The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “Sir, we should blast that Airship out of the sky.” Raschel said. It was harsh, it was callous. The Plymouth carried a complement of twelve hundred civilians, crew and passengers alike. He was consigning them to death, but he'd long ago learned to compartmentalize the part of his mind that screamed against that decision.

  “He'll have a contingency.” Draco said. “That might trigger the n-matter bomb, and a coinciding release of information. This isn't about survival of our State, this is about the survival of the species. We'll need to send someone aboard, to make sure his device is neutralized.”

  “And the rest of the mess? If he leaks the data?” Raschel asked.

  “We'll need to lock down the cities. We cannot afford anarchy, not this close to colonization. To come this far from the Collapse, to reach the edge of the stars and die, would be too great a tragedy. History may judge us harshly, but it must be allowed to judge.”

  “And the Path, sir? Perhaps we should open talks with them.”

  “Yes. I like that. We can empower the moderates, and perhaps have someone to barter with, should this fail. As much as I hate giving them any leverage, we have to minimize the maximum potentials of loss.” Draco said. He words were distant. His fingers ticked, as if he was making moves on a game-board only he could see.

  “And what about Berenson, sir? He's been useful, but I do not trust him. He’s a risk.”

  “He's definitely playing an angle, but that angle may be our only chance. Allow him some freedom, but keep him leashed. We use him, and then we discard him. I'm going to authorize total sanction and unlimited budget. Carte blanche. Do what you have to do to keep this contained.”

  “Yes, sir.” Raschel said.

  Absently, he touched the globe and starburst on his collar. It was amazingly heavy, some days.

  #

  The best part about Authority architecture was that it was predictable. Some egghead in central planning set a specification for a door-frame, and every door of that type would match the mold. Sometimes, this reached hilarious excess, such as when the room was too small for the door, but they bolted it on, anyway. To some, it may have seemed slavishly doctrinal, but to Raschel, it showed some fucking standards. Door thirteen-seventy-four-alpha should always be interchangeable with door thirteen-seventy-four-bravo. It gave the world some consistency.

  Consistency, reliability, predictability, those were in short supply. Raschel stood outside the cell door - type fourteen-fourteen-delta - and girded himself for battle. Beyond this door was a vicious opponent, given to infernal cleverness and dangerous manipulation, capable of any manner of violence. That kind of unpredictable threat made doors like this - flat, metal, armored, and proofed - all the more valuable. It was an anchor.

  One last breath, and Raschel opened the heavy door. The moment it cracked, he forced his way through the gap, and spat out a greeting before Berenson could speak. Initiative mattered, even in verbal combat. Raschel said, “Good morning! Enjoying your stay?”

  Berenson wasn’t chained. Not anymore. His intel had checked out. He’d been cooperative. His room showed as much. He had a foam mattress and pillow, and a couple of flatbooks - nothing with a connection. Berenson had a shower, control over his own lights, and a simple clock. The door still locked on the outside, of course.

  Berenson lay on the floor, caught in the middle of a crunch exercise. He popped up, without effort, and replied, “Well, Chief, it is not quite five star, but the beatings are rare, and the meals are almost edible.” He slipped into a sly grin, and said, “It took you long enough. I was concerned you forgot about me.”

  “We've made a decision on your situation.” Raschel said.

  The door closed behind him, and they were alone.

  Berenson said, “Well, that is a relief. It must have been a tough choice. Lots of late nights, flying your desk around…”

  Raschel didn’t show his scowl. He couldn’t. That would be weakness. A predator like Berenson preyed on that kind of emotional signal. Every word the genejob said was a needle, a barb designed to slip under the skin of his opponent. You didn’t talk to Berenson. You dueled him. That was the only way to describe it. Every exchange was a sparring match, and you never knew the terms: touch, blood, or life itself.

  Raschel replied, calmly, “I don’t have much of a desk. Spend a lot of time in the mud, though.”

  “Well, Chief, you might not want to look, but some of it got on your soul.”

