The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “Perhaps.”

  “Definitely. I will concede it here.”

  “No.” Tiberius snapped. His pale face darkened, his icy eye flashed. He said, “Actualization is required.”

  “The outcome is set. We waste our time playing with this.”

  “No. Until we play, we have only ephemeral things, games that should end a certain way. This is not a victory, not a defeat, merely a mutually assumed hypothesis. Unacceptable. There must be actualization, to make the results concrete. Only real things can be measured and weighted.”

  “What if I just tell the computer I lost.”

  “Charity.” Tiberius raged, icily.

  “Fine then. You win in twenty moves. But I go first next time.”

  “Of course.” Tiberius said, as he rubbed his stone between his fingers. “Have you heard how the war fares?”

  “Police action. The Authority goes to war against the Path. We are a peacekeeping operation.”

  “Yes, well, have you heard how the ‘police action’ is faring?”

  “Have I heard how badly it is going? Yes. I assume you have thoughts?” Antonius placed his stone.

  “They are making errors. They are being sub-optimal.” Tiberius tapped his stone into place, let the precise 'click' echo through the chamber. He seized up a new stone, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “It is not our place to judge.”

  “Bah. If they did not require correcting, their flaws would not be so obvious.”

  “That is not how this works, brother. The council decides. We actualize. It is not our place to question. To every component, a role. For every role, a perfect fit. We are field commanders, not councilors.”

  “We could do better.”

  “Perhaps, but that is not our role.”

  “They are playing wrong.” Tiberius scrunched up his face like he'd tasted something rotten. “Not just badly. Wrong. We will be destroyed, and soon, unless they change.”

  “Perhaps. When the day comes, we will fight our hardest, and lose the best we can.”

  “But we could win.”

  Antonius leaned forward, and spoke, lower, “I know. I know you are right, I know you could win. But that is not what we are. It is dangerous, and wrong, to behave otherwise.”

  Tiberius sighed, and admitted, “You are right. I know you are right. But it hurts. To see these things slowly burn, and able to do nothing… I would play it differently.”

  “How would you do it?”

  “You know, so why ask?”

  “Actualize the thoughts. It will relieve the burden.”

  “The primary problem is the nature of the threat.” They both played out their next moves. “The Faction only has the advantage when we refuse to congeal. The Authority has far too much firepower to confront, but that is also their weakness. They are not agile.”

  “The Agency has agility.”

  “It does, and it is gutting us. But it is too sharp a blade for the civilians to tolerate, and too fickle an edge for the military. The Agency must be split from society, drawn apart and neutered. But that is later. The problem now is that we are playing their game.”

  “The currency and materials problem.”

  “Yes. Their stranglehold is choking the upper echelons of our organization. They are dancing around the law and freezing every account we create, while simultaneously subdividing and turning our high level assets. A valid tactic, relying not on stealth, or speed, but on inhuman thoroughness and occasional brute power. I must admit, I am impressed at the way they have played to their strengths.”

  “We've tried to eliminate the head of the operation before, and failed.”

  “Draco? No, he is far too well guarded, too careful. And his staff is impeccable. A worthy opponent. He is the man hurting us, herding us. I just wish I could confront him on equal terms. Have the council give me control over operations, just for the duration, so I could test against the Authority's best. It would be a good game.”

  “That is not our role.”

  “I know. But they are making an error, trying to gather forces, trying to strike harder, to become tougher. Once they do that, Draco will drop the hammer of the military. Once we cease to be shadow and smoke, and become material, we will be dismantled.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then why not go down there and argue our point? I have prepared thirty eight different strategies, with multiple contingencies, that will get us out of this trap!”

  “Because they will not listen. Because we are the guardians, not the judges. Possess nothing. Own nothing. All will be provided, and they shall provide all that they are to the service of the council.”

  “I know that. I do not desire to set policy, but I can not stand these imperfections!”

  “You have already told someone your ideas, haven't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I received forty hours in the inducer, and a full re-education neural imprint.” Tiberius admitted, as he glowered at the board.

