The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  For a long moment, Halstead sat in silence. He leaned back into his seat, and stewed in the shadows. He’d come here to accuse. To fight. He’d expected Raschel to posture. To bluster. Instead, the Agency man deferred. Demurred. It didn’t fit.

  For a moment, Halstead doubted. He glanced to the empty tumblers, the barely-nibbled food. It clicked, in his head, and he muttered, “Mike, you son of a bitch.”

  “Yes?” Raschel answered.

  “You were trying to do me a favor, weren't you?”

  “Of course.” Raschel said. He smiled, but it was fake, just like everything about him.

  “You delayed the mission until after my retirement. Then you postdated the God damn orders. Because you think that this is a suicide mission.” Halstead said, with disgust.

  Raschel said nothing, but chewed on his bit of crab. The agent was thinking, trying to devise a new angle.

  Halstead didn't give him the time. “It is! Isn't it?! This is a one way trip, and lucky me, I'm that tiny circle of people you treat like people. Tell me, Mike. Look me in the eyes, for old times sake, and tell me you're not sending every one of these people to die.”

  Raschel looked right at him, and said flatly, “I'm not sending these people to die.”

  “Bullshit!” Halstead snapped. “I know you! If you were ever anything more than a son of bitch, tell me where you’re sending them!”

  “It's dangerous. That's what they signed up for.” Raschel kept his voice even, calm. He was boiling beneath the surface, Halstead knew.

  The colonel fired back, “It's worse than that, or you'd have had me file this before I quit. You hid this. Why?!”

  “It's bad, Bill. I won't bullshit you. Might be the worst I've seen since-” Raschel cut himself off, then continued, ticking off points on his fingers, dispassionately, “Hardened target, hostages, a God damned airship, well prepared enemies, and allies you can't trust beyond the fact that you know they're traitors. It's a cluster fuck, but it needs done. So sign the order.”

  “Reactivate me.” Halstead offered.

  “What? No!” Raschel dismissed him, and turned away to eye the singer, once more.

  Halstead slapped the table, brought Raschel's attention back, and declared, “You just said how bad this was. I'm your best man-”

  For the first time all evening, Raschel dropped his guard. He pleaded, “Bill, I am begging you, just sign this order and walk-”

  “Jesus.” Halstead whispered. He shook his head, and said, “Count me lucky. I’m on your good side. I know, in your own sick way, you are trying to do me a favor. Well, thank you, Mike. Thank you for reminding me how we differ-”

  “You dress like shit? Can’t take a joke? Won’t try the crab?” Raschel offered. There was an edge, just below the joke. “You still think you can save the fucking world?”

  “I won’t send men to die. Not without the common courtesy of telling them-”

  Raschel’s eyes flashed. His tumbler hit the table, hard. He asked, “How’s it look up there? Huh, Bill? How’s the view from atop that fucking horse?”

  Halstead closed his mouth, bit off a comeback. This was pointless. He swallowed insults, swallowed pride, and glared.

  Raschel said, in a whisper-hiss, “Some of us still gotta work for a living. Some of us don’t get the luxury of your moral clarity. There’s a job. It needs done. I’m getting. It. Done.” He licked his lips, leaned back, and calmer, added, “So excuse me, for trying to do right by you. Fine. I’ll stop trying.”

  “You want this mission done? Great. You reactivate me.” Halstead demanded. “Do that, and I'll sign your order. Otherwise, we're done. Enjoy your goddamned dinner.”

  Halstead stood, and turned away. At the foot of the stairs, another socialite waited. A young girl, not a breath over twenty-two, in sparkling silver. She clutched her purse, sucked deep licks of vapor through a straw that ran inside, and closed her glossy eyes. In disgust, he turned back, to the Agency man, to snap some final insult, some comment on the age of these girls.

  Behind him, Raschel slumped in the shadow. He fumed, and postured, just below the crown of laser light, with his empty row of tumblers. As the music shook the room, once more, Halstead walked away. He let the Agency man stew.

  Raschel deserved this place. And they deserved Raschel.

