The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  He crashed back to the floor.

  The lights flickered, returned. The surges stopped.

  Halstead forced himself to his feet, tried to fight back the tears. He demanded, “Check in!”

  A chorus answered. A half dozen injuries. None critical.

  Berenson was still on his feet. Of course.

  Halstead ordered, “Ford! Check that damn flight system! What the hell just happened?”

  TACNET suddenly flashed. Rebooted. At least that surge did something useful.

  His radio chirped. He toggled it on, heard the voice of Sergeant Clausen. The young man said, “This is Bravo Four, checking in for Bravo Six.”

  Halstead opened his mouth to reply. The bridge hatch burst open. Gunfire poured from the stairs. His team returned fire.

  Halstead ducked behind cover, and yelled, over the gunfire, “This is Alpha Six, I copy.” He toggled off his mic, and ordered, “Not you, Ford! Stay on that terminal! Jeffords, you too!”

  Clausen continued, “Sir, we have secured primary objective, but secondary teams are dead. We are combat ineffective, and the enemy has sabotaged – I think – sabotaged the lift systems.”

  “Tell him we noticed.” Berenson said. The supersoldier ignored the battle, and stood transfixed by the flight data display.

  “I acknowledge. What did they do?”

  “Sending the images to you via TACNET. Cooling got damaged in the fight. We're going down in less than three hours based on original schematics. I can't tell based on the changes, but that shaking did not give me confidence.”

  “Roger that, Bravo Four. Give us a moment.” The data feed streamed to his visor, and he didn't like what he saw.

  Berenson asked, “Can I see that?”

  “Fine. Ford, take a look. I'm putting this on the main screen.” The feed rolled over the command center, even as the defense team secured the stairwell behind them.

  Ford pointed to one of the reactors. “That's the bleed set-up from the briefing, right?”

  Berenson shook his head. He said, “No, that is not a strong enough tap. They're looping the cycler, alright, but not enough to trigger the blast we worried about. There is enough power to destroy this ship, and it might let him limp the drives along using a lot less raw power, but that design would only pay off on a Bore.”

  “A Strand Bore? Like Arclight?” Ford asked.

  “Yes, but not...” Berenson trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.

  Halstead understood. He snapped, “It's not a bomb, it's a refinery! They’re harvesting it!”

  “Where would they use it? This makes no sense.” Berenson said. His voice was distant. He stared, blankly, at the main screen, trapped in some inner world.

  From his console, Jeffords said, “It's on overload! They're ramping up the feed on the drive!”

  “Is there a cut off? Can it be disabled?” Halstead demanded.

  Berenson continued, oblivious, “Strand boosted weapons? Why, when Durandal is within his grasp?”

  Jeffords answered Halstead, “Negative, sir! The drives are running away, looks like they've been cooking for at least twenty minutes!”

  Since we were detained. Sakharov was a distraction.

  “...it is not poisonous, he has no fleet...”

  “How long?” Halstead asked.

  “Until kaboom? Maybe, maybe, five minutes.” Jeffords replied.

  “What if we sever the drives, cut the loop?” Ford asked.

  “Could do it. We’d need to sever the main drive.” Jeffords said.

  Berenson continued, “... just a giant trap? That makes no sense, he has enough resources here, unless he has more in reserve...”

  Halstead grabbed his radio, and ordered, “Bravo Four, this is Alpha Six.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “I'm going to need you to place demolitions on the central ARC950, adjacent to your position.” Halstead had the schematics up on his visor again, and noted which coupling to destroy. The ship would crash. Hundreds would die. But thousands would live. Cold math, cold reason. A choice he'd made long before this moment. A road he'd walked before.

  “Say again, over?” He could hear the denial in Clausen's voice, the pleading for a different answer.

  He wished he could have given one. There was no choice, not now. “Place octo charges on the central ARC950's primary power coupler. A single kilogram should do it.”

  “Sir, that could very well-” Destroy the ship? Kill hundreds?

