The city fell.
It burned, as it pierced the skies. Great rings, bursts of misty white, raced from its passing. It twisted, licked by flames. It rolled, like a bursting pinecone. Walls of black flecks fell to the seas. Flames ripped through the sides. The top peeled away, like dead skin. It’s white trail turned oily black.
Another flash.
The left outrigger was gone. Black dust fell, flaming and frozen chunks of metal gently lofting through the sky. Daniel saw the shockwave coming. He saw the misty rings expand. He saw the waves flatten. He saw the wall, as it pushed along the shore-
He saw the trees bend.
He saw the leaves strip bare. He saw them burn.
He saw the trunks shatter.
He saw the sand, ripped out from the earth.
Oh, shit.
The surf and sand rose, as the swimmers tried to run-
The air turned golden brown and sea green-
The hammer slammed against him.
Thunder. Darkness, thick and wet, crashed over the truck. The glass turned pitch black. Spiderwebs burst on every surface. The thunder did not stop. There was a roar, so powerful he felt, more than heard. It shook, inside him, threatened to crush his lungs inside his chest. There was a vice on his head, his ears popped, with a pain like hot needles-
The truck rolled.
The world flipped onto its side. There was pain, thunder, and darkness.
Then silence.
Daniel opened his eyes. He tried to focus. He had to get free. He climbed, over his console, under the black-caked windows, until he reached the passenger door. He pushed, forced it against the frame. It fought him, should have groaned, but produced no noise.
He tore it open, and burst into the open air.
The sky was still blue. The light was blinding.
There was no sound. You’re deaf, you idiot. He turned, towards the beach. Past the sand-strewn road, past the broken stumps of trees, past the drowned beach, the city was nearly upon him.
It raced towards the water, impossibly huge and incredibly close. He could see the downtown streets, on its surface. He could see its shattered towers. He could see the bodies, as they stripped free into the windstream, and tumbled, aflame, into the lightning-wracked air.
He stared, unthinking, as the airship bucked. The speared leviathan bore down upon him, its death roars shaking the world to its foundation.
The heat was on him. The ocean churned, as it pulled the plunging skyscrapers into its depths. The depths raged, as falling radiators boiled columns to the watery floor.
The waters fled the falling star.
As cold and dark as the light was hot, the city-ship burst. Like a crushed egg, the hull cracked, and vomited up its yolk. Blue-black sprays licked from stern to bow, crawled up the winds to suck away the flames-
The waves froze, in their silent flight.
The city struck the bay.
The ocean rose up, shattered its frozen cradle. The waters rose, filled with the burnt and blazing dead. It came as a steamroller, stuffed full with the remains of a city, a crushing, rolling wall that bore down on the beach.
Bore down on him.
Daniel dropped into his truck. He pulled the door down, curled up, and prayed-
The world lost meaning.
A dozen freight trains crashed over him. He tumbled. The truck tumbled. It rolled and jumped and crumpled and folded-
Every safety bag fired.
The walls came in, a crush of fabric, air, and Safe-T-Gel.
He rolled.
And rolled.
And rolled.
There was a roar, that he felt and could not hear.
There was pain, only pain, and violent thrashing.
There was nothing.
He felt the water on his skin. It fell, cold, on his arm, and ran to his nose.
He was upside down.
He opened his eyes. He hung, from the remains of the Safe-T-Gel. The shattered cabin stank of melted plastic and stale air. His arm was pinned in the webbing. His hair hung towards the roof, where the pooled water gathered broken bits of transplas.
There was a shift. A strain.
The last of the Safe-T-Gel snapped. He crashed to the ceiling.
The world spun. He wanted to vomit. He hurt, deep, in his chest.
The breeze carried the stench of burnt metal, and storm-tossed sea. Daniel was suddenly very awoke to where he was. He reached out, grabbed at the broken frame of his window, into the sunlight. The invisible knife in his chest twisted. He pulled himself from the wreck.
