The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Firenze buzzed them in. They let themselves in.

  The door swung open, and his bravery failed. He felt the sudden, impossible, urge to run. He’d grab the assist box, dive out the back window, and pray for the best. He fought that urge, and stepped aside. He said, “It’s not my fault!” Those might have been his last words.

  “We know.” Berenson said, as he brushed past. “They framed you for framing us.” He said it like Firenze was the dumbest kid in a very dumb class. It was the kind of tone only taken by tutors, twenty minutes after they needed to leave the classroom. The supersoldier halted, looked about, to the piles of trash and makeshift workbenches, and then asked, “Is this a war zone? Were you bunkering?”

  Clausen pulled the door shut, behind them. He pulled a scarf from his mouth, to reveal the frost still stuck in his beard, and said, “Nah, I've seen bunkers that were nicer. Even in war zones. Most had less instant noodles.” The Sergeant picked up a half-eaten piece of bread, glanced to Firenze, and added, “Word of advice, kid. If you need to bunker, use more canned goods, make a garden, and recycle. You can do a lot better than this empty-calorie shit.”

  Firenze turned, from one to the other. He asked, “So... you're not here to kill me?”

  Clausen recoiled. He asked, “Kill you? Why the hell would I kill you? Agency fucked us. All of us. If they say you're a traitor, that's the one thing you're not.” He eyed around, looked for a safe place to sit. Failing that, he leaned against the wall, and pulled his coat tighter. He said, “Lovely place, Princess.”

  “Fuck you, too.” Firenze said. His fear broke. Pointless worry melted into relieved anger. He pointed to Berenson, and demanded, “Why is he here?”

  Berenson held a strip of week-old pizza in his hand, suspended in front of his eyes. He replied, “We are putting the band back together.” He said it as if it were self evident. His eyes never the bits of fuzz on the slice.

  “What?” Firenze asked. “The band?”

  Clausen clarified, “We're taking another shot at Striker.”

  “Why in- what?” Firenze demanded. He exclaimed, “Cause that ended so well, the first time!” He looked to Berenson, then back to Clausen. He asked, “How the hell did he convince you to work with him?”

  Clausen said, “He let me shoot him.”

  “What?” Firenze demanded, again.

  Berenson said, “I got better.”

  “Like you wouldn't believe.” Clausen added, blandly.

  “No. No, this isn't real.” Firenze said. He paced as he spoke, touching his head for emphasis. He said, “I mis-loaded something on the assist, caught a case of the crazy. I’m hallucinating. There is no way that you, are voluntarily getting into bed. with this guy, to go do the same damn thing, that got us screwed, except, this time, it’s completely illegally, and on our own.”

  “Check the time.” Berenson advised.

  “What?” Firenze demanded, for the third time.

  “Check the time, on a clock, and remember it.” Berenson said. “Then look away. When you look back, compare the time you see to the time you remember. If these times are rationally linked, then this is reality. In a dream or hallucination, time will not maintain logical, consistent order.”

  “And how do you know this?” Firenze asked.

  “This technique can help you cope with attempts at mental manipulation, of either chemical or digital origin. The Faction prepared me for nearly anything.”

  Clausen cut the conversation short, and said, “Look, I know this sounds crazy. It is crazy. I agree, one hundred and ten percent, this is batshit, kid. But take a look out there.” He thumbed over his shoulder, towards the desolate streets, the sirens and lights and crumbling billboards. “This world is bursting at the seams, and we might be the only people who can stop it.”

  “We helped make this mess!” Firenze exclaimed.

  “Tiberius played us.” Berenson said.

  Clausen continued, “He beat us, but he didn't break us. We can get up, strike back. Take another shot. Everyone's written us off, but that's not who we are. First to fight, last to quit. I mean, what have we got to lose?”

  “Our lives?” Firenze offered.

  “I don't know about you, but that's not too much, right now.” Clausen said. “We either win, and it means something, or we lose, and it all goes away.”

  “You know what that sounds like? Crazy. Crazy, in a slash-my-wrists kind of way. I'm not down with suicide. Thanks.” Firenze said.

  “So, you desire to bend over and take what the Agency feeds you?” Berenson hypothesized.

  “No, but I'd rather have the small pile of shit they gave me than the giant pig-farm that's waiting if we try this again!” Firenze shot back. “Let's just sit back, wait it out, and let them deal with this.”

