The ship twisted-
The shockwave rolled over him. His beam bent, and swung him out, over the open air.
The firestorm raced across the wreckage, hungry-
There was a anti-flash, a blast of purple-blue-black nothing. A plane of cold, sharp as light, speared through the deck, and pulled the ship upon itself. The hill came apart, split along this axis of negative light. The fore hull dipped, fell away. The aft hull, with him still lashed aboard, tumbled across the n-matter sump. The horizon flipped, and he plunged, upside down, towards the abyss.
Fires below. Ice above. He passed between the storms. A meter to either side, and he would be dead.
He was a survivor. He lived.
It was unfair.
The hull struck water. His beam snapped. He was hurled up, out. Wreckage flashed past. He crashed against the meteors, caromed from rubble to rubble as they all fell, together. He sailed through the open air, arms flailing. He spun, over the churning surf, as it raced up to meet him.
He struck the waves, as if they were concrete.
He should have died.
His bones were pulverized by the impact. His spine shattered. The ocean claimed him, the pull of the wreckage sucking him down, into the fiery depths. Lightning danced amid the slow-spinning dead, amid the new Atlantis. If he had still been breathing, he would have drowned.
He should have died in a dozen ways.
Cybernetics activated. Repair weaves closed over bones, reformed them. Nanites flooded his brain, repaired the battered tissue. Backup signals routed to his graybox. His spin clicked back into place. Metal met metal, as the pieces slipped back together, and began to fill with resin. An oxygen bladder fed his stitch-mended lungs. A mechanical assist forced his heart to beat.
His cuts were healed, when he broke the surface. He gasped for breath, amid the lightning, fire, ice, and churn.
He could see the beach. He could swim.
Already, his bones were setting. He was not dead. He would recover. He was a survivor.
He placed one hand, before the other. The ocean surged, some great bubble of heat, forced up from below, ripped the waters apart like a boiling pot. Debris rained about him. Oil burned on the surface. Icy spears raced up, from the depths, to reach for the sky.
Berenson swam for shore.
He had given his word.
He was so very far from finished.
Equilibrium
Torn gray clouds poured rain over the graveyard. The rain plunged through the steel chasms, past highways and billboards and three layers of liftcar traffic. By the time the water struck the muddy ground, it was just as dirt-stained as the monoliths it has passed.
Standing in the middle of this single patch of green, in a sea of concrete, steel, and glass, Teresa Halstead kept vigil. Her children were with her. She had a small band of hired men: a minister and some groundskeepers. No one else bothered to attend.
At least, not to honor the dead.
Outside the cemetery gates, the cameras whirred. They flashed. The press tumbled over each other to snatch up the prize images of a traitor’s grave. They were held back, by a thin line of security officers, who made no secret of their desire to be anywhere else. They glanced to each other, made snide comments ‘off the record’, and agreed: this was too much to ask. Why guard a murderer? Why protect some cold blooded asshole, who sold out the State for profit? Why do anything, for a man whose greed had overcome his oaths? A man whose recklessness killed twelve hundred people.
This, they agreed, was more than he deserved. A quiet and lonely grave, unadorned and shoved beyond the city limits, buried amid the criminals and beggars in a public lot, was still more than his actions had earned. Far better to let the mob in, let the masses have their day. It was mere professionalism that kept them in place. Another way they could show they were better than the filth lying here.
Beyond this wall of blue vests and flashing lenses, the protest swarmed. They held signs. They decried the State. They named ASOC as baby-killers. They pointed to Colonel Halstead, and his legion of barbarians. Some had family who died on that ship, now buried in the toxic depths. Some had sat in the trials, where the State handed down ‘Not Guilty’ on the junior accused, and denied them any modicum of justice. They came to the graves of the fallen leaders, and screamed questions and rage and loss to men who had taken everything from them. These dead men could not be further punished, so the mob spread their pain, to the families of guilty.