  That didn’t make him feel any better about any of it.

  #

  After a lifetime of soldiering, he had learned to live without a footprint.

  Colonel William Halstead, reactivated, was an expert at carrying his life in a box. It was a skill that let him turn a dingy office, in a defunct industrial district, into a home, with only an hour's work. A touch of history, a brush of heart, and it started to feel right. Hang a plaque, place a model ship, and mount kickball trophy, and it looked mostly real. No pictures, though. Those were too easy to trace. He had to make due with hints. Echoes. Reminders of a life somewhere far beyond. Enough to help him remember why he was here. Enough to remind him that there was more to this than paperwork, gunfire, and that damned Kessinwey grease.

  His borrowed chair was worn to ruin. It creaked when he leaned, groaned when he sat. The padding, sodden with oil, threatened to burst through mummy-wrapped black tape. It was ugly. It was near broke. It worked.

  Halstead’s fingers danced over his tablet. The pages rolled past. He didn’t need to read them. They hadn’t changed since reactivation. Pytor Sakharov had broken - been broken - out of prison. Bodies were hitting dirt. Sakharov was cashing checks, from anyone who wanted to buy. It was bad enough.

  But there was more. There was always more. There were names in this damned report. Underwriters on those cashed checks. Someone broke Sakharov out. That man wanted his services. That man had a grudge.

  That man was dead.

  That man was still turning men to meat.

  No wonder Mike was off his game.

  Halstead pushed the thought away. It wouldn’t do him any good. He had to stay focused. On solutions and best options, not on might haves, could haves, and would haves. A man could get lost, there.

  He glanced up, to the small doll on his desk. He reached out, gave it a flick, watched the hologram shimmer. It reacted to movement, spun, ever so slowly, to a silent tune. The music had died, long ago, but she kept dancing. He smiled, at the brush of memories. Not happy. Not sad. Something in between, and both. He knew the feeling well.

  He’d done this a long time. Gotten good at it. He could have packed the shelves with plaques, medals, and ribbons. He could have built a mountain of tin on his desk, and run cords from top to bottom. He only brought this doll. One wooden ship. One first place trophy. Those got the best spots.

  No pictures, though. Those were the unwritten rules.

  There was a knock at the door, that sent paint flaking onto the concrete.

  Halstead tore his thoughts away. With a flick, the doll vanished, back into the projector. I’m too old for this. Keep getting lost. He straightened his collar, and, in his best ‘official’ voice, said, “Come in.”

  Captain Winslow opened the door, stepped aside to reveal one of the rank and file. Winslow said, “One Sergeant Clausen to see you, sir. As requested.”

  “Thanks, Dave. Send him in.”

  “Sir, Sergeant Clausen reports!” The giant man snapped a precision salute.

  Halstead returned it. Once the door was closed, he pointed to the seat across from his desk. “Have a seat, please.”

  Clausen sat, stiffly.

  He thinks he’s on the hook for something. Halstead had to restrain the sigh. Just once, he’d like to bring someone in here, and not have to spend ten minutes in a trust minefield. He said, “You're not here for discipline. You can relax.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clausen said. He did not relax.

  Halstead said, “I remember meeting you at dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clausen replied.

  This time, he couldn’t stop the sigh from escaping. He tried the direct approach, and said
, “Speak freely. We can drop protocol. This mission isn't, strictly speaking, an ASOC job.”

  “Sir?” Clausen asked.

  “A certain Agency might be involved. At least, that’s what I've heard.”

  “Oh.” Clausen acknowledged coolly. He sat in silence for moment. After a moment, a look of resolution crossed his broad face, and he asked, “Well, then, if I can speak freely, sir?”

  “That's what I said.”

  “To hell with that, sir.”

  Halstead laughed, and Clausen slumped visibly with relief. Halstead said, “Exactly my thoughts. So I'm not too stuck on 'by the book' right now. Never have been, but getting dragged back from a very well planned retirement makes me particularly ornery.”

  Clausen nodded.