  Antonius tipped a stone piece along the edge of the table, savored the smoothness. Serenely, he stated, “That is why I have not said anything. It would be a waste of resources.”

  “Point.” Tiberius allowed.

  The moves played out, one followed by the other.

  “Was it worth it?” Antonius asked.

  “Yes.” Tiberius replied, and smiled impishly. “They know that I know.”

  The game proceeded in silence, exactly as predicted.

  As it came to conclusion, Tiberius said, “Much better.”

  “This game?” Antonius asked.

  “Yes. It is much better than chess. It has more depth, more variation. Yet we still cannot break the balance.”

  “The problem is that our game is too similar.”

  “Too much parallel development, I agree.”

  “We are in equilibrium at nearly all points. We know each others moves. We know too many optimal sets.”

  “Which is a problem. This game is finite. It can be quantified. And once quantified, it can be controlled.”

  “Perhaps a variation, then, a game without limit?”

  “There is always a limit.”

  “Theoretically. But what of a game with indefinite limit?”

  “I think you are describing life.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Even then, the equivalence remains only so long as all threats are valid. Illusion and misdirection must be added to the game. 'The lie shall set you free'.” Tiberius said, with a grin. He rolled the stone between his fingers.

  “You know that we are never free. Every move, from conception until death, can be modeled. Every particle can be given probability and weight. And once quantified...”

  “Then that is the lie! That we can be 'free'! It is a sick joke.”

  “Perhaps we should play another game, maybe backgammon? That has a chance element-”

  “I hate that game.”

  “Then we should play this again, but I would go first.”

  “Very well.”

  The game reset, and began anew.

  Iteration 0011

  A hunter must always be aware of his prey’s natural habitat.

  To catch catfish, look for shallow, moving water, and set line at night. To hunt deer, follow game trails, stay downwind, and let the dog do the pointing.

  To catch a rat bastard with a predilection for gratuitous displays of materialism and a deep-seated longing for validation: find the hottest place in town, comb for regulars, make sure to stay clear of the guest list, and wait for them to make a scene.

  Colonel William Halstead, ASOC NORCOM, retired, found himself outside of the second swankiest nightclub in the Capital, seated upon a bus stop bench. To either side, vagrants waited, not for a bus, but for an end. The human detritus piled itself, stinking and sweaty, under the neon blue of the light-boards, and waited in half-sleeping silence, for the moment when they would be t
old: ‘go, be miserable somewhere not here’.

  Halstead sat, between those broken men, and watched.

  Thirty years of service couldn’t be shaken in a few weeks. Habits built up from a lifetime of hurry-up-and-wait boredom and pucker-factor-five terror meant that he couldn’t enjoy the same disconnected ennui as those two broken men he sat between. Instead, he found himself counting. He counted cars, marked the ones he saw loop back. He counted people, from the club across the street: who went in, who stayed out, who talked to whom, and how many times did someone grab their radio. He waited, turned off his sense of time, and built a mental frame for his target: how secure was the structure, how tight were the patrols? What was the quality of his opponent?

  This club had a very specific clientele, and a particular balance of it. The bouncers counted in one and a half women for every man, but two young and pretty pieces of paparazzi royalty for every one power-broker. Flashing gaudy accessories helped, but this was a place where faces bought admission, where people traded access for time, flesh for favors, and both parties got exactly what they wanted.

  Is this what I fought for?

  Halstead tried to keep his lips from turning. He lacked the clout, the look, or the wealth to buy-in through that gilded door, and the bouncers were too meticulous to be slipped or rushed. Not thugs, either. He noted their staggered spacing, the disciplined radio checks, the rotating patrols - every inch of it screamed: surplus soldiers. Section Thirty-Fives. The ‘peace dividend’ that dumped a couple million soldiers back into civilian life. Dumped them, overnight, with little more than range time, PT, and elan to their credit. Entire armies disbanded, and a sudden mess of angry, idle, well-trained kids, and not enough work to employ them. The paychecks that were out there were often private, discreet, and not entirely clean.

  A fine goddamn mess.

