The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “Me? I’m just the honest one. You’re living a lie. You pretend to be sheep. You follow the flock. Consume and obey and pretend the moon doesn’t make you want to howl. Lie if you want. You can’t change what’s inside.”

  “There was - is - a line!”

  Halstead had the razor free. He pinched it, between his forefinger and thumb, and brought it against his zipcuffs. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the edge against the plastic.

  Sakharov said, “We crossed it, long ago. There is no going back. Why do you think so many of us ended alone, broken. How many in hospitals? Jails? Little huts in exclusion zones? Everyone runs. Tries to hide. They buckle down, pretend to push papers and be statesmen, but they can’t change what they are. You know it. I know. We were just a tool. To be used, and thrown away-”

  “And now you kill for cash.” Halstead said.

  Sakharov’s eyes flashed. He snapped, “I fight for a cause.”

  “You’re hiding behind hostages.”

  “Necessary actions. We stand against a corrupt state, that treats us like numbers. We stand against a government that chokes progress for stability. Do you how high many people they’ve killed? Do you know what they’re hiding?” Sakharov demanded. His knuckled were white, wrapped tightly about the dagger. He said, “No one on this ship was at risk. Not until you came aboard. I kept them safe. I kept them comfortable. They are no less free than outside, but my cage is honest!”

  Halstead shook his head. He used the motion to hide a flex of his arms, as he broke through the first strand of the zipcuffs. He caught it, with his ring finger and pinkie, and held it in his blood-stained palm.

  Sakharov watched him. The mercenary studied him, waited for some sign. As the moment passed, his face twisted into a scowl, and then a quivering rage. He howled, like a wounded dog. His hands slammed against the table. He shoved the knife-point, just below Halstead’s eye, and screamed, “You don’t know?! They didn’t tell you?!”

  “Know what?” Halstead asked.

  “Kosice! They burned the hole the in the sky. They murdered billions. Blamed it on the Path. They deserve death. I am no monster! I bring justice!”

  “Justice?” Halstead demanded. “By putting a thousand lives at risk?”

  “Sacrifices must be made. You knew that, once.”

  “Now who’s the murderer?”

  Sakharov howled. He twisted his hand, threw his body into the turn. The knife spun, and the pommel slammed into the side of Halstead’s face. It stuck, just under his left eye. Stars raced across his vision. The world swam. Pain drowned his senses.

  The agony blurred over words, over thoughts. Sakharov yelled. He lectured. He demanded. Halstead heard only the lances of pain that pierced his skull. He tried to sense his body, tried to make his left eye see. He blinked, through burning tears, and the world remained. He still had his eye.

  Sakharov ranted, “-never judge me! I had hoped you might listen.”

  Halstead fought through the agony. He snarled, “You work for Striker!”

  “So do you!” Sakharov cried out. The mercenary was nearly in tears, himself. He pleaded, “They're fighting a war, but it's just between them. What happens to us, is up to us. I would pull the Authority’s crimes to the light. They must be known. I deserve to die for my crimes, but so do they.” He paused, once more, and added, “So do you, Colonel. So do you.”

  “That’s for courts, Pyotr. Not for terrorists-”

  The pommel struck home, again. The ASOC sigil lead the way, shattered bone as it landed.

  The world swam. Again, there was pain.

  “-am a solider of my conscience!” Sakharov snapped. “You will not hear reason. You tie my hands! Your men will be rooted out. You teams will be broken. I know your methods. I know your book. Call off your attack, Colonel, or I will destroy you.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m just here on vacation.” Halstead said. Every word hurt, through his broken cheeks. Another strap broke. One more strap, and his hands were free.

  Sakharov scowled. He leaned back, stroked his trimmed beard. “We are headed for shore. This will end poorly. Spare these civilians the horror. Abort.”

  The last zipcuff split. Halstead snatched it, held it in his bloodied hands. He glanced to the missing clock, then to the cameras. There had been no alarm. There was still a chance.

  The door clicked. Sakharov turned.

  In the open door, Antonius Berenson stood. He held a bleeding mercenary up by her hair. Gleaming, bloody plating hung from his off hand. Blood poured from her sliced throat. Berenson grinned, and declared, “Ta-da!”