  “Waiting for me to get to the point? Could be a while. Old age does that. A man learns the joy of circling around the subject, getting the whole feel for it, before he dives in and gets it over with.” Halstead made a show of glancing to his desk, and the pile of reports. He said, “I've been going over your file. Impressive. You've received the endorsement of every direct superior from training until now. My personal favorite is a note from Lieutenant Poole, who stated, 'The best advice I ever received was from Lieutenant Marion. When he turned over the platoon, he told me, “Whatever you do, just listen to Brian.”' That’s a high mark.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I see you've re-upped, every time. Looking to go career?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Halstead nodded, and then sprang his trap. He said, “Don't.”

  “Sir?” Clausen recoiled.

  “Get the hell out. This army isn’t what it was. You've seen the footage from South Hub?”

  “The riots? They had to break them, sir.”

  “More than that, if you get the unedited feed. They're using the army like a hammer. On our own people.”

  “They would never-”

  “The Senate serves the Senate. The Agency only cares about the State in abstract. It doesn’t give a bent credit about any one person, in particular. There are flaws. Mistakes. Old poisons. The bill is coming due, son. And we’re going to be charged with extracting it.”

  “Sir, I know for a fact, that every mission we have ever taken has been for the good-”

  “Good intentions pave a road to hell, Sergeant. That road is bloody, and painful, to walk. You don't have the long view, but I had the misfortune of learning it. Maybe not today, not this year, but soon, there's going to be a reckoning, coming right out of the streets, and the men up top are not going to take it kindly. The people are going to demand more. More power. More liberty. They’re going to want Article Two. They’re going to want to take the war economy apart. But the guys up top? They like what they have. They trust it. They aren’t going to back down. We're going to get used, Sergeant, the whole army. The sword will swing free and land where it will. I refuse to be there when that happens.”

  Halstead continued. “Truth be told, you remind me of me, a long time ago. You think you can save the world, if you sacrifice enough. You think you can cut out everything that slows you down, walk the lonely road and fight all the demons who come calling. Well, you're right about a couple things. It's a damned lonely road, and those demons will come. This walk's fueled by fear and regret and drinking, and I wouldn’t have you take it. You're better than that. You're better than-” he never finished the statement, simply glanced down at the empty doll projector. “It's not as simple as we'd like.”

  “Sir, I don't get what you're- sir, your book was… everything, for me.” Clausen said. “You said things I knew were right. It spoke to me. Gave me something to live up to. That’s why I joined, sir. Everything in those records? All of that came from what I read. Everything came from- Sir, without this army, I'd be dronetown, living in some shit hovel, drinking my failure-”

  “I refuse to accept that. A man can think or believe all he wants, but his actions are his character. You'd make a name in whatever you set to do. And I am telling you, this is not a place for you anymore.”

  “This mission needs me.”

  “We'll pull in someone else. Or go down a man. There's enough people, I can do without one.”

  “You said I was good, sir. Right now, I'm the best man in position.”

  “This assault is going to turn into a shit show.”

  “Then more reason I need to be there, sir!” Clausen countered, and then recited, “The integrity of the fighting force is the foremost element in attaining victory.”

  “Whoever said that was an asshole.”

  Clausen raised his eyebrows.

  Halstead tried again, “Lieutenant Poole told me about your falling out with your fiancé”

  “Sir, with all due respect,” Clausen's face flushed red, his voice nearly rising. The consummate soldier, he leveled it immediately, and stated, “That will not affect my performance on this mission.”

  Halstead sighed. This was, of course, the problem with young men. They never saw the truth in things. The problem with old men was that they had to explain it. He said, “This should effect you, son. I saw you at the party, you were good for each other. Poole says you were together for years.”

  “She knew I was ASOC, sir. This is my life. I come when called. I go where sent. She knew.”

  “But you re-upped. You could have left.”

  “I can't-”

  “Why?”

  “Sir, please-”

  “Your ‘emotional well being’ is my damned concern. I can't have you crack up out there, and I have a right, a duty, to know if that's a risk. You have to understand, I don't like prodding you like this, but you will explain.”