The trees were burning. Pieces of city were strewn through the sands. A broken tower speared the skies, and connected them to the seas. The depths churned and smoldered. Sparks leapt from murk to mire, and burst from the surface with crackling fury. The surf raged, gray, with rainbow streaks.
From the center of the bay, the massive engine jutted, some deific dart, plunged into the heart of the world. Stream boiled about it, curled around its red-glowing spines. Around it, there were bodies. So many bodies.
Daniel staggered to his feet. He coughed. It hurt.
He stumbled towards the gutted beach, towards the burnt and scattered grasses. He pushed through the hurled sands and riven earth, through the sudden lakes and scattered fires.
A shuttle rushed past, the wind ripped at him. His vision was a tunnel. He pressed on, through the carnage, through the melted plastics and chunks of meat, past the bulkheads hurled like spears into the dunes. There, between the waves of burst and burnt fish along the shore, the oil turned the waters to a black mirror.
Sirens flashed, on the edges of the bay, down the long run of the seaside road.
Daniel found the first of the not-yet-dead. The man was burnt, his skin emulsified from the hips down, leaving only charred and splintered bone below. His chest was pierced, with chunks of ceramic speckled through his- armor?
The victim had gunshot wounds. Some part of his training carried through, as every other thought froze in mindless horror.
Crawford knelt, ignored the burn in his chest. This man was dead. His hands moved, despite his thoughts, carried out rules he couldn’t remember. The dead man opened his ruined eyes, and sputtered, through the blood, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We tried…”
The bodies were just starting to wash ashore.
Iteration 0100
The coffee trembled in Michael Raschel’s hand. The vertol shook, as it pierced the clouds, made the empty retention hooks rattle on the walls. Raschel leaned forward, to stop his head from smacking against the curve of the airframe. This descent was never easy, and the ink-black coffee in his mug was barely sloshing. That was a credit to the pilot.
Raschel forced himself to lie back, as though the constant thrum-hammer of the engines was nothing more than a pleasant hum, and he drank deep from his gold-on-white Agency cup. He took in the drink. Held it in his mouth, until it burned. He let the scent breathe. Let the warmth spread through his throat and chest. Most people just focused on the taste. They forgot about the whole body of the experience. They missed the details. They were wrong.
It was the little things that mattered. The things you could control. Like keeping a pilot on retainer, who could keep a vertol flight smooth enough to enjoy a proper cup of coffee. These hops were the best part of his day. Like a good trip to the head, it was the only time he could reliably expect privacy. Moreover, it was an excuse, if just for moment, to actually do nothing, and let his thoughts be as they were.
He took another drink. There was nothing to him in that moment. Just bitter coffee, gentle warmth, and the distant vibration of the engines.
Then came the chime. The traitorous ‘bing’ from the intercom. The sudden sensation of stopping. With practiced ease, Raschel rolled with the deceleration, tilted his cup. Not a drop wasted. He pulled the cup back, took one more sip.
The heavy thunk of the ramp lock sounded, over his head. He placed his mug on the seat beside him, and rose to his feet. Th
e coffee would have to wait. He was back on the State’s time.
He straightened his tie, checked his pin. He straightened the Eagle and Starburst on his collar. He pulled his dataglasses tight, flicked a gloved hand, tested the sync. He made sure he showed just the right width of cuff below his suit. First impressions were everything.
It was game time.
Raschel cleared the boarding ramp before the hydraulics had settled. His boot hit concrete before the welcome retinue could salute. They scrambled, snapped to attention in a sordid mess. The officer, mortified, half-stepped back, and tried to smile.
Raschel noted their lapse. He flashed the ghost of a sneer, a furrow of brow behind his impenetrable glasses. He made sure they saw him take note. He’d spent a long time, perfecting this routine. It was, after all, the little things, which got him through.
The officer greeted him, “Chief Raschel, an honor, sir!”