  Sakharov dropped his knife. He stood, reached for his pistol-

  Halstead lunged, chair attached, and crashed over the table. Man and furniture slammed into Sakharov, sent him tumbling to the ground. His gun arm was pinned. The pistol discharged into the deck. Halstead let the razor fall, snatched up the ASOC dagger. He drove it down, through Sakharov’s shoulder. He pulled the knife, twisted it from shoulder to chest.

  Sakharov reached, limply, for the wound. His eyes widened. Dulled. Blood bubbled up like a clogged drain. It poured, thick and red, over his shirt. The hand fell.

  Halstead torqued the blade, separated heart from lungs. Sakharov fell, limp. Halstead pulled the knife free, and stood from the broken mess.

  Berenson nodded in approval. He said, “Nice technique. Just a hint of fury. Slight lack of artistry, though. Solid eight out of ten.”

  “Stow it.” Halstead snapped.

  He ripped Sakharov’s identicard from his vest, snatched up his keys. It hurt to move.

  “We make a good team.” Berenson said. “We should do this more often.”

  Halstead glared at him.

  “Everyone is in place. Camera feeds are looped. They will be blind to our approach.”

  “Good. Location?”

  “Over the Gulf, racing towards land. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  Berenson dragged a duffel bag from a hallway locker. He said, “Perimeter Group has nice kit. Submachine guns, rifles, scatterguns. Level two body armor, some level three.” He paused, and said, “Our units are set up on TACNET, linked in.”

  “Right.” Halstead said.

  He donned the stolen armor and helmet. The armor was no problem, but the helmet... He let the visor rest over his eyes, loosely, not daring to tighten it down and release another volcano of pain. The air hurt right now, and the faint brush of pressure was like another pommel-blow. He couldn't show that. Not to Berenson. Instead, he denied the pain, and asked, “You have our luggage?”

  Berenson tossed him a TACNET module, which the colonel clamped into the armor. The visor over his eyes flashed, a holoHUD blinked into existence. Information scrolled past, encryption and interface. A local map sprang into existence. Unit status waterfalled, objectives and progress descended on a blizzard of data. He clipped another module onto his weapon. A gunsight appeared on the HUD, followed ammunition levels and weapon status. A guncam link appeared, and the “calibrating” light went from red to orange to green.

  The network traffic stabilized, and he keyed his mic, “Authorization Halstead, Alpha-One-Seven-Gamma.”

  “Acknowledged.” The computer replied.

  Halstead opened a channel to all team commanders. “This is Alpha Six, Actual. All units, check in.”

  “Bravo Six, green.”

  “Charlie Six, go.”

  “Delta Six, ready.”

  “Alpha Two-Six, moving to ar-vee.”

  “This is Six, commence operation.” Halstead said, and closed the channel. He called up the TACNET maps. All units were in place, and deploying rapidly. Bravo, to secure the lift systems. Charlie, to secure the primary transport centers. Delta, to secure the network hub and processing center. Finally, Alpha, to rendezvous with him, and lance into the command section. He glanced to Sakharov's body. First objective complete. Rest in peace, Pyotr.

  The pings on his HUD grew closer. Blue triangles approached the nearest hatch. After a p
ause, it sprang open, to reveal Lieutenant Asher and the rest of Alpha team. Asher nodded to him, and said, “Sir, good to see you.”

  “Likwise.” Halstead replied. “Sakharov's out of commission, we have his cards.” He passed them over, and Asher scanned the data into TACNET. Asher passed them back, along with an oxygen hose. Halstead took it, and then ordered, “Phase two. We'll meet up on the bridge.” You got any painkillers, Lieutenant? He fought back the question.

  “Aye, sir!” A squad hustled down one of the passages, towards the administrative quarters. The remainder, with Halstead and Berenson, pushed into the command section.

  Halstead hooked the hose to his mask, pulled it gingerly into place, and pressed the power switch. With a hum, it pressurized, fed enriched oxygen to his lungs. The mask wasn't standard equipment, not for this kind of high-speed attack, but the modified pressure mask would let him keep up. Combat was a young man's game, but the wily old soldier could bring along a few tools to level the playing field.