  “I'm firmly aware, Sergeant. Place the charges.” The radio went silent for a moment, for far too long. Halstead could imagine being down there, hearing those orders, weighing the cost, the blood. It's on me, son, not you. Let the guilt lie where it should. Command is a heavy burden. But the order must be followed. “Bravo Four, check in.”

  “Sir, that will drop us like a rock, even if it doesn't blow us to pieces.”

  “Acknowledged, Sergeant.” The man deserved an explanation. He deserved better than this. “Looking at the way they have these drives rewired, it appears they're staging an overload. If we don't short it out, it will build negative mass until the system blows out from material failure. All safeties have been disabled. Our course is locked, heading for the coast. We blow this here, or it blows itself, a lot bigger, right over Tampa.”

  From the side, Berenson broke from his reverie, and said, “We do not get the choices we want. We get the choices he gives us.”

  Clausen demanded, “Is that Berenson? I thought we couldn't trust him!” We can't. But we need him, more than ever.

  “Bravo Four, you will obey your orders and scuttle this vessel.” Halstead gave the command. Forgive me.

  There was another ominous silence. Finally, Clausen replied, “One kilo, sir? We can do that.”

  “Acknowledged. And get your team to an escape boat.”

  There was another pause, and the TACNET feed showed the one of Clausen's men move to the ARC950. After a moment, Clausen returned to the channel. “Alpha Six, this is Bravo Four.”

  “Roger.”

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Roger that, sir.” The channel closed.

  Halstead toggled the global channel, opened it to all units and personnel He had to clear his throat, but his words came through, clear enough. He said, “Attention, all units, this is Alpha Six Actual. Evacuate immediately. Abort all missions and evacuate.” He closed the channel. “All right, people, we need to get out of Dodge. Jeffords!”

  “Sir!”

  “Trigger the evacuation alarm. Let's give these people a fighting chance.”

  As the soldier toggled the system, Berenson stated, “That will allow Tiberius's men to pull back as well.”

  “We'll deal.”

  “That is why he has us trapped. He will go further than you.”

  Halstead snatched his datacard from the terminal, as the computer began to read off the evacuation speeches. “Come on! We've got five minutes to get out of here.”

  “It does not make sense.” Berenson said. He stood, unfocused, drawn back towards the main display, like a fly pulled towards the light. “All these resources, all this bait, for what?”

  “We'll solve this later. We need to go. Now.”

  “There must be a reason. There is always a purpose. Something we cannot see. Strand does something else for him. We need to-” He snapped back into reality, and said, “Yes, we should go. I will be right there. I need to go to the bridge-”

  Halstead was already running for the door when the next ambush came.

  The walls to port and starboard blasted clear. The concussion force hurled soldiers to the deck, tore men apart. The blasts faded, the acrid smoke rolled away. In the mist, armored behemoths stood, draped in powered armor, cradling plasma projectors, all pointed at Berenson. A firing squad.

  Halstead lay on his back, his subgun beside him, still tied into his sling. He snatched it up, scrambled to his feet. He cried out, “Berenson! Get down!”
/>
  The room fell away, in horrible light and liquid heat.

  He pulled the subgun to his shoulder. From his kneeling position, he twisted to draw aim.

  Berenson was already moving. His pistol was in hand. The armored soldiers fired.

  Berenson zigged. Berenson zagged. There was too much fire. Too much spray.

  The lights dimmed. The ship jolted.

  Behind Halstead, his team vanished into the inferno. Another ambush sprang, from both sides of the door. Between the roaring flames, Halstead was thrown from his feet. The ship fell, and he floated. It stopped, and he crashed. Floor, wall, floor, again. Pain threatened to blind him.

  Berenson rolled with the chaos. He slipped between the fires, danced across the pitching deck. He wasn’t fast enough, not this time. A lucky bullet caught him. His leg spun from beneath him, in a spray of blood and bone. Berenson tumbled, towards the lines of liquid white.

  This was it. Dead. There was no cheating the Reaper. Berenson’s eyes widened. His face turned pale. Halstead met his stare. He’d seen it, before.

  This wasn’t acting. It was too raw, too honest, too helpless. He’d seen this look, once before. It was an awful, slackjawed stare, filled with stupified horror and the realization that ‘the best’ wasn’t enough. It was a look of comprehension. It was a look of defeat.

