The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Berenson nodded, and said, “True, true. It was ended without guilt, without the customary rape and pillage. It was a ‘clean’ end to a bloody ordeal." He paused. "And they say the universe is cruel?” He spun, and waltzed towards the exit. At the door, he stopped, and said, “Have fun training. Study those drives. There may come a time you need to turn them off."

  Clausen demanded, “The hell you going?”

  "Out," Berenson replied, "to visit the city. I have heard it is lovely, this time of year."

  "What do you think you're going to do out there?" Lieutenant Poole asked, as he stepped up beside his sergeant.

  “I am going to kidnap some media executives, so I can see myself on the evening news." Berenson said. He flashed his awful grin, and asked, "What did you think I was going to do? I am getting a pizza. I heard there was a wonderful shop nearby.”

  He bowed, with great flourish, and then he was gone. Firenze turned to Clausen, started to ask for guidance, but Clausen just shook his head.

  “Who was that?” Firenze asked.

  “Bad news.” Clausen said.

  Something about the way he said it gave Firenze the chills. Clausen wasn’t afraid of anything. The sergeant was the most level, steady, resilient people Firenze had ever met, from dronetown to the uni. And, here he was, with a voice that caught, and hard, unblinking stare. It wasn’t fear that Firenze saw. It was something worse: an acknowledgment of direct threat. Clausen’s face was that of a veteran bushman, looking up to see the avalanche fall - it was grim resignation to get this done.

  It was that horrible realization that brought a new fear to Firenze: the hardest day was not yet come, and would be on a scale, unimagined.

  #

  The wall clock was ancient, older than the rusted gears of Kessinwey. White enamel hands wound their path over stained wood, to the rhythmic tick-tock of the gears below. It must have once been beautiful, a talk-piece for an executive’s office party. Now, it was stained, faded, and drowned in the perfidious Kessinwey grease. It still kept time.

  The worn clock hung over the desk of Colonel Halstead, filled his office with the thock of wooden hands and the regular chime of the chain. The colonel worked below it, his binders sprawled over his desk in a spray of organized chaos. The old man motioned for him to enter, with a professional-friendly ease that came only after decades of practice.

  Halstead greeted him, “Good afternoon, Mister Firenze.” The colonel gave him a nod, then returned to his binders. His bushy eyebrows twitched as his eyes skimmed over the open binder. His mustache shifted, and he grunted, dissatisfied. He looked back up, without lifting his head, and added, “Well? Come in. It’s good to you healthy.”

  Firenze answered, “Thank you. Been working on that whole ‘not vomiting’ thing.”

  “It’s not just that.” Halstead said. “You’re standing taller. Surer. Not the half-broken boy they dragged in.”

  “Well, I did sign up for the workout regimen.” Firenze said.

  “Gym’s cheaper.” Halstead replied. He met Firenze’s gaze, and added, “But less thorough. I’ve seen good things from you.”

  “You didn’t see me try to wear armor.” Firenze said. He could still feel the pinch of the collar, the crush on his chest. He remembered the sweat, the weight that wouldn’t sit quite right, and the sudden crash onto concrete. He could hear the laughs, the command: ‘Someone pick up Princess. He’s on his back, again.’ It hadn’t been the worst experience in his life, but it was definitely in the highlight reel.

  “You adapted.” Halstead said. “You overcame. I’m glad to see it.” He paused, drew in a deep breath, and admitted, “It’s almost game time.”

  "I know, sir." Firenze swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

  "Are you ready?" the colonel asked.

  "I... I don't know." Firenze replied. "Sometimes, I pretend to be. I get into the swing of the run, blasting through doors and it's almost like I'm playing some game, and then I suddenly realize we're playing for lives, and how many people are on that Airship, and I just get sick. I try to fake like I'm cool, but I'm not. I have to try to act normal. Every moment, I'm actively thinking, 'okay, now look the part'. You know, drink too much on rest nights, swear too much when hanging out, and always, always insult someone's mother when questioned. Remember to talk about how I’m gonna pull a ‘combat jack’ at some point, and joke like I'm not scared out of my mind. Keep posturing. Keep laughing. Keep picking up and pretending this is nothing. Try to fool everyone else into believing I’m okay with this - it's not normal. I'm not just doing these things because I feel that way, I'm running a program to look like I'm fine.”