  He took a deep breath, adjusted to the pressure, and then secured the tank to his back. Plenty of air left, and so long as a stray bullet didn't give him a sudden explosive massage, the increased oxygenation would let him stay competitive with soldiers half his age. It was no Faction genejob, but, at the end of the day, he could take his mods off and remain himself. Satisfied that his pump had synced into TACNET, he cleared his mic, filtered out the hiss of the oxygen and hum of the regulator, and ordered his team forward.

  For a few precious minutes, the mission proceeded according to plan. The resistance was exactly as anticipated: light infantry, high quality, but surprised and quickly overmatched. Alpha cut through defenders effectively, rapidly, and proved why ASOC had their reputation. No mercenary force, no matter how funded, could stand against a coordinated assault from the Authority's best and brightest door kickers. And then, less than one hundred meters from the objective, everything went to hell.

  There was a flicker on Halstead's HUD, then his datalink cut. The TACNET feed blinked out. His radio burst into white noise. What mangled communications he heard, though, were clear enough.

  “-this is Charlie Six, we are engaging heavy forces!”

  “-Bravo Six, everything just closed up down here! We're taking heavy fire-”

  “-Delta Six here! We've got a platoon plus change coming at us! We're cut off and engaging-”

  The comms squelched, and were gone.

  Halstead attempted to reroute, but TACNET was down. Asher ordered his men to take positions.

  The doors opened, at once. From every angle, a shooter appeared. Behind every opened door, there was a barricade. Behind every barricade, gunmen. A dozen voices screamed warning, but drowned in gunfire.

  He slammed into the bulkhead alcove, pulled his subgun tight. The hallway descended into overlapping thunder. It waxed and waned, as guns cycled. Positions, positions. What are the positions? He tried to assemble where the team might have taken cover. Four men ahead of me, ten foot spread on the doors. Should be safe for a grenade, unless someone dove into the junction.

  He palmed the incendiary grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and bounced it around the corner. There was a clatter, and then a rush-boom. The air grew thin. His mask hummed louder. Rain filled the hallway. The sprinklers poured stale water over the acrid smoke.

  Alpha returned fire. With TACNET down, he lacked remote gunsight. Instead, Halstead slid a mirror around the corner. The haze from his incendiary gave them cover, too. But, it had done its job. Alpha had recovered well. They had taken counter-positions, and engaged. Nice job, kids. He’d lost two in the ambush, but only two. For most units, that would have been a rout. Well done. I trained you well.

  Now, was time to counterattack through the ambush. He leaned out, aimed his weapon into the smoke and rain. He aimed towards a door, and touched the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. He ducked back into cover, as blind fire reached for his position.

  Chunks of the wall peeled away. The rain poured over him, glued the plaster and plasteel dust to his skin.

  Where the hell is Berenson?

  His answer came, a moment behind. There was a flash of light, and then another. There was a crackle-roar, like lightning. There, near the front, Berenson crouched behind the remains of a table- where the hell did he get that? He slid it down the hall, fired over the top as he advanced. Each time he fired, the hall lit, golden, and the stink of ionization flooded the air. It's that damn energy pistol.

  Halstead had seen what it did. Striker had favored it, the during the first uprising. A nasty little cannon, a charge-pumped laser that turned mens insides into jelly. It was surreal, to see those blasts heading away from his position.

  Berenson advanced, towards the junction. Second ambush. Halstead glanced to the ceiling, to the wall grating. Sakharov would have one, here-

  The ventilation system roared. Wind filled the hall. The rain bent. The smoke whirled, pulled-

  The haze vanished, into the hungry vents. Berenson was exposed. His position was flanked, from three angles. He had overplayed his hand. This was where he would die. Halstead raised his weapon, to cover. The mercenaries took aim, to kill.

  Berenson was fast. Faster than Halstead. Faster than the mercs.

  Halstead had seen this before. He’d been on the other side. The Faction’s monsters were a terrible thing. Child soldiers - genejobs, cyborgs - cut through professionals like they were nothing. He’d seen footage, thought it propaganda. He’d trained to fight it. Planned to ambush, planned to entrap, to negate the advantages in speed, strength, and accuracy. He’d faced it, in the halls of Glavoor. So many radio calls that began with the word ‘engaging’ and went silent. So many squads, ripped apart by a gleeful monster-child.

