“Sir, we took them out. My first deployment was a police action-”
“Those were ancillary The heart of that organization needed to be cut out, the brain severed. But they hid too well in the halls of power. They were rooted too deeply in society to be cleanly excised. There was a task force, one very secret, very dark, that was responsible for winning that war.”
“Sigma?”
“No. Let's call it 'Black Knife'. That's close enough not to violate any of the imprinted rules. That's right, imprinted. Every one of us, by degrees. Only a few of us remember anything. It was an Agency job, just like this. It contracted through ASOC, just like this. And we all sold ourselves cheap.
“There was a man I knew. A good friend, the smartest man in any room, and damned loyal. We worked together. We were good at it. At first, we won. We broke all the rules, played dirty pool, but we were winning. And then the Faction got personal. They started targeting the families. They penetrated civ gov. They penetrated the military. They could get to anyone.
“They would find your loved ones, take them, torture them, kill them, and send you the proof as a message. People started to break. 'Not me', they'd say, 'I have a family!' Which is what the Faction wanted. It was efficient, in a horrible way. The Faction knew who we were, and who we loved. Everyone we knew was at risk. I was lucky, young, unattached, the perfect man for the job.
“But my friend, he was a family man. He loved them very dearly, and he, being so very smart and loyal, knew he couldn't walk away. He couldn't lock them up safely, not with the leaks. So he came up with his own solution. He told them he hated them. He told them to go. But they knew better, knew he was trying to protect them. So he got ahold of an imprinter, and took them in for a 'check up'. He knocked them out, took them to that machine, and gave them memories that they hated him, and then drank himself into a stupor.
“When he came out of his fugue, sobered up, he wasn't a man anymore. He cut out everything that made him human. Piece by piece, he removed every flaw and weakness, till only the State remained.”
“What happened?”
“He lived. His family lived. The Faction died. That man won. Shocked even the Faction with how far he'd go. When the smoke cleared, he went back to his family, to purge the imprints, but they'd moved on. They were happy. And he knew he wasn’t the man they’d loved. So, he walked away, faded into shadows. He's still out there, half-living, moving from moment to moment. Just a shell.”
“That's... awful.”
“That's what we had to do, to win. I nearly ended up in the same hell. If Teresa hadn't pulled me back, God knows what I'd be today. Some of the guys involved, they went deeper...” Halstead leveled his eyes to meet Clausen's. “Understand, when I say, 'walk away', I speak from experience. The State will use you until you're dry, and this mission will break you. This is a war between bad and worse, and we're just the tool.”
Clausen pondered for a moment, then replied. “Sir, I think I understand.”
“Good, I'll file-”
“But I'm not leaving. If I don't go, someone else’ll have to. This is who I am, and I will stand and fight, whenever and wherever these bastards threaten.”
For long moment, there was silence, but for the groaning rumble of Kessinwey.
Halstead sighed heavily, and then nodded. He said, “I understand. You're free to go.”
“Thank you, sir. I need to get back to the simulator. We can get our times tighter.”
“You’re too damn stubborn, Sergeant.”
“I know, sir. But it's what we are.” Clausen said.
After the younger man departed, Halstead returned to his mottled old chair. He leaned back in it, heard it groan, felt the oil press up, between the seams. In disgust, he glanced to his tablet, to the dull blue glow of a hundred awful pages. That’s the problem with that type. Too damn stubborn.
He stayed and worked, long into the night.
#
From the heights of the skyport tower, the city spread like scattered diamonds.
Red sunlight, dim across the horizon, scattered down jeweled corridors and shadowed rivers. The hills faded, against the dying light, until only the streams of silver and red ran through their peaks. Closer, above the sparkling towers and shining glass, the gray-black spokes of the masts reached for the horizon. Along those masts, skycars rested on lily-pad platforms, while great airships hung, impossibly still, upon the the docking spires, riding clouds of thunder and light.