  The last time Halstead saw that forlorn stare, twelve hundred people died. The last time he’d seen that awful look, a man became a monster.

  He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

  Halstead lay on his stomach. He grabbed his subgun, pulled it to his shoulder. Fire raged behind him. Fire rolled in front of him. One of the soldiers raised its Acheron projector. He saw the backpack hose tug, saw the coolant pump stroke. A lifetime of soldiering flashed before him. With practiced ease, Halstead caressed the trigger.

  The coolant pump shattered. The parabolic emitter cracked. Plasma licked from the streamer, folded over the damaged mirror. The weapon melted. The magnetic fields failed. The corona rushed back, over the operator, over his fuel supply. The soldier didn't explode. He popped, disappeared into a whorl of flame. The fire rushed across the firing line. The inferno spread, with a rippling line of pops that swallowed the flank, wholesale.

  Berenson seized upon the gap. He landed on his good leg, hurled himself from the killbox. His pistol flashed, and the opposite flank fell.

  But Halstead had drawn their eyes. They turned a projector on him.

  Everything went white. There was heat like he'd never felt. Heat that tore into him as the fury of heaven.

  Then he couldn't feel anything. There was just darkness, cool and sweet, and the distant sound of water.

  He was floating. Floating on nothing. Somewhere, far away, there might be something wrong. But not here, on this slow boat through the calmest night.

  There was a dull pinprick on his chest.

  Light flooded back, and he opened his eyes. Eye. Half the world was dark. Dimly, far away, he hurt more than he'd ever hurt. Berenson knelt over him, wiped a needle clean. Berenson was speaking. It was so muffled, on this slow boat. Was his back wet? Why would it be wet? Maybe Berenson would tell him.

  He tried to listen. He could hear, if he focused, “-for me? Why did you do that?”

  “Where? Where are we?” He was so confused. He should sit up. He couldn't.

  Berenson glanced away, down a corridor. Halstead tried to look. The world pitched again, and he was flying, flying so far away.

  He slammed into a wall, but it didn't hurt. It was a soft landing, just like dreaming.

  He could see the hallway, see the blood and burns and corpses.

  He remembered. His hand was burned, black and gnarled, pinned in front of his eyes. “Oh… bad.”

  Berenson was over him again, prepping another painkiller. “You may live. There are doctors below. We need to go-”

  “My team?”

  “Dead. We need to go.”

  “Ambushed... you?”

  “Yes. He wanted me to know. He wanted me to see defeat, and understand it.” Berenson said. “If you had not...”

  “Stupid of me...”

  “Why?”

  “Save my men.”

  “I am not part of your unit. You know that. You hate me. You want me dead. I lost! I should be dead!”

  “Save-”

  “No, no. That is not rational. You have always been very rational, Colonel. Very tactical. What was the gambit?”

  Halstead began to drift away. Berenson might have been shaking him.

  “No! No! Answer me!” Berenson howled.

  Halstead slipped deeper into the darkness. And then the light was back, and Berenson was pulling an adrenaline needle out of his chest. Everything was bright, clear, except the distant pain. The genejob, the supersoldier, the maniac, was nearly in tears. Beaten, defeated, and confused. Not so terrifying like this. Halstead seized upon one kernel, one fragment of a thought. “Save them.”

  “Why?!” Berenson cried out.

  “Save them.”

  Berenson tensed, as if to scream again. He froze, pursed his lips. He glanced up, lost in thought. After a moment, he turned back, his eyes alight, his jaw set. He said, “Deal.” He nodded, once more, and said, “I will. I promise you.”

  Everything was dark again. “Radio.” Halstead demanded. Berenson forced it into his hand. The light was going away. “Adrena...” The light was back. His vision burned. The needle hung from his chest. He toggled the radio, put last ounce of strength into his voice. He said, “Alpha Six to Bravo Four. Come in, Bravo Four.” He was coughing, something was leaking.

  “This is Bravo Four, I read you.”

  “One last order...” His head was so heavy. It would be so easy to go to sleep.