  Raschel said, “We don’t have time for this. Stay on topic.”

  Berenson shrugged.

  Point scored.

  They sat down, at the card table. Berenson asked, “You are onboard, then? The Authority wants to play ball?”

  “Conditionally. We validated your information, and it does appear correct.”

  “And it only took a couple months.”

  Raschel ignored him. He said, “With this process complete, we are prepared to move on the Airship. We'll need everything you know about Striker and Sakharov’s operations aboard.”

  “Information will not be enough. You need me, on the ground, to adapt to his moves.”

  “We anticipated that statement. We will need assurances-”

  “I swear to you, to God, to whatever you want me to swear by, that I am in this to stop Tiberius. I will assist you in saving your State, and I will not make a power play-”

  “Not good enough.” Raschel said.

  For a moment, there was dead air. He watched Berenson. Berenson watched him.

  Berenson asked, “You want real assurances? Trackers and a spinal charge?” There was something in his voice that stuck to Raschel - a sort of morbid humor. Berenson asked, “So you can blow my brainstem if I go astray?”

  “That would work.” Raschel said.

  Berenson considered, head tilted like a curious dog. After a moment, he said, “Trackers, fine. Stick them in me. But not a brain blaster. Tiberius will find the code, and then he will pop my dome before the fun starts. Game set, match.”

  “How about slow poison?” Raschel asked. “We can give you boosters to counter it.”

  “I'm immune.” Berenson said.

  “Not to a nanophage.”

  Berenson blinked twice.

  After a moment, he laughed, and said, “You have a real super-villain streak, you know that? You might be playing for the wrong team.” Berenson paused, leaned forward, and added, “I mean that, you know, professionally? I know some people who would have loved to work with yo-”

  Raschel slammed Berenson’s head into the table, so hard that it rang like a gong.

  The genejob recoiled. Blood poured from his nose and lips. His flesh crawled, white over red, and the cuts sealed, leaving sourceless crimson in their wake. Berenson laughed, and said, “No offense meant, Chief. Just admiration.” He smiled, as widely as he could manage, to show the red stains on his perfect teeth.

  Raschel answered with his own very best professional smile, and said, “None taken. Is the nanophage acceptable?”

  “Do it.” Berenson said.

  That was quick. Too quick? He’d expected hours of bartering, maybe days. A couple more bounces off the table. To accede that quickly implied a different thought process than his team had predicted. They needed to reevaluate. Reanalyze.

  Raschel didn’t let any of this show. He said, “Excellent. I’ll tell the doctors to prep.”

  Recalculation was in order, but, the nanophage should prove a sufficient leash. If any of the additional scenarios implied that Berenson had another angle, they’d just give him sharp yank.

  Berenson asked, “How long until the phage ends me?”

  “We'll put it on a six month timer. After that, it will activate and eat your insides, out. You play nice, we'll deactivate it.”

  “What if I need an extension? If this game takes longer to play?” Berenson asked.

  “That will be my discretion.” Raschel said. And mine alone.

  “Fine. Whatever it takes.”

 
Raschel asked, “You really want to take him down, don't you?”

  “I just agreed to let you kill me. Slowly. I would say my compliance speaks for itself.”

  Raschel gave him nod. He said, “Okay, then let’s talk plans. Game this out. We need to hit the Airship over open water, away from any cities-”

  “You looked.” Berenson said. His voice was low, gleeful. The corner of his mouth ticked up, and he said, “You had to know. You saw it. Durandal.” He invoked the name, like some primal deity.

  Raschel ignored him, and continued, “-so this means either a fast, direct strike, or a quiet insertion.”

  Berenson smirked, but replied, “Our best bet would be to blow it out of the sky, without warning.”

  “Too many civilians aboard. That’s not an option.”

  “You are being predictable, Chief. Tiberius will destroy you with that.” Berenson said. “But, of the options presented, I would use the slow approach. Special Forces types. Not meatheads, either. Asymmetrical units, the kind that can blend into a civilian population. They can strike from ambush.”