  Halstead leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers. He drew a deep breath, and then a sip from his mug. He nodded, then turned to his office window, to the snow beyond. The cold ate at the edges of the frame, laid tracks of ice across the glass. It came in waves, battled with the sputtering heater in the corner, too warm or too cold by a matter of centimeters. After a moment, the colonel said, "Congratulations, son. You just figured out bravery."

  "Sir?"

  "Everyone is scared. I've been in combat dozens of times. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to wondering, each and every time, if this would be the last. All that 'stupid macho posturing' you see out there? It's everyone playing brave for everyone else, so that they aren't the one who makes the unit break. If you weren't scared, you wouldn't be human. It's not about not being afraid, it's about mastering that fear. Grab hold of it, push it back under and slug through, and when you get back to base, talk about how not-scared you were. You show me a man without fear, I'll show you a madman."

  "I follow, sir." Firenze allowed. "It's just not my world, you know? Three months ago, I was some kid, then, one day, I snoop the wrong node - a stupid honey trap I should have seen from a mile away - and I get dragged into an Agency lock house. They beat me, nearly kill me, threaten me, threaten to kill my friend, threaten to, quite literally, rape me to death, just to bounce me through a month of training and then, boom, warehouse in the middle of the night, here I am."

  Halstead countered, "That Airship is full of people just like you. They live there, or they work there, or they were on vacation there. Then, one day, some psychopath decides that he's going to make a statement. He hijacks it, turns them into hostages in their own homes, and disposes of anyone who causes a problem. He takes their lives, their hope, their future, and spends it as capital in some political statement. The only hope those people have is us."

  "I just don't think I should be doing this." Firenze admitted. The words left a bitter taste on his tongue, a shameful burn in his throat. He hated to say it. It was weakness, it was fear. He wasn't good enough. Drills were one thing, but that many lives, on his shoulders? It was the right move to step aside. It just wasn’t the easy move.

  Halstead leaned forward again, and pulled his kettle out of its desktop brewer. He carefully poured a cup, and then slid it over towards Firenze. He said, "Now, that's a complex statement. Do you mean that you don't think that you should be here, on this mission, or that this mission should be executed differently?"

  "Both!" Firenze declared.

  "Alright. If you'll forgive me, then, I'm going to attack your arguments, one at a time." The colonel laid his hands on the desk as he spoke, his diction like a professor measuring out the flaws in a student's thesis. "We've gone over the fact that you are explicitly qualified for this mission. You have now beaten our electronics warfare teams in eighty percent of the match-ups, and when taken as a single operator, you are the solitary most effective counter-AI slicer I have ever seen. Lieutenant Donegan called your performance against the Phalanx last week as, and I quote, 'downright horrifying', in the most positive way."

  "He said that?" Firenze asked. He almost choked on his coffee. So that's what incredulity tastes like?

  "Absolutely." Halstead confirmed. "You say you're afraid. We're all afraid. So, it's your first time in combat? Everyone has a first, and
we never get to pick the stakes. You will perform, I have no doubt. If I had doubts, you'd be on a train back to the Agency, right now."

  The colonel took another sip from his own mug, the steam rising over his mustache and through his gray eyebrows. He continued, "Your second point is more contentious. How would you attack the Airship?"

  "Virus, sir." Firenze put forward his theory. "It's a dynamic space, controllable through proper use of electronics warfare. I'd hit it with a worm, or a limited AI, have it lock the ship down, cut the controls to the drive unit, and spin down for a soft landing somewhere safe. Then, when the ship's landed, and the core cooled, ground forces move in and clear it. The mercenaries are locked in their rooms, and casualties are minimal."

  Halstead nodded, approvingly, but then held up a finger. He said, "Interesting theory. The counter: the mercenaries, upon losing control of the ship, use their internal, non-integrated radios to coordinate a massive response. They use torches and explosives to cut free and begin culling the hostages, in response to our attack."