Raschel said, “And a duty, Captain. Take me to him.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer replied. He dropped his salute, and spun. His guards fell out to follow. As a pack, they pushed across the tarmac. The officer asked, “Were you briefed, sir?”
Raschel tossed the man a weary, disappointed glance. He said, “No, Captain. I work in intelligence because I like the suit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was briefed.” Raschel clarified. “But let’s hear your version. I like your voice.” And I like the gritty details I get, when you’re off balance.
“Yes, sir. The prisoner surrendered himself at the gate at oh-six-hundred. Security checked him for weapons and contraband, neither of which he possessed. He produced no identicard, but declared himself without questioning. He was transfered to a higher security booth in the MP station, immediately.”
The Captain continued as they walked, “After confirmation of identity, as well as the discovery of numerous illegal cyber and wetware modifications in the prisoner, he was moved to the lockdown. This was completed by oh-six-twenty. The prisoner possessed a data card, as transmitted. The physical copy is down in materials storage.
“The prisoner has been physically compliant, but non-responsive, and requests to speak only with Sub-Director Gallan or the Director, himself.” The Captain paused for a moment. “Sir, if I may?”
“Of course.”
“The Commander is very eager to begin interrogation, and requests permission to bring in personnel-”
“Negative, Captain. This is now an Agency matter. Everyone on this base is now operating under the Hekate Doctrine. If any of you have any objections, my men will see you to the nearest medical station for a memdope and imprint.”
“No objections, sir.”
“Good. Now, let's see the prisoner.”
“Sir, be advised, we didn't want to medicate before interrogation.”
“He's restrained?”
“Yes, sir, cuffed hands and feet. Bolted to the chair, bolted to the floor. Under three-sixty surveillance.”
“Then keep guards outside, and if anything goes wrong, come in shooting. Until that happens, I will be alone with the prisoner. My men will operate the observation room, and retain all footage.”
“Yes, sir.”
The reached the sealed door. The Captain swiped his identicard, and presented an ocular scan. The door clicked. Raschel stepped, alone, into the airlock. Behind him, the door shut and cycled. The inner door irised open.
The room was perfectly cubed, and utterly spartan. A single table in the center. There were two chairs, one loose, and the other bolted to the concrete. In the bolted chair, a young man sat, draped in chains. The man's hair was short, combed back. His eyes were a flat blue-gray, and his features imperial. When Raschel entered, the young man raised his head, and smiled, childlike. The man greeted, “Chief, I have been expecting you!”
“You requested the Director.” Raschel replied, as he seated himself.
“Or Gallan. But we both know, they are too important to send. So they sent you! Really, I wanted to talk to you anyway, but, if I had asked for you, I would have gotten one of your lackeys. So, I summoned a bigger fish, and here you are!”
“Here I am.” Raschel agreed.
There was a moment of silence. The prisoner never lost his smile. He said, “I would steeple my fingers together, or something like that, but-” he pulled his arms against the chains, mimicked a shrug. “Well, you know.”
“What do you want?”
“Me? Why would I want anything? I have two hots and a cot, right here!”
“It’s better than you deserve. It’s better than you'll get, unless you talk. There's a firing squad waiting.” Raschel noted.
“That is no way to treat a guest.”
“You're a terrorist. Scum.”
“Partially correct. I engaged in terrorism, yes, but you engage in state terror, so that point is a wash, Mister Kettle. And scum? Who are you to judge? I am no less than any man. No greater, either. I am. As we all are. Simple as that.”
Raschel stood. This was a waste of time. He stepped towards the door.
The prisoner burst out, “Wait! Wait! Sorry! We got off on the wrong foot! My name is Berenson. Antonius Berenson.”
Raschel continued to walk.
“You want to stay, Chief!” The prisoner insisted.
Raschel reached for the intercom.
“I have information of vital use to the Authority. You are under direct threat.”
Raschel stopped. He asked, “Are you going to share? Because if you're just going to play games, we both have better things to do.”
“No, I came here to talk. I have one question, however. Has there been any attempt on my life?”