  “Sir?”

  “Get them out. Don't make... my mistake.”

  Above him, Berenson was shooting again, golden streaks bursting through the air, like fireworks. Fires surrounded them. He was so tired.

  “Sir? What-”

  One last effort. One last order. He willed himself to finish. He commanded, “Don't sell yourself cheap!” He fell backwards, and everything was soft and warm.

  Iteration 0101

  As he knelt in the burning corridor, Antonius Berenson committed the first pointless act in his life. He crouched over Halstead’s corpse, and slammed another stim kit into the dead flesh. He tried to plug wounds, to staunch blood that had already flowed. He tried to force life back into the dead. He should have run for a shuttle. He might have made it.

  Instead, he knelt, shepherding a corpse, while fire licked along the walls. Lightning arced around him, tried to reach from the bulkheads to pull him into a fatal embrace. The ship bucked, and twisted, and tore itself apart. The Plymouth roared, howled, and screamed, as it snapped its own spine.

  He knelt in the corridor, and tried to understand.

  He had lost. He should be dead. This man had hated him. This man had lived, to kill him. This man was dead, instead. This was not the choice this man should have made.

  He had seen men die like this, before. He had led men to this choice, guided them to this end. This was different. He had lost. He lost, and lived. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  Behind him, the corridor sheared apart.

  The ship shuddered, twisted - steel screamed. The hallway stretched, then tore. The umbilical shredded, split to reveal blue sky, shining through flame. The ceiling peeled back, as the wind entered the hall. Invisible, hungry talons tore at the hull, and hurled chunks of the walls away, towards the depths below.

  The wind ripped through the corridor. Flames and debris vanished, into the void.

  Berenson stood, over the dead. He held the Colonel’s datacard, and his tags. He’d given his word. In a moment of confusion, in a moment of chaos, he had made a covenant to the dead. None living knew what he’d promise, but that didn’t matter. He had given his word.

  This was madness.

  There was no logic. N
o master plan.

  His word was his law.

  The ship shuddered. The hall pitched, formed a mountain - split. The deck burst, erupted in a fiery spray-

  Bits of conduit, a piece of a door, whipped past him, then vanished into the hole to the sky. It fell slower. The ship fell faster. Both headed towards a watery grave.

  His whole world tumbled, trapped inside the falling necropolis. Halstead’s body slid back, up the slope of the deck, and vanished into the terrible blue beyond. The deck tilted. He moved to counter, ran with the gyration. Through the tears in the walls, he saw ocean, where he had seen sky, before. The city fell, as a cloud, wreathed in fire. There was no time to make it to a shuttle. No time for a parachute. There was simply time for chance, a gambit, and unprofessional hope.

  There were still ways to maximize survival.

  There were strong points in the hull, places less likely to break. Berenson snatched a run of cable from one of the torn walls, snapped it free in a spray of sparks. He wrapped it about his waste, looped a loose harness, and lashed himself to an exposed beam. This was a strong junction, between bulkheads. It would survive better than most.

  The world fell apart. The walls ripped away. He hung, exposed to the sledgehammer blows of the wind, against the skeletal remains of the hall. Below him, the prow of the airship dove towards the water. A wall of white cushioned the fall, and turned to flame as the ship battered through the air.

  Ahead of him, a tower broke loose. Twenty stories high, wrapped in the the remains of hanging gardens, it snapped from the hull, twirled up at him. It tumbled, rolled, like a colossal bowling pin. It smashed buildings flat. It tore them free, hurled them with its passing. The steel wake rose towards him, crashed through the foredeck-

  The hull buckled, bits of superstructure rose as a plane-

  The tower bounced free, leapt into the abyss, and was past.

  A thousand tons of detritus followed, a storm of city and waste.

  The rubble passed, and the ocean grew closer. He could see the streaks of cyan amid the blue. He could see the waves, turning away from the flat of the water.

  The front of the ship burst.

  Fire wracked up the length of the shattered hull. It climbed. It sought him. The starboard outrigger vanished, into a fire so pure it was light, itself. The debris storm shifted, raced to port-