  Clausen said, “Sir, I lost my mother in the War. I saw my father, a strong man, a good man, break like cheap glass. We never had holidays. We never did birthdays. It broke him, and he never came back, just drank and cried and hid every time the train went past. I raised the family after that. From seven years, sir. And I knew, I knew more than anything, that I would never sit down and let that happen to anyone else. No more missed birthdays. No more quiet winters.” Abruptly stopping, he took a breath, and added, “Sir, you wanted my damage, there it is. She didn't understand, so it's probably better-” he broke off again, cleared his throat and blinked once, before continuing, “I'll be far more flexible from here on out, won't be needing those leaves I put in for. A good soldier travels light. That’s what you said.”

  “That's bullshit. I'll give you a pass out of here, get you off this trainwreck. Go to her, apologize, explain. She knows you, she'll understand. You aren't giving her near enough credit.”

  “Sir, that bridge is passed.”

  “But not burned, son. Not yet.”

  “There's a mission, sir.” Clausen stated, not nearly as strongly as he must have intended.

  “Bullshit.” Halstead stood and walked to the back wall. “The army needs soldiers, not drones. That's what those desk jockeys keep screwing up, with all this memdoping and imprinting. You have to understand what your fighting for. To do this right, you have to care, hate what you do, but do it, anyway. Because you have to. Someone just goes out and kills because he's told to? Or because he can? That's not useful. That's psychopathy. That’s Berenson. You met him?” Halstead asked.

  “Yes, sir. Creepy bastard. Scary quick in the sims.”

  “Don't trust him. I said it before, and it bears repeating. Do. Not. Trust. Him.”

  “Acknowledged, sir, but he knows his stuff. He blew every sim run out of the water. Cleared record times on his first try, then beat those. Repeatedly.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Halstead asked.

  “No, sir, looks familiar.”

  “Striker.”

  Clausen's face dropped slack for a moment. He recovered quickly, and asked, disbelieving, “The Striker? The genejob?”

  “The same. Bred and tweaked to be the ultimate killer. Smarter, faster, stronger, run through with enough cyberware to build a dozen
killbots.”

  “He's dead, sir. Been dead for a decade!”

  “I'm well aware. I do believe I shot him.” Halstead said, with a snort. He added, “Apparently, death doesn't stick too well on the devil.”

  “Why are we working with him?”

  “Because, the Agency feels obliged to get involved in grudge matches between ex-Faction operatives, and likes using us for a bludgeon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Can't say any more, son. Wish I could. But get the hell out of this mess!”

  “Sir, I won't. I can't. If this guy’s playing us-”

  “There will be blood. There will be in fire and hell. No one will walk away clean. I've been here before. I know this road. I know the players involved. Just walk away. Go, find Miss Deacon, tell her you were wrong, enjoy your free college. Take a payout, and make a good life.”

  “Sir, you wouldn't. Why should I?”

  Halstead leaned heavily on his desk. “Because I've done terrible things, Sergeant. Things that stain a man. You think I'm some saint? Everyone does. But at night, I wake up sweating, panicked. I can't eat grilled meat because of the smell. I can't look at mirrors. That book? That damned book? That wasn't guidance, that was catharsis. I had to purge myself. Articulate what I should have been!”

  “Sir, you're hardly- you have a family, you’re respected-”

  “Because they don't know what we did when the lights went out. Because I've married a far greater woman than any man has a right to. I was lucky. That's it. Most of us never came back from the edge, never looked and saw what we were becoming- we crossed so many lines, son, to save this State. And now it’s all for nothing. We're going right back into the brink, and I will not let stand by while good men burn for it!”

  Clausen sat there, silent.

  “News to you, I assume? Oh, we took the Path down clean. They blew themselves to pieces. But the Faction? Oh no, they hid in the shadows and made sport of us. Strike and fade, strike and fade. You remember the fear? The terror? Do you remember how we could never lock them, never pin their supplies, never destroy them? They were shadows, Brian, just shadows that formed where we didn't look.”