe a little less than either, but both flavors at once. I for one am looking forward to it.” Firenze said, dryly. “First time I read the papers, I freaked out. Aerotech just building this thing was hubris. Trying to seize it from a bunch of jumped up mercenaries? This sounds like sui-”

  “This sounds like the culmination of a brilliant run of gamesmanship.”

  Firenze snapped around, to see where the voice had come from. A man stood in the door frame, short of stature, but long in shadow. He leaned, casually, against the frame, his hands plunged into his coat-pockets. The man rose, slowly, deliberately, and followed the column of light, into the steam and shadow.

  The man didn't so much walk, as uncoil with each step, like a calamitous clockwork machine, winding between barely-constrained steps. Even in the darkness, the stranger’s gray eyes flashed, sucked in the room, as he parted the smoke with a cheshire grin. He was young, only a few years older than Firenze, but his eyes were far older.

  He advanced, and turned his gaze, from the lasers to windows, and then back to the projector. He pushed his left hand into the fog, caught the light on his palm, as if he could crush it. His smile grew.

  Firenze took a step back. He didn’t know he’d moved, until he felt the sticky-wet of the whiteboard. The hair stood on his neck. His stomach clenched. Somewhere, deep in the lizard part of his brain, he knew there was something wrong with this man.

  Run. The voice commanded. Run, now!

  Firenze fought it back. He held his ground, held his breath. There was a lump in his throat. His lungs burned. The room was deathly silent, but for the man's faint footsteps. He moved, ever forward, slid through the lights as a demon. The room was full of professionals, veteran soldiers and killers, but wolves knew a dragon when they saw it.

  The man spoke, his voice so smooth it sent chills down Firenze's back. Firenze’s fingers closed on the cold metal of the marker tray, grease squelching around his whitened knuckles. Run. Run now, and never look back. The man flashed his terrible smile to Firenze, as if he'd smelled
the fear, then he turned back to the room. The stranger lifted his hand, and let the Plymouth fill the room, once more. He said, “This is a brilliant gambit. When confronted with an opponent who possesses overwhelming force, that force must be negated with a suitable shield. In this case, a shield of fire, and of ice. It is efficient. It is poetic.”

  Sergeant Clausen burst through the haze. The great man stepped into the light, put himself between Firenze and the stranger. Clausen drew the attention on himself, broke the spell the man had cast on the room. “Who are you?” Clausen demanded, unimpressed.

  “Antonius Berenson, special adviser.” Berenson made a show of clutching his hand over his heart, as if cruelly struck by the lack of recognition. “I trust that my reputation precedes me?”

  "We were warned." Clausen said, as he kicked the power cord out of the holotable. The lasers faded, and the mist settled clear. The lights flashed back up, and Clausen continued, "We were told, not to trust you." Firenze heard the tone in Clausen's voice, knew the sergeant was warning him, warning everyone. Stay on guard.

  "Wonderful." The man replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm. "That always makes advising so rewarding, when everyone ignores your advice. Cassandra was such a model for success." Berenson surveyed the room, looked to the soldiers now standing ready, the three that fanned out of the crowd to cover the exit. Impossibly, his grin grew larger, as if the tension in the room was fueled him. He turned back to Clausen, and admitted, "Still, it is reasonable, not to trust me. I would expand that maxim, though. Do not trust anyone. If they are human, they are lying." With a flash, he spun to stare into Firenze, pinned him against the whiteboard with his glare. "I alone speak the truth, which means that I should never be trusted."

  "What do you want?" Clausen asked, as he stepped between, once more.

  "Merely to continue listening, my dear Sergeant. Mister Firenze over there was giving the direness of our current predicament a decent justice, as I heard. I thought perhaps I might listen, and maybe even offer advice. I am, after all, the adviser.” Firenze realized he'd been wrong, when he'd thought Berenson's voice smooth. The man's voice wasn't flat at all, there was a sing-song buried inside, a rise and fall on carefully chosen tempos.

  "So, what's your advice?" Clausen demanded, unamused.

  "Speak now, and begone?" Berenson asked. "How courteous." He plucked an empty chair from one of the standing soldiers, and spun it casually away, let it crash against the stained wall. Casually, with measured carelessness, he dropped upon it, swung one leg over the other and clasped his hands into a steeple, like a master inviting his guests into his library.

  Berenson paused, to glance to the projector on the table, and then back to Firenze. He said, “My advice? Well, since you asked...” He leaned forward, the old seat creaking. “I did not interrupt Mister Firenze's lovely descriptions because I feared I might be seen as rude. Unlike some,” he nodded towards Clausen, and the Sergeant glared back, over crossed arms, “I believe in manners.”

  Berenson's voice changed, suddenly, like a song that hit it's bridge, abruptly swung up in tempo, and down in tenor. His words scorched, and his eyes burnt each man in turn. Only the Sergeant met his gaze. The adviser said, "It is not the Airship that is important, but the nature of its drive. Those ARC950s are mighty, full of flash and thunder, all the tools needed for a stage magician to give the world a show." He paused. "Which is why they are simply the sleight of hand, the spun cloak, designed to draw the eyes of lesser players. The true maneuver hinges on Strand, not negative matter."

  "Strand? What's that got to do with this?" Firenze heard himself ask.

  “Everything.” Berenson stated, as he rotated about, slowly, like a camera on a swivel, and came to face Firenze. Berenson continued, slower again, "Strand. The crystalline wonder of our age, the foundation upon which we have built a shining Babylon." He asked a question, "The first lift drives that Bergman drew up, the ones that Indra built, how large were they?"