  “They're trying.” Clausen said. “Berenson cracked open some of the ISA records on his last trip through the archives. They're fighting a war, and they're losing. Badly. Striker's got them chasing their own tail. All they can do is keep cracking down, covering up, fucking up, and making a whole mess of it. Monterrey, the Airship, the riots, the draft, the war, the drugs... all of it. He's just handing them gasoline, telling them it's water, and they keep pouring.”

  Firenze objected, but his heart wasn't in it, “It can't be that bad-”

  “You know better. They hosed us down without a thought. Threw the Colonel over a damned bridge because it was convenient. They're scared, they're desperate, and they're losing. It's going to get a whole lot worse before it ever gets better.”

  “If it gets better.” Berenson added.

  “Optimist.” Clausen said.

  “Defeat is a plausible outcome.” Berenson clarified. “I was being precise.”

  Firenze said. “Alright, sure, I’ll give you that, but there have got to be other professionals - special units that can go after him. They'd be a lot better than us going off half-cocked-”

  “They're trying.” Clausen said. There was a thickness in his voice Firenze hadn’t heard. Not quite anger, not quite sadness. “Like I said, it's bad.”

  Berenson said, “This is why the Agency left me alive. Every other team is being dismantled. Three of the four units they sent, ended up out-of-commission within a week. Tiberius has their playbook. He is inside their command structure. Any conventional force will be rendered inoperable, just as on the Airship. Most end worse. Halstead's unit was the very best.”

  “So why are we any different? We got trashed once, and that was with support. After the frame job, I doubt the Agency will want to back with us again. We're used meat!” Firenze protested.

  “That is exactly why have a chance. Tiberius has one flaw in his game. He discards broken pieces. So long as we do not appear a threat, we can ambush him, safely.” Berenson said.

  “I think that he'd consider you a threat!” Firenze said.

  Berenson scowled. He buried it, in an instant, and answered, “He should. But the disrespect he showed on the Airship would indicate otherwise.”

  “Alright, fine. We ambush him with our felon brigade. Then what? We pillow fight him to death? You saw the guns he brought!” Firenze said. He ran down mental checklist, ticking off the reasons this wouldn’t work.

  Clausen answered, “We've got angles on getting more toys of our own. This time, we'll be ready for the dog and pony show.”

  “Okay, sure, we've got all the answers. I still don't want to help the goddamned Agency. Not after what they did to us!” To me.

  To the Colonel.

  The second thought echoed the first, scoured like a whip.

  Clausen leaned towards him, and, with a terrifying smile, said, “Don't worry, we won't be helping them. We end this, we end this totally - for and by the people this Charter was meant to serve.”

  Firenze had always been a passive supporter. He'd appreciated the idea of Article Two enforcement when his ex had been captivated by protest and revolution. He'd even given lip service to appease her, he'd gone to small rallies f
or short stays, and then ducked out before the espos rolled in. He'd supported AI development, but never logged a protest for construct rights. He'd fought on the Airship, but only by being chained to the wheel and dragged between the threats. He'd never integrated his convictions. He'd always had too much to lose. His education. His future. His life.

  Now he lived in a slum, cowered like an animal. His future was wrecked. He was owned by a government that had ruined him. He was afraid for his life, from both terrorists, and the Agency that was supposed to protect him. So many had died, and for what? So that he could sit here and tinker and wait until the food ran out? He remembered the Colonel, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, and that lecture he hadn't quite understood. These things have to be chosen.

  He'd heard it said that nothing was more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. He'd learned that a team was greater than the sum of its parts. What, then, was more dangerous than an entire cadre of such men, well trained and motivated by those that had wronged them? Firenze found himself grinning. It was a moment of revelation, understanding the path before him, suddenly, utterly, and cleary.

  Grant Firenze, passive follower, took a stand. He said, “Fuck it. I'm in. What's the plan?”

  Berenson pulled out a data card, his Cheshire smile growing by the moment, and he asked, “Tell me, Mister Firenze, have you ever heard of Durandal?”

  Iteration 0110

  The drive to the Capital was a pressure cooker. As each idyllic scene rolled past, the heat rose, notch by notch. Past the beltway, past the cordons, and past the checkpoints, it was kilometers of ice-dusted orchards and snow-crusted rivers, white bridges and hedged gardens. All it was a lie. By the third graceful, arched passage over frozen waters, Velasquez was ready to burst out the side door and start shooting. She really didn’t care at what she hit, but the infuriating “cute” stone geese lining the walkways would have been a good start.

  Beside her, Special Agent Porter glowered out his window in silence. Built like a linebacker, Porter came from Sigma and the Agency RAST