Teresa Halstead stared, numbly, into the open grave. She stared at the silent brown box. No one would bury him back home. She'd had to travel across the province, begging and buying, dodging the parade of hate that followed her and the mangled watery corpse. She’d driven straight, not stopping, just her and the crying children, chased by the parade of jackals. She'd gone numb, held the youngest close, and let time wash over her. There was only so much a human mind could take, before it seized up and refused stimulus. The lights and sirens and the flash of signs were nothing to her now but noise. The rain that drenched them was just a distant drizzle, the mix of flashbulbs and lightning just a muted flicker.
So many had come for the retirement. So many, absent, now.
Only one man had shown. He stood by the old oak tree, hands in his pockets and collar high, watching the watchers. He stood silent, occasionally stared into the grave. She'd never seen him before. But he'd shown up, without a sign or a camera, and for that, she was grateful.
She stared into that grave, and tried to ask the questions. Why? It never formed. Ages passed, and the rain cut through her, until she might melt away in it. It was a voice that moved her from her stillness. Not the voice of the minister, with his prayers and his condolences. Not the voice of the groundskeeper, with his rough sympathy. This was the voice like darkened hallways, and old secrets, and a young man’s amusement at the perversity of the world. “Do not cry.” The voice said.
She turned, and saw the silent man, now knelt down next to Billy. The man said, again, “Do not cry. This is false. It will pass.”
Billy tried to inch away. The man’s shoulders slumped, defeated.
Teresa, yanked from her fugue, pulled Billy away. She stepped forward, to shield her child, and demanded, “Who are you?”
The man rose. He pulled off his hat, let the water pour over his face. He was young, like one of her husband’s charges, but his eyes were old. He gave a wistful half-smile, laughing an unfunny joke only he understood. He said, “My name is Antonius. I worked with your husband.” He glanced back towards Billy. “I am sorry, but I am not good with children. I never was one, myself.”
“Why are you here?” She demanded. She should be thanking him. She knew that, but weeks of hurt came boiling out. Why one man, and no one else?
“I am here because the others cannot be. They are unjustly accused. They are confined and restrained in ways they do not deserve. I have broken free. I am here because I must be, to act as your insufficient angel. I am here to tell you, this is a lie, and it will not stand.” He never raised his voice. He met her gaze, with his final words, and his promise was louder than a scream.
She already knew this was a lie. She’d told herself that, from the moment she’d seen the news. She knew it, but she hadn’t realized how desperately she’d needed to hear it, from another person’s voice. She demanded, “How do you know? You need to tell them!”
“They will see, soon enough.”
“What does that mean?”
The man smiled, again, with his disconcerting smile. He said, “Some truths cannot be introduced with words, but must be produced from a hammer. Watch the news, madam. You will see me again.” He pulled his hat back over his head. He tipped it, let the water wash over the brim, and then vanished. He was gone, like a shadow in the rain. Teresa Halstead began to gather her children. It was too wet and cold to be out here. She had no interest in providing the crowds their circus.
Outside the circle of press and protesters, a black Agency sedan
waited, monitoring security on the event, just far enough back to slip notice, just close enough to keep tabs. The back window was cracked, and a tiny wisp of smoke leaked out, into the freezing rain. Inside, Michael Raschel pulled the last cigarette from his pack. Through the tinted windows, and the rhythm of the wiper blades, he watched the milling crowd, the spots of colorful coats against the charcoal skies and gunmetal ground.
Raschel struggled with his lighter. His hand trembled on the flint, and he had to focus to get a solid strike. This was bullshit. He knew it was bullshit. Kabuki theater, for the huddled masses. He felt for Teresa, out there in the storm, acting as lightning rod for the mob. She didn’t deserve this.
The cigarette failed to catch, once more. The driver glanced back, in the mirror, and raised an eyebrow. Do you need help with that? Sir? Raschel growled, and the driver glanced away.
The only man who owned this shitshow of a funeral was lying, out there, room temperature. Raschel had given Bill an out. He’d all but gotten on his goddamn knees, and begged him to walk away. If he was too stuborn, too stupid-
The cigarette failed to light.
“God damn it!” Raschel swore.