  The room was silent, until Firenze offered, "Stadium sized, and-"

  Berenson cut him off, driving the next question home, "How much power was necessary?"

  "Dozens of reactors, running-"

  "Precisely." Berenson agreed, terminating the dialog "Now, we can shrink them down and shove them into a car. How?" He did not wait for a reply. "Strand. Deus ex." His voice drove harder, until Firenze felt like he was falling in vertigo, down a wall of words. "And unlike a god, it comes as called. It comes, and it delivers the fire and the glory that we demand. How fortuitous, that when they drove Bergman's first Massive Bore on Phobos, what did they draw out of the hole in space? When they ripped the fabric apart, what was behind the curtains of reality? Strand. Perfect Strand, just where we needed it."

  Berenson suddenly leapt from his chair, and began to pace the room, bleeding manic energy as he stalked the crowd. Firenze followed the man. Berenson’s speech was interesting. He relished each word, held it as something precious, and yet drove each syllable with a hammer. He said, "Strand can be extracted from any stable borehole. If you gather enough negative mass, you can force spacetime to crumple, and as it rends, you can draw out Strand, and give form to pure probability. You feed the web power, and it will resonate, and return multifold. The thinner the fabric, the wider the bore, the more Strand at hand? More power reciprocated.

  “It it not a free lunch, for that would be impossible, it is a cosmological dine and dash, borrowing from a power source so massive, so incomprehensibly huge, that we are ants, stealing heat from the sun on high and calling it god."

  He delivered the stinger, used his voice as a lash, "It gives us power, it gives us light. Through its awesome lens, all shall behave as we command. Batteries can run a city for a year, with less power than you use to light a filament-"

  "But we don't!" Firenze protested. "There are no large scale Strand harvesting operations-"

  "Because you are scared." Berenson answered the unasked question. "You are children, dancing about the well, never daring to look down and tempt the fall, never daring to look into the abyss and beg it to rise. Are you scared?" His eyes were fierce, and Firenze couldn’t look away. "You should be." Berenson whispered.

  For a moment, the room was silent.

  Berenson broke his own spell this time, with a sigh, a shrug, and an almost-giggle. He admitted, “Sadly, it appears safe. I am almost disappointed to lose such fun potential, but Strand is tragically more well behaved than its dependent technologies."

  Clausen jumped in, shut down Berenson's monologue. "And what does this have to do with anything? We're not cutting their supply of Strand, we're shutting the whole thing down. Let the Agency figure out how they stole themselves a Strand cask." The Sergeant was cool as ever, unfazed by Berenson’s rant.

  The adviser countered, "Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything. It is simply another variable you should consider. Strand is very hard to acquire, and it has many interesting uses. A drive field of sufficient power might just be the sneakiest way to harvest it. A drive field, perhaps, like the one generated by the ARC950."

  Firenze felt the thought click in his head, and like ice-water in his veins, he knew something was wrong. Clausen must have felt it, as well, because he demanded, "You're saying this mission isn’t about hostages or demands?"

  "Demands?" Berenson asked innocently.

  "Yes, demands." Clausen repeated. “They issued them.”

  "They did.” Berenson conceded. “They demanded absurd amounts of money, the release of prisoners who will never be released, and the delivery of impossible political goals. Those are an illusion, created by the mercenaries. Their client desires the Strand that they are leaking from the reactors, not the political leverage of the ship. Perhaps he is looking to build a bomb?"

  Numbers ricocheted through Firenze's head, formed into a terrible shape. "If Strand, through quantum probability manipulation, effectively multiplies an energy release, then a bomb derived from the ARC950-"

  Clausen fi
nished the thought, "-would be all sorts of bad news."

  Berenson gave a slow clap to their conclusion, and said, "Would not that threat make an excellent bargaining chip?"

  "For what?" Firenze demanded.

  "The future, of course. You have heard of the Waste?"

  "Of course we have." Clausen countered. "When the Path carrier blew its dri-." The sergeant cut himself off, changed course. "That makes an awful sense. The Second War ended when the Path lost containment on their carrier drive, in the worst way.”

  Firenze continued the thought-thread, “They were using an experimental Strand cascade. It fed the reaction back into itself, and blew away half of Europe.”

  Clausen said, “Two billion people, gone. Took most of the Path, and all of Seventh Fleet.”

  "That little cascade won the war, Sergeant. For the Authority, it was the most fortuitous disaster in history. Without it, we would still be wracked in the throes of an unending war, on a dying world.”

  Firenze asked, “Are you trying to imply that the Path caused the blast by feeding Strand into their drive field, or, that it was caused by using their drive field to harvest Strand?”

  “I implied nothing. What do you think?” Berenson asked.

  Firenze drew on his history classes, the physics classes, and every wild theory he'd read on the net, and said, “I’ve heard it was a perpetual drive. I've heard they were trying to build an FTL system. Don’t know about that. I’ve heard it could make its own bore and skift itself across the planet. Less impossible, I guess. Never really thought about it, much. I guess either of your theories could be right.”

  Berenson demurred, “Those are not my theories. Those are the official conclusions of the Hodges Report, after the war. Four years of investigation and thousands of interviews were performed to create those hypotheses. Most reasonable people accept one of the two. Sergeant Clausen, do you have any thoughts?”

  Clausen glanced to Firenze, and then stated, “I don't think it matters. It was an awful tragedy, but it ended the war."