  “What about Airship security? We send a team in there, piecemeal, we have to know if they can move.”

  “The Airship is a gilded cage. Tiberius will not want his hostages to get restless and risk anything stupid. He will let them live happily. He even brings entertainment on board. The only real rules are: no one gets out, no one calls out, and no one goes below deck. The first two are easy. The ship is a flying pleasure palace. Rich people go there to escape, so… no surprise if they stay a while. Below decks, though, he has Sakharov to handle problems, and keep the civilians away from the drive systems. So long as your men avoid poking, they can lie in wait. Now, once I get on, he will spring his trap.”

  “So, you go on last. I'll find the appropriate unit-”

  “Halstead.” Berenson said. He snatched the name from the aether, as if by chance.

  “No.” Raschel snapped. He recovered his cool, and added, “He’s retiring. He won't be available.”

  “I want Colonel Halstead.” Berenson said. “Halstead was point man, when the Faction died. He did this once. Of anyone, he can do it, again. I want the best players on my side. I want to put the dream team back together, you know?”

  “No.” Raschel replied flatly.

  “Fine.” Berenson said, with a scowl. “I want his team, then. Let him retire, but that unit is the best shot we have.”

  “Done.”

  “We also need a network specialist.”

  “There are multiple EWOs in that team.”

  “No, they are too predictable. Too uniform. You train them all the same, Chief. Tiberius will have the security tailored to stop your men. You will have to go private sector, find the best of the best, there.”

  “We can't exactly just go posting signs, you do know that, right?” Raschel asked, mockingly.

  “Get creative.”

  Raschel thought for a moment, and then suggested, “What about a honey trap. We bait in the best, and snag the first one who beats it.”

  “I like it. I worry about time constraints, though. Custom code would take too long. You will have to re-purpose something. Something high security.” Berenson paused, lost in thought. After a moment, he said, “What about the EBS? The Emergency Broadcast System would sufficiently duplicate the level we need to crack.”

  “Just the code. No QE key. That should be do-able.”

  “So, that sets up the team, assets, and objective. There will need to be a fall back plan, in case of the worst.”

  “I thought you were the best?”

  “It is a tight race, Chief. Tiberius won half our games.”

  “If this goes south, we run it by the book. Wipe the slate clean, tie it off, and try again.” Raschel said. Everyone involved gets the stick.

  “There is a Path cleric. A Patriarch, named Oliveri, who is involved in numerous shady deals with weapons and mercenaries. He was trying to fund his own splinter group in the Conclave. He is already dead, but no one who matters, knows. I know where the body is, and where he kept his money.” Berenson offered.

  Raschel agreed, “Easy frame. We can put him on the Airship, at least digitally, tie the assault to a weapons deal gone bad. Keep Striker a million miles from the story.”

  “And Durandal?” Berenson prodded.

  Raschel did not reply. He stood, and said, “Medical will be here to implant the phage. We'll begin drawing up the mission in two days. Play this right, and you might just earn a pardon.” And pigs will suddenly discover flight.

  He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him. The standard-issue lock tumbled into place.

  In the hall beyond, the watch officer waited. The nervous officer asked, “Everything go well?”

  “Fantastic, Captain.” Raschel replied. He straightened his tie, checked his cuffs, and asked, “Is my flitter ready?”

  “Yes, sir. In a hurry?”

  “Of course. I have a party to get to. It wouldn’t be right to skip out on an old friend.”

  Iteration 0011

  Colonel William Halstead, ASOC, allegedly retired, glanced to the pale green discoloration on the far wall. Once, a clock had hung there. Sakharov must have had it removed, when he turned this office into his personal interrogation chamber. As prisons went, this room was quite adequate. The lights were stark, the walls barren. The only furniture was the faux-wood table, and two chairs. All the the bare necessities.

  Across the table, Pyotr Sakharov sat. Sakharov was broad, near burly, with his tight-trimmed beard emphasizing the sharp angles of his jaw. His black hair was shot through with gray, and his skin had grown pocked. Even his eyes showed the wear of ten years of deprivation, recessed into steel-gray pinholes in shadowed sockets.