He hurled the lighter against the back of the seat. The driver, pointedly, did not notice.
Out in the crowd, a solitary figure stepped into the street, striding with purpose.
“Isn't that Berenson? You want to grab him?” The driver asked.
“Not here.” Raschel's words were harsher than he'd like, too rapid. “Too much of a scene, I can't be associated with this clusterfuck.”
“Sir, he's coming this way.”
Berenson marched down the street, cut through the rain like a knife, marching straight for their car. In the passenger seat, the security man charged his pistol. The driver gripped the wheel. Raschel sighed. He said, “Easy, easy. He doesn’t want a scene, either.”
Berenson reached the cracked window. He stood in the downpour, and stared through the slit in the tinted glass. Rachel glanced back, but made a point not to stare, as if nothing was wrong.
For a long moment, the two men watched each other, dared each other to speak. Berenson stood in the rain. Raschel sat in his smoky cab. Their eyes met, unblinking, through the gap between black paint and smoked glass, light by the flashbulb crash of distant lightning, and the fading ashes on the last cigarette.
Berenson walked away.
Raschel rolled up his window. He said, “Let's go. I'm done here.” He sank into his seat, and plotted. As they pulled past the crowd, he couldn’t turn from the lonely grave, and the huddled figures about it. The crowd circled, like crows on a carcass. We did this.
Iteration 0110
Reyna Velasquez woke five minutes before her alarm.
Rain pattered against the window, as dim blue pre-dawn light filtered through the beads that ran down the smoked glass. The blinds twisted on the fan’s breeze, gently clacked together in the shadows. Outside, the urban canyons stood, blue and gray, against the pregnant sky. In their depths, the fading neon lights of the night flickered out, in preparation for the steady white bulbs of the day.
She reached down, untangled the bedsheets from her nightshirt. There was a smell to hotel sheets, even luxury hotel sheets, the sterile stench of bleach mixed the false scent of spring. It was stuck in her nose, and she couldn't clear it.
Her feet touched the rug. It was plush, thick, luxurious, white tinted by the steel glow of the Capital morning. She sat, silhouetted against the skyscrapers and buzzing cars, hair matted in her face, sheets piled beside her, and watched the hive come to life, as the sun bunkered behind the armored horizon.
In a moment, her alarm would sound. At that point, she would begin her day. Until then, until morning, the twilight was hers.
She closed her eyes, let the cold room chill her. She stood, took two steps to press her hand against the one-way glass. It was icy to the touch, shaking in the wind and rain, thrumming like an engine. She didn't look down, not onto forty-nine stories of steel and ant traffic below. She kept her eyes closed, and breathed in mountain air, serene and alone atop the world. There was no war here, no revolution, no drugs, no violence, no Agency. There was just the wind between the peaks, and dawn breaking upon the lake.
Light struck her, turned the blue to white, and she opened her eyes.
The sun rose over the horizon, through the spires of the east, through through the hall of mirrors, and burned away morning mists. The light struck the crystal drops on the window and refracted. She winced at the sudden brilliance.
Just like that, the clouds swallowed the sun, again, and the day sunk back to blue. The droplets were burned from the windows, the streets carved with the memory of shadow and light.
In a moment, the alarm would sound, and she would have a war to fight.
She pushed her hair back, out of her face, brown eyes focused on the streets below. Chaotic, yet orderly, filled with people trying to pretend the world was fine. The billboards sprang to life, shining down the morning cycles, stories of falling cities and crumbling order. Run, the streetcar prophet said. Run, and don't look back, or you'll be turned to salt. The end is nigh.
Velasquez turned to the nightstand. Everything was where she left it: a half-empty water glass, an Agency watch, an unloaded pistol, and a simple necklace. One week earlier, she'd been a street agent, liaising with a dronetown police department, sorting beats and tagging narc and corpses. One bust later, one raid gone wrong, and she was sitting in the presidential suite of a Capital hotel. One phone call, so close to the one she’d always dreamt of - and yet nothing like it, at all - and she was here. Pack your bags and come to the Citadel. Instructions will follow. Be there by morning.