Halstead stood, mere centimeters from the transplas, close enough to see it shudder and shake with each buffet of wind. Close enough to watch the rain form, and fall. He felt the tower tremble, as one of the great ships peeled away, with no more violence than a lifting cloud. He watched, at the ship drifted through the web of towers, spokes, and spires, until, upon it’s chariot of light, it pushed into the distant clouds, and vanished.
He glanced aside, towards his destination.
There, the Plymouth waited, cloaked in a halo of twilight.
It stood, serene, against the towers, above the city. The massive pearlescent hull bathed in the brass glow from the hilltops, crowned with the glitter of its white-lit towers. Beside it, the swept outriggers glinted, one in day, one in shadow, as they held in the storm below. Peace, above. Rage, below. The airship hung, unmoving, upon the tumult, a jewel in the sky.
A gilded prison.
Behind those gleaming lights, behind that graceful hull, and inside those shining towers, every man and woman was a captive of Pyotr Sakharov. And his paymaster.
Halstead wanted to turn away. He would have liked to have run to the counter, at the mouth of the docking spire, and screamed, to every poor fool in this room: ‘turn back!’. But he couldn’t. The trap had not yet sprung. Every businessman, every janitor, every vacationer seated in these blue-and-gold eggshell chairs was collateral. They snacked on sweet rolls, and sipped coffee. A mother straightened her daughter’s schoolwork. A father turned away from his family, to take one last business call.
I could warn them.
Halstead forced himself to stay silent. He swallowed back bile. He watched the last of the crimson sunlight retreat, through the glass canyons below. He waited. He focused. He was professional.
“Impressive, is it not?” Berenson asked.
His charge waited at his side, similarly dressed in a casual suit. Just two businessmen - senior and junior partners - out to meet some clients. Berenson grinned - like a shark, all teeth - as he watched the sunlight fade. His steel gray eyes never turned away from the running lights on the Plymouth.
Halstead replied, “You mean, horrifying.”
“Exactly.” Berenson agreed. “The power in that ship could bring light and clean water to every citizen in this Hub, for a year, and they use it to fly a suburb.”
Halstead didn’t reply. He wanted to. He wanted to argue that, no matter their faults, these people didn’t deserve Pyotr Sakharov. They didn’t deserve Striker. He wanted, but he did not indulge. He stayed focused. Professional.
Berenson shrugged. Smirked. His cold eyes shifted, to Halstead’s reflection, and he said, “But here we are. You and I, together. You, because you must. I, because I choose to be.”
Halstead replied, “We all chose to be here.”
“Did you? Or do you think you chose, because you selected this inevitable option from a list that life gave you? You have been set upon a course, by a series of tumblers rolling since matter was, which has brought you here. Does a wealthy child choose to go to a good school? To succeed, and remain wealthy? Does a poor child choose to attend some failing academy, be pushed through, and find themselves on makework and the dole? We are, every one of us, a product of biology, history, and chance.”
Halstead suppressed a grimace. Four hours in groundcar with Berenson was bad enough. The man never shut up, but kept commenting on every action, every sight, as if he had some deeper insight. All of it, terrible. Halstead had had just about enough. He replied, “… and my h
istory leads me to choose to take this mission. Some of us care about more than your games.”
At that, Berenson’s smirk became a smile. The man leaned, against the transplas, his hands pressed against the rain-slick cold, his eyes closed in an approximation of reverie. He asked, without looking, “You ever look at the color of the cars below? Try and guess which personalities chose them?”
“No.”
“You should.” Berenson replied. “It is a good exercise. People are simple, when viewed on a macro scale.”
Halstead didn’t reply. There was no point indulging.
“You do want to listen to me.” Berenson said.
Halstead said nothing.
“You hate me. Most do. I understand. I have not made myself lovable.”
“You’re a butcher.”
Berenson nodded, in agreement. He said, “But you do not hate me for the usual causes.”
“Oh?”
“Most hate me because of what I have done. What I am.”
Halstead nodded, in agreement.
“But you? You hate me because, when you wake up, in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, and you look to the mirror… you see me.”