  Now, those cold eyes focused on the knife. Sakharov held the weapon over the table, turned it, slowly. The blade flashed silver. The eagle on the pommel shone. Sakharov sighed, heavily.

  The mercenary glanced up, from the old weapon, and turned his sad eyes towards Halstead. He said, “It is good to have you aboard, Colonel. I feared you wouldn’t show.”

  Halstead tried to smile, but his swollen lip refused to bend. He said, “Sorry. I got stuck in traffic."

  He and Berenson had waited, until the last possible moment, before boarding the Airship. The anticipated trap had been aimed at Berenson, so they had planned to split up. Halstead would board first, slip aboard, and then Berenson would follow. Halstead would rally with his men, and they would seize the command deck.

  It had started, according to plan. Once aboard the Airship, Sakharov’s ‘security’ forces had placed all the new passengers into a secondary processing center, free from the Authority gate agents. The ship had set underway, and the passengers began to trickle through the second inspection. Even here, Sakharov had kept a light touch. This was odd, and many of the passengers grumbled, but the security was amiable, apologetic. ‘Just a precaution’, they’d said.

  Halstead had been just as gracious. He’d let a dozen passengers skip ahead of him, all while watching the window. He delayed for thirty minutes of flight. Twenty-four minutes since he’d seen land. He wanted the Airship as far out to sea as he could get it, before he tipped off its masters.

  With only a few passengers left in the holding area, Halstead had approached the exit. He’d handed over his forged identicard, and pretended to be nothing more than a bored, wealthy retiree. He hadn’t even been that worried. Hid identicard was the Agency’s finest work. It tied to a ‘real’ person in every government database. That person had forty years of professional contacts, all cross-referenced and verifiable. It was a piece of art.

  The gate clerk didn’t even look at it.

  The moment they saw his face, he was dragged away. One black bag, two beatings, and zipcuff later, and he was face-to-face with Pyotr Sakharov. That Sakharov came, in person, must have been a sort of compliment.

  “So, Colonel…” Sakharov said. He let his words t
rail off, as if he couldn’t quite put the delicious puzzle together. “What brings you to the Plymouth? They must have really improved those pension checks.”

  “It’s better than prison.” Halstead replied, pointedly.

  Sakharov waggled the knife point at Halstead’s nose. He bobbed it, not to threaten, but acknowledge: fair point.

  Halstead pulled away, out of reflex. He strained against his restraints, felt he zipcuffs pull on his wrists. It wasn’t just nerves that made him flinch, though. The movement was deliberate, to conceal as he worked his fingertips against his wrist. This capture hadn’t been the plan, but it hadn’t been unanticipated.

  Halstead felt something solid, under his skin. Solid, and sharp. He pressed his fingertips against flesh, felt skin tear. He clutched his hands, under the strain of the zipties, tried to catch the blood. Slowly, silently, he worked the ceramic razor from his forearm.

  Sakharov laughed. He pulled the knife back, twirled it. He asked, “Did you think I was going to stab you?”

  Halstead forced a smile. He pushed the pain away, as he pulled the razor free. He said, “It crossed my mind.”

  “Why would I stab you, old friend?”

  Sakharov slammed the knife against the table, for emphasis. The weapon trembled, shook. The light caught on the pommel, shone against the guard. The ASOC emblem stood, tarnished and proud, against the steel. Halstead knew that knife. He had one, just like it. They didn’t make them, anymore.

  Sakharov laughed, a bitter, coughing sound, nothing like the booming guffaw that Halstead remembered. The mercenary said, “You aren’t too far from me, you know that? None of you are. They sent us into hell, William. Then they wondered why we came back, burnt.” He paused, gave another shrug, and used the tip of the knife to point around the room, in a lazy circle. He said, “Something like this? It was bound to happen. Debts always get paid.”

  “Stand down, Pyotr. Stand down, and I’ll argue on your behalf. You need help. Serious, professional help.”