  He remembered this, with terrible clarity, as it played out, once more. This was why Striker was a ‘supersoldier’. This was why his name carried the mantle of death.

  Berenson flipped the table. The front angle was closed. In one smooth turn, he produced a grenade in each hand. A flick, and the pins fell. The bombs sailed away, down opposite corridors. He jumped. Bullets struck his impromptu barricade. He landed, over them, balanced on the edge of the metal. The energy pistol hurled incandescent bolts.

  The mercenaries raised their aim, to track him. He was no longer there. He twisted, crouched, as the table shredded. Gunfire passed over him, harmlessly.

  He slouched into his serpentine charge. One. Two. Three. Four enemies fell. Their chests blossomed into fiery ruin. Their skin blackened as it peeled from charred bone.

  Berenson was left, then right, then left, again. He was always where the bullets weren’t. The table hung, mid-fall. Splinters drifted towards the deck. The grenades had not yet landed. Halstead’s subgun was still rising to meet his cheek.

  The pistol spoke, again. Five, six targets down. Berenson reached the enemy line. He stepped between the point-man’s legs, grabbed his discharging rifle, spun it away. The gun continued to fire. The mercenary caught in his own sling, ripped from his feet.

  The grenades exploded.

  Debris flew from the flanking corridors. Smoke filled the air.

  Berenson spun the entangled soldier, guided the trapped rifle onto another mercenary. It never stopped firing. Seven, eight. The last three tried to fire back, aiming at Berenson in the clear lane-

  The entangled merc fell into the bullets’ path. Nine.

  The trapped rifle snarled. Ten, eleven, twelve.

  The table settled. Halstead’s rifle reached firing position. Berenson dropped the last body.

  Someone behind Halstead spoke for everyone. “Holy shit.”

  Every time. It gets more horrifying, every time.

  Berenson marched towards the control room. He snatched up a new rifle as he passed one of the dead. He changed magazines as he walked, never bothered with cover. In his wake, would-be ambushers stepped out, to shoot him in the back-

  They never saw the grenades on the bodies he dropped. They never notic
ed the missing spoons. They never saw Halstead’s intact force.

  The mercenaries vanished into the storm. Berenson vanished behind the carnage, as he stepped through the next door, towards another certain ambush.

  “Clear forward! Bang out flanks!” Halstead commanded.

  Alpha advanced, machine-like, to the junction, cleared the remaining opposition from Berenson's wake. Through the smoke, Halstead advanced. He wasn't surprised to see remains of a massacre in the control room. Nearly a dozen mercenaries lay dead, still in their ‘ambush’ positions.

  Berenson casually inspected his pistol. His borrowed rifle lay discarded at his feet.

  The nerve center secured, Halstead turned to one of his EWOs - Jeffords - and ordered, “Get on that machine, and get the link back up. Find what goat-roaped the network. The rest of you, perimeter defense, lock this room down.”

  He slid an ISA data card into the terminal. Prefab virii poured into the systems, began to pillage and loot every piece of intelligence on the net.

  Berenson stood beside him. The genejob stared, hard, at the next stairwell, the route to the observation bridge.

  Halstead asked, “Worried about them fortifying?”

  “No. Something is wrong here.” Berenson tilted his head. “This is not the correct density of firepower. There should have been more forces.”

  “I'd say that ambush was pretty nasty.”

  “Not nasty enough, Colonel. The fire is enough to burn, but not enough to consume. This is his key resource, he should be playing everything to hold it. He is not, which means we were wrong. This merely bait.”

  “Bait?” Halstead asked. Out of reflex, he checked his perimeter forces. They were solid.

  Berenson said, “Colonel, we need to evacuate-”

  The lights flickered. Halstead glanced up.

  Berenson whispered, “Too late.”

  The ship dropped. At once, every terminal flashed red. Then, everything fell into darkness.

  The ground vanished beneath him.

  Halstead slammed into the deck. Pain blossomed, again, from his broken face, and the world vanished. The deck heaved, tossed him like a ragdoll. His side struck a console. His belly hit a chair.