  "Jamming, sir. We black out the internals."

  "They'll recognize that as a signal to attack. Their leader, Sakharov, was in special forces before he went over. He'll know what’s happening."

  "Knockout gas. We can synthesize it in the air system with the right virus."

  "Paris, 2513." Halstead replied. "Internal Security Agency RAST teams attempted to liberate hostages from a hotel, by flooding it with an asphyxiant 'knockout' gas. The dosage was too hard to control, some hostages went into shock, and hundreds died. In contrast, the terrorists, many of whom were in a heightened state of arousal, were able to withstand the effects long enough to inflict more casualties and still mount a limited resistance."

  "Drones, then." Firenze said. "Gas the sections that contain no civilians, seal the ship, and then send in remote control combat drones to clear out the remainder."

  "You're jamming them, remember?" Halstead pointed out. "Even if you aren't, they'll jam you the moment they realize you’ve sent in RCVs." The colonel motioned to the frozen window, to the blowing snow beyond, and said, "It's a harsh world out there, Mister Firenze. There are technological tools, but there has to be a problem solver behind those tools, and close at hand. That's what we do. Think of us as a reactive antivirus program for the world. You can cut access and suppress and mitigate as much as you'd like, but so long as there's some knucklehead out there who thinks that shooting, stabbing, and bombing are the best way to make a point, you'll need people like us to go dig them out, because they won't stop when you ask nicely."

  Firenze pondered for a moment, and then presented his capstone argument. "AI drones, then. They can't be jammed. They're stronger, more resilient, and more accurate than even this team."

  Halstead jerked as if slapped, and Firenze worried he might have offended. Fortunately, the colonel merely took another sip, and replied in the same measured tone, "Send in the killbots, eh?" He sighed heavily. "I suppose that does look like a good alternative, doesn't it? They're efficient, loyal, effective... and no one loses a child, spouse, or parent when the killbot gets blown to pieces." He took another drink, let the steam well up in his eyes, looking deep into the heat. "The only problem is, to deploy the killbots, you have to keep an army of them around to deploy."

  "We don't?" Firenze asked. "I'd think that'd be something the Authority would be tripping over itself to build.”

  "Over my dead body." Halstead stated. "Mine, and a lot of good officers', actually."

  "Why?" Firenze asked. "Too expensive? It's easier to use up people?"

  "Because they're too cheap!" Halstead snapped. He took a breath, steadied, and continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. You brushed up against a mindset that I particularly despise." Before Firenze could inquire, the old man asked, "Do you read the news, Grant?"

  "Sometimes. Not really." He replied, honestly. "Not in the last two months, at all."

  Halstead shrugged. "Few do. Most that do, just watch the highlights, or follow the social channels. Did you know that the Authority has been waging war with Path elements for the past five years? This war has cost over fourteen hundred lives?"

  "No!" Firenze exclaimed. "Is that classified? I know some people who would be outraged-"

  "It's not classified." Halstead said. "I wouldn't tell you if it was. It doesn't need to be. It's on the last page of the news, every week."

  "Why don't they protest, then?" Firenze demanded. Student groups had rallied around Article Two, around Monterrey. If they knew, sure they would have railed against any silent war.

  "Because it's not our lives being lost. Fourteen hundred souls have been snuffed out from the Path ranks, exterminated by aerial attack drones and vicious little computer worms that crash cars into walls. Right now, there are automated hunter-killer drones out there, choosing life or death for someone who doesn't even know it. He's an enemy of the state for certain, but right now, he's just a father, sitting down for dinner, and thousands of feet above, there's a little computer brain, calculating whether it should dedicate fourteen kilograms of high explosive to end his life. He'll never know. He'll reach for the potatoes, and then boom, gone, along with his family. Some bureaucrat in the Capital will chalk up a statistic, a logistics officer will divert an extra missile to a stockpile near an airstrip, the news will report, 'drone strike in somewhere you've never heard of eliminates Path radical you never knew'. And no one will care. They've got sports, gossip, and scandal to worry about.

  "Sending in soldiers is hard. It's painful. It brings protests and soul searching, rallies and demonstrations. The Senate will convene and convulse, the media will pounce. It's a three ring circus, it's embarrassing, and, sometimes, it stops us from doing our jobs. But it also keeps the State honest. If you send in the army, you're sending in someone's son or daughter, someone's lover, someone's caretaker. You send over soldiers, marines, sailors, and airmen, and suddenly, you've got yourself a crisis. Is it worth it? What are we here for? Drones don't beg those questions. Drones are cheap. Drones are easy. War should never be either of those things. That's we don't build an army of drones, so that we're never tempted to use them, to fight wars of convenience."

  Firenze sat, stunned. He hadn't expected that kind of response. "Sir, no offense, but you almost sound like one of the protesters-"

  "Good. I hate this business." Halstead replied.

  "Then why do you do it?" Firenze asked.

  "Because the best hunter loves the wild. The best statesman hates power. The best soldier despises war. If we left war to those who loved it, we would leave this world a ruin." Halstead turned back to Firenze, set his cup back onto his desk. "So we go to that Airship, with the army we have, to free the people that are counting on us. We do this, we make this sacrifice, so that someday, what happened to them, what happened to you, never happens again. We do this so that those protesters will live to see Article Two enforced, and the Authority can deliver upon its promises. We go in there, and we do this right.”

  For just a moment, Firenze almost believed him.

  #

  The explosion rocked the control room.

  Glass shattered. Metal shrieked. A jackhammer blow caught Firenze in his chest, tore the air from his throat like barbed wire. The heat washed over him.

  He scampered back, through the shower of sparks from the ruptured conduits, and pressed himself against the bulkhead. Make it stop! Sweet mother, make it stop!

  Training hadn't prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He clutched his assist box tight. Every breath was a battle in itself, a desperate scramble to exist. His goggles were fogged, a mix of sweat and dust that turned the HUD to digital noise. Gunfire ripped the air, hot and buzzing, like hornets belched from the maw of hell. With each burst, he flinched, certain this was it.

  Light punched through a freestanding terminal, two meters away.

  Firenze swallowed a scream.

  He glanced over, to the still-leaking co
rpses piled in the hallway, to the slowly pooling blood, and the mountains of gore. Not like that. Oh God, not like that. One of the bodies jerked, as alive. Firenze reached for it-

  The corpse danced, to a machinegun beat, bits of meat tearing away with each crack.

  He heard himself scream. He closed his eyes, and huddled against the bulkhead.

  It was Hill’s voice that broke through his stupor.

  Hill screamed at him, “Move, Princess! They’re flanking!”

  Firenze opened his eyes.

  Hill crouched behind the battered terminal, clad in gray, ankle deep in shattered glass burnt plastic. He pressed his back into the perforated station, stared at Firenze from under the brim of his battered helmet. “You with us?!” He demanded.

  Firenze nodded.

  “Fuckin A.” He replied. He hoisted his machinegun, angled it up so he could slam another cassette into the base. A quick turn of the cam lever, and he gave his own nod in reply. “There’s a door, ten meters back. Get there. Move when I shoot, got it?”

  “Stick and move.” Firenze whispered.

  “Damn skippy.” Hill said. He swung the gun over the top of the terminal, and pulled the trigger.

  The machinegun roared. Dust, boiling hot, spewed from the vent. Hill guided the weapon from his eyepiece, walked fire over targets only he could see. Roar. Pause. Roar. Pause. On the second pause, he stood, and pulled the weapon into his shoulder. The roars became shorter, closer.

  Firenze ran.

  Each step was driven by near-panic. The door loomed, tilted, and yawed. Safety lay beyond, death behind.

  Gunfire roared. He didn’t look back.

  Five meters. Two.

  He burst through, in a stagger-sprint.

  Gray hands grabbed him, pulled him to the side. Sinewy arms, like cabled steel, pushed him into cover. “Down, Princess!” Kawalski ordered.

  More gunfire. Kawalski was firing. Her rifle clattered on her shoulder. Hill burst through the door, a moment behind, and flung himself to the opposite side of the frame. He crashed to the ground, panting, his face caked in soot and a stream of dried blood. “Three of them.” He said.