“Bullshit.” Halstead said. He gave the curse no fire, no fury. It was simple fact.
“Oh, not me, the person. Me, the idea. The argument. You watch the news. You see the data. You fought for something. Believed in something. Now, you look around, and ask, ‘was this for nothing?’ Were you used? Lied to? Did you build an empire, while fighting for a republic? You look at these people,” Berenson flicked his eyes, back, towards the unwitting passengers, lined up at the boarding gates, “and you want to help them. You cannot help it. You are what society would call, a ‘good’ person. You care about the right things. The right people. But then you see this ship, this… abomination… flying here, and you cannot help but wonder if this violence was bound to be. You wake up, with the smell of fire and the taste of blood, and you ask, ‘can this world be saved? Should it be?’ You ask the darkness, Colonel, and you hear my voice in response. Do you want me to tell you the answer?”
Another man might have argued. Might have protested. Halstead simply glanced over, and, in measured tones, stated, “No.”
Berenson chuckled, to his own joke, and stared back out the window. After a moment, he said, “Colonel, I have been thinking-”
“And talking.”
“-and I think you should listen to me.”
“I have been. Believe me, I wish I was anywhere else.”
Another smirk, mixed with a note of overacted pain. Berenson said, “You may have heard me, but I doubt you listened. You should.”
“So I can get another round of nihilism? Thanks, but no thanks.”
“A warning, Colonel. I have been studying our opponent, with every moment we have, before we step into his lair. I have a few guesses as to the nature of Tiberius’s twists and traps, but little clue on how loose Sakharov’s leash might be. I know that this will not end prettily. You would do well to heed my warnings, no matter how much you may despise me. It is your nature that brought you here - you claim choice, I claim consequence, but nature, nonetheless. That very nature will slow you upon the trigger should this end badly.”
“I’ll make the call if it happens.” Halstead said. He wouldn’t be baited.
“You need to know, now. You need to move by instinct, when the hinge moment arrives, or your hesitation will kill many more.”
Yes, please. Tell me how to do my job. Halstead watched the sun settle, one final flash over the bow of the Airship. He knew exactly the stakes. He knew precisely to what call Berenson alluded. It’s why he was here. Why he’d chosen to take one last ride: so that he could have his hand on the switch, if that moment came. So no one else would have to stare down that horror.
He glanced up, into the reflection of the mirror. A young man adjusted goggles over his eyes, flexed his fingers in a dataglove. A couple of old women chatted in the corner, laughing.
The airship waited.
Halstead said, “You do your part. We’ll do ours.”
“I do love clockwork.”
Halstead watched the man, as he stared, unblinking, into the last of the sunset. He tried to push away traitorous thoughts. Even talking to Berenson was dangerous. Striker had murdered men with a word - a precisely measured psychological payload that ended lives. One chink in your emotional armor, and the beast would have you. Halstead asked, “I have a question. I want the truth.”
“I never lie.” Berenson answered.
“That could be a lie.” Halstead countered.
“Very true.” The genejob allowed. “But then, we enter a philosophical death-spiral. Once you doubt everything, only your own thoughts remain. Very smart men failed to surpass that test. They resorted to metaphysical compromises, and I, for one, am unwilling to stoop into Cartesian circles. So, accept my answer, or, do not. The option is yours, but not the choice.”
“What’s your angle?”
Berenson giggled. He asked, “Me? Angle? Why would think that?”
Halstead glowered.
Berenson sobered, and said, “I am not your enemy, Colonel. I have not been your foe for a very long time.”
“You’re Striker.” Halstead whispered. You’re the Faction’s top-tier psychopath.
“I was Striker.” Berenson replied. His smile was gone. He said, “I got downsized. Blown up. Shot. Left for dead. Striker is a role. I am… myself. Different goals. Different paradigms.”
“You unleashed terror-”
“I did as I was made to do. I was a child. One with a very close familiarity with a neural imprinter. I believed as I should. Acted as I should. I was Striker. Now, I am a freed man. I what I choose, and I am choosing to help you.”