Raschel sat back down. He asked, “Would it matter?”
“No. But I just want to know if he has taken his shot. Security here is so lax I could drive a bus through it. You know, I think I did that, once. Ten years ago.”
“There was an attempt.” Raschel confirmed. He pulled out a cigarette tube from his breast pocket. With a quick tap, he pushed the rolled paper into his hand. A flick of the lighter, and it caught. He took a slow draw, savored the texture. Only once he was satisfied, did he speak. He said, “The attack was stopped cold.”
“Good. I just had to know if Tiberius was still on the ball.”
“If you think this makes me trust you, you're a fool.”
“No, no, that would be silly. I could easily have faked an attempt on my own life to gain your confidence. That is amateur hour, and we both know it. Now, if the attempts were continuous, that might gain more credence, but I doubt he will do that, without a good reason. Of course, you could drop all security, and just leave me somewhere, and then he will come kill me, which would prove my point. But, I would be dead. And you would not let me go so easily, so... eh, the point is purely academic.” Berenson's ramble ended in another faux-shrug, as if all this were nothing more than a mild diversion. He was chained to the floor. Chained to the table. He had to know the firing squad was waiting. All this, and the man refused to offer anything more in his own defense than mild amusement. Raschel had to admit some professional admiration. That admiration would not be enough to spare this monster’s life, if he didn’t deliver, and quick.
“Why should I trust you?” Raschel asked.
“Because I gave you those documents? Proof of Tiberius's movement? His assets? His people? You could use those to cripple him!”
“Easily faked, with a well-played false defector ploy.”
“True, true. Then how about, ‘because you have no choice’?” Berenson asked. His demeanor shifted. All joviality was forgotten. Berenson leaned against his chains, a bound predator scenting prey.
“Is that a threat, Mister Berenson?” Raschel asked.
“No, absolutely not. Have you reviewed them? Have you verified them?”
Raschel did not reply.
“I know you have. That’s why you’re here. We both know what that data means. He has you under the sword of Damocles. He
is hanging a match by the thread. If you do no not act on this, your State will be ashes within the year. If you kill me, you gain some satisfaction, but you will lose. I am the only man who can read his moves, who can counter him. It is that simple. This threat is too dire. The choice is not a choice at all, Chief. You can risk trusting me, or guarantee that you will lose everything.”
“What makes you so certain?” Raschel asked, trying very hard to remain aloof. He'd seen the data all right. It was damning, but it was better to not let a man like this know what you were thinking.
“Durandal.” Berenson said. There was no inflection on the word, as if the sound itself had meaning greater than he could impart. To Raschel, it meant nothing.
“An ancient story? That's the threat?” He’d read pre-Collapse literature. Once, he’d meant to study it. He could picture the words, nearly popping off the page: Durandal, of the Carolingian cycle: the sword of Roland, handed down to Charlemagne by an angel, forged from the blood, hair, and bones of saints and the raiment of the mother of God, worked by a legendary smith. The enduring blade, which let one man fight thousands, which carved the land asunder, lost to time rather than be wielded by the impure. He took another puff from his cigarette, let old university memories filter through his thoughts. Someone got oftly symbolic with their code name. Nothing good ever comes from that. He never betrayed the tightness in his gut.
“It is not a sword, Chief. It is a project, and a very old one. Go, look it up.”
“It doesn't exist.” Raschel replied, even as he scanned the database on his glasses’ HUD.
“Incorrect. It exists, and you have not heard of it. You have the third highest clearance in the Authority, and you have never heard of it. That could mean, that it is fiction. Or, it could mean something very troubling, indeed. I staked my life on that question. You should give me the courtesy of a question. Go to the Director, and ask him what it is. If I am wrong, kill me. But I assure you, Durandal is very real, and Tiberius has it.”
“And what is it?” Raschel asked. “Theoretically.”
“Strand weaponry. Weaponized Bergman drives that can sterilize a continent.”
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