  As if on cue, the traffic parted. Between the grounders and the skimmers, a young man strode. He was tall, broad, with the machinegun-stride of an unbloodied discharge - all piss and fury, without the tempering of combat’s pant-wetting terror. The man’s coat billowed in the crosswinds, with each passing car. His earpiece shone against slick of his black hair. He swaggered as he walked, the dip-and-pull of a man who wanted the world to know ‘I’m hiding a gun’.

  The bouncer stepped onto the curb, eyes locked onto Halstead’s bench, jaw locked. He’s come to push off the trash. There was no point in displacing. That would draw more eyes than just sitting, waiting, and playing stupid.

  Halstead, with practiced obliviousness, glanced away from the approaching threat, and scanned the transit-line maps on the bus stop wall. Beside him, the rag pile shifted. An arm flashed out, scooped up a mess of woven mits and blankets. The vagrant stood, shoved his life into a bag, and shuffled away. It was time to change benches.

  The second vagrant, nestled against the OLED bank, snored on.

  Halstead made sure to ‘notice’ the change, and glance about, mildly curious.

  The bouncer stood on the highway median, as the next traffic wall flowed past. He vanished, behind a wall of panel vans and tinted windows, each more garish than the last, reflecting the glory of the city night: green, purple, and burning orange - a thousand moving lights that turned night into day.

  Here, in the heart of the city, the night was alive. It trembled, under his feet, a deep thrum from the tramways, tubes, and pipes beneath. Steam poured through the gaps in the stone, left the grates dripping cold, while the heat rushed into the spires above, to mingle with the firefly lights of the lift cars.

  It would be easy, to sit here, and get lost. The music washed over him, the mechanical thump of the city, the rush of the cars, the music of the streets - actual music, a dozen discordant melodies from a dozen open doors - it all blurred together, into a pulsing, neon here, and a vibrant, all-consuming now.

  Halstead took a breath, deep. He let the cold hang in his lungs, then escape. Even the white puff from his lungs twisted under the lights. And then it was gone.

  It would have been easy, to forget the trouble outside, the rot below. It would have been easy, if he let himself. But he was not that kind of man.

  The steel river parted. The bouncer stepped into the breach, his long coat snapping on the wind.

  The man was young. Maybe in his mid twenties - it was hard to tell, nowadays. Too many skinjobs. The bouncer’s hair was close-cropped, along an exagerated widow’s peak. A tattoo poked at the edge of his collar, promised far more details below the stark-white shirt and brown bracers. He hopped onto the curb, just beyond Halstead’s reach, and said, “Sirs, you’re going to have to move along.” He kept his hands to his sides. No threat, but right next to his baton, stinger, and that hidden gun.

  The sleeping man snored on.

  Halstead, with curated surprise, glanced up, and asked, “Isn’t this a public bench?”

  The bouncer nodded. He answered, politely, calmly, but with authority, “Yes, sir. You waiting on transport?”

  “I am.” Halstead lied, with just as much professionalism.

  The man gave another nod, just a touch deeper. He said, “Sorry for the trouble, sir.” He glanced to the sleeping vagrant. “This guy, though… he with you?”

  “No.” Halstead answered, then asked, “Police contracting out?”

  The bouncer froze, just for a moment, with the flash of a tell. He said, “We take care of our corner.” He glanced, instinctively, towards the patrol car, parked down the block. Two officers, in duty whites, sat in their car. The bouncer added, “They appreciate what we do.”

  Kickbacks. Halstead had to fight off the urge to wince. They let the clubs buy the street. Keep the area clear, keep it calm. Maybe donate to the charity dinner. If a few vagrants get roughed up? Well, there’s a fee for the paperwork.

  He answered the man, “That’s very civil of you. Helping out like that.”

  “It’s what we do.” The bouncer replied, as he stepped up to the sleeping vagrant. He raised his booted foot, prodded the sleeper, and commanded, “Hey, time to get up.”

  The vagrant grumbled.

  Another kick. Harder. “You. Get up.”

  The vagrant rolled over.