The room was filled with mirrors. From anywhere, she could see herself.
Smile, Rey. You're on camera. She tried to force a confident pose. You look so small without the suit.
That suit hung in the oak wardrobe like a loaded gun. Charcoal, with nearly invisible pinstripes, cut in a two-buttoned V, it was conservative, businesslike, with just a hint of rakish fashion. Underneath, she'd chosen a light silver shirt, folded out on the collar. She'd spent a long time choosing this suit. Every other she owned was cheap, designed for hard wear. This suit was formal, suitable for a funeral. Her own.
The suit makes you more than you are, but you wear it. Don't let it wear you. On the dresser-top, the Agency pins shone against the window's light, the globe and starburst proud, the eagle imperious. Carpe diem, Rey. You're in the shit now. She glanced to the mirror again, stronger. Her body was a tuned machine, kept to the highest standards of the State. Her mind was a razor, to cut down her enemies. She was a Field Commander of the Internal Security Agency, and if she was going to march to her own doom, then she would do it with eyes level and chin up, unblinking.
She turned off her alarm as the minutes rolled into an even hour, silencing it before the first tone sounded. She operated on reflex now, and dropped to the floor. One push-up became two, became ten, twenty, thirty. At fifty, she could barely feel the burn, so she flipped herself over. One crunch, two, twenty – the blur continued, until she'd crossed each point of the workout.
Before she knew it, she was in the shower, under the scalding water and billowing steam, blasting the sweat away. Let it burn away the past. Eyes forward. The shower was her favorite time of the day. There was something therapeutic about it, as the pounding streams washed out the dreams and replaced them with the daily calculations, there was a moment when both were equally real, and she could do her clearest thinking. Why are you here? Battles were not won on the field, they were won in the mind of their generals, and politics was no different. Why have you been summoned?
Thirty-six hours before, she'd been coordinating a bust on a Blade distribution warehouse in Sacramento, right outside the dronetown limits. She'd been tracking the rapidly shifting balance in the narc trade, as Blade blew out spank, crank, and dope. In weeks, Blade did what the last hotshot run took a decade t
o accomplish. The cartels were in flux, as they scrambled to get control of the new chems, and the streets were getting bloody. Fallon, the espo liaison, wanted something done, fast, before the problems reached out to hit Dorado, and the old money held there.
It had started so easy. Push the criminal informants, the narcs, the squealers, find out who was winning the streets in drone town. Figure out who was on top, cut a deal with who was losing, blow the head off the hydra, rinse, repeat. It made her sick, but it also kept the fires contained to dronetown, and if the shooting stayed out of Dorado, then Fallon's bosses were happy, which meant that he would back off and let her chase the pipeline for a few weeks, until it was time to go headhunting again.
Except this time, it went wrong. It was no cartel warehouse they hit, no dealer's stash. It was a damned armed camp.
Cartels had firepower, sure, but nothing that could stand up to the Agency RAST Teams or local guard units. Cartels were also smart, made from businessmen. They chose when to fight, and never chose to battle the State, straight up. That would be war, and war was bad for business. No, the cartels would put up a decent fight, using hired guns and townie leadheads, and then fold up and take the loss. They would pull back, drop into the underworld, cut a new deal, and then conspire with the Agency to depose the new top dog. It was dirty. It was awful. It worked. Dronetown stayed wracked in agony, but no one else lost too much.
Apparently, these guys never got the playbook. They decided to go out with a bang. They sprang an ambush, chewed up her RAST team, shot an honest-to-God rocket into the patrol blockade, and tried to bust out of the cordon with modified armored utility vehicle.
Fallon's “quick bust for the news cycle” turned into a dark age gunfight, pandemonium and bodies piling on each other. Her operation left seven officers dead, nine suspects killed, and four civilians shot in the crossfire, with more than a dozen wounded and uncounted, millions in property damage. Fallon got his news, all right, and it was taking every bit of spin the Agency had to keep this from turning into a firing squad.
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