“Why?”
“Why do many questions?” Berenson countered. “It is the eleventh hour. The mission is at hand. Should you not be soldiering?”
“Because it’s my choice to be on this mission. And I want answers. What’s your angle?”
Berenson glanced at him. Those cold eyes warmed, just for a moment, with, perhaps, a hint of respect. He whispered, “My brother has gone mad. You left me for dead. He was not given that mercy. He has survived. He has rebuilt. He is better than me, now, in every sense of the word. Tiberius is smarter, faster, stronger. He has the resources of his reborn Faction behind him. The Agency is paralyzed. The military is blind. He is poised to strike, decisively, and he has lost his mind.
“The game board is his, and he has descended into ruin. So, I tell you, I am here to help. Help the Authority. Help stop him. My root cause is irrelevant. Perhaps it is altruism. Perhaps professional disagreement. Maybe even familial spite. It is what it is. What matters is that I have turned myself over to the tender mercies of your State. I let them put trackers in my body. I let them poke and prod me. I let them treat me as a laboratory thing. All so we could be here, and end this, once and for all.
“The true question, then, returns: are you prepared? Once I step onto that ship, Tiberius will spring his trap, and there will be war.”
Halstead responded, coolly, “The team is ready.”
“Then we go forward. Eyes wide. Screaming against the night.” Berenson’s smirk returned. He said, “Think of it this way, Colonel. Win or lose, you will get to watch one of the brothers Berenson die.”
Beyond the transplas, the lights of the city were all that remained. Against that night sky, the airship loomed, and blotted out the stars.
It was time to dance with the devil.
Interlude
Daniel Crawford drummed along with the music, tapping his steering wheel almost-in-time, while he watched the beach roll past his window. He’d disabled the autonav on his truck. Unlike most new cars, this one was a bolt-on unit. The truck itself was old surplus, boxy, ugly, and capable of rolling over just about terrain. He’d got it cheap, from an old codger who couldn’t deal with the “seat padding is all the shock absorber y
ou need” philosophy any longer. A fresh coat of paint, some new lights, and some refurb tires, and he could hit the road, once more.
He hummed. He drummed. He bobbed his head with the beat. The windows were down, and the wind off the water was glorious. This road used to be a closed highway, only for registered vehicles, but the local patrol had bigger fish to fry. That meant quite roads, away from the city. That meant putting some tunes on loop, burying the accelerator in the floorboard, and driving to forget.
Out here, Daniel was his own man. Out here, with the rumble of the surf, the flash of the sand, he was in control. He could pretend the trauma ward wasn’t packed with a rising tide of bodies. He could ignore the overdoses, the gunshot wounds, the burn victims. He could pretend that everyone hadn’t suddenly gone rabid. He could pretend that his thoughts were his own, and the man wasn't pissing down his throat every step of the day, with sensors and cameras and tests.
Out here, he just was. This was the only scenic road in three counties, but right now, it was his. His songs on the radio, with the PSA’s turned right the fuck off. His drink in the center console. His thoughts in his head.
He reached back, leaned into the back seat, to fetch a stick of gum from his jacket. That was the one good part about his job: the jacket. He spent his nights shoving gauze into bleeding junkies, and trying to detox assholes who wanted to fight for their high, but at least chicks dug the jacket.
He turned, to get a look at where he was digging, took his eyes off the road, for just a moment.
That's when the sky caught fire.
It came as a flash, blinding white, even at noon, from over the gulf. It flashed over the blue waters, over the white sands, through the dangling palms. Crawford slammed on the brakes. He looked up, and the sky begin to fall.
High over the cerulean waves, the clouds boiled from white to black. The thunderheads drew down as curtain, filled with violet thunder and red lightning. A streak, a meteor, burst from the storm, pure white light streaking towards the water-
It was a city. A flying city.
The winds carved over the waters. The waves pressed against the shore. The talcum-powder sands swirled, and washed over the roads. The trees bent.
The Sword Page 27