  The bouncer glanced back, an apology clear on his face. ‘Look away’, it said. The baton snap-clicked as it extended. It crackled as the battery engaged. The prongs hung low over the pavement, centimeters from the dirty whiskers of the sleeper, cast the stone in electric blue light.

  Halstead asked, “What unit were you in?”

  The baton froze. The bouncer turned back.

  The sleeper woke. The familiar crackle of the shock tip must have given him a fierce awakening, because the vagrant bolted into the night, dragging his bedroll behind.

  The bouncer raised an eyebrow, glanced from Halstead to the fleeing man, and back. With a shrug, he folded the baton back to ready, and collapsed it, harmless, into its sheath. He answered, with a note of relief, “Four-oh-fifth. Second combat team. Outta Ellis.”

  “Firedrakes, huh?” Halstead asked. “Good unit. You do any drops?”

  “Eleven, sir, they bounced me out before I could get my wings. Guess they didn't want to pay me.” The man sighed.

  “Thirty-Five?” Halstead asked.

  “You know it. Never thought I'd get laid off from the damned army.” The man laughed, without an ounce of humor. “You?”

  “I did my time.” Halstead said.

  “If you don’t mind, what unit?”

  “One-seventy-third divisional support team, out of Avalon.” Halstead replied. He gave the old placeholder, a semi-decommissioned signals unit at a post with far too many active units to count.

  “Sorry, man. Never heard of 'em.”

  “We've been around.” Halstead deadpanned.

  “Yeah.” The bouncer replied, with another hint of embarrassment. He relaxed, let himself slump a little. “Sir, you might be waiting a while. Bus’s have been slow. I usually take the metro-” he glanced up, narrow eyes watching the vagr
ant flee into the night. He added, “Just stay awake.”

  “Thanks.” Halstead said. He asked, “Is this fulfilling?”

  The bouncer glanced at him, questioning.

  “Is this what you wanted?” Halstead asked. “What you trained for? Fought for?”

  “It pays.” The young man answered. “Three times service rate. Twice what the cops make. I play hot-or-not for six hours. They give me a cred chit.” He shrugged. “A man’s gotta eat.”

  Halstead nodded, and echoed, “Pays the bills, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” The bouncer’s lip turned a little, like he’d bitten something sour.

  Halstead stood, brushed off his coat. He said, “I think I’ll take that train.”

  “Good choice, sir.” The bouncer glanced back, towards the alleys. “But carry a stinger. It’s getting rough, especially for people… a little older.”

  “Don’t get my old ass beat, did I get that?” Halstead asked, with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course, sir.” The man agreed. “But a stinger’s always helpful.” He stepped back, towards the curb, and offered one last, “Have a good night, sir.”

  With that, he vanished into the river.

  Halstead turned his eye back towards the club, across the divide. This was the place. His target had pulled up, twenty minutes past, and parked a black sedan - the kind with tinted windows and armored plates, scanner mast, concealed lift plates, and a generic tag. The damn thing might have had “G-MAN” stenciled down the side in twenty-centimeter white blocks.

  You’re getting sloppy, friend.

  The front door wasn’t going to work, not with this security. The back door was locked up with decent biometrics. That was a problem, because he’d never been a tech guy, and a breaching charge was a bit more bang than appropriate. Fortunately, social hacking was easier than its technological twin, and relied a heck of a lot less on short-shelf-life skills. Hell, it was one of the few things that got easier, once his hair went gray.

  Halstead wandered down the sidewalk, threaded the crowd, and, when he knew the bouncer’d lost a line on him, cut across traffic. He slipped through the river, between the flashing lights and rushing panels. He hopped up, onto the curb, and threaded through the lines of hopeful guests. They stood for blocks, hundreds deep, in single file, with their real-leather purses and asymmetric-cut clothing, standing on red carpet for the hours, for the chance to pass the doorman’s threshold. With his apologies, polite nods, and down-turned eyes, the city glitterati never even noticed gray man who slipped between them. Another nameless civil servant. An old man. Not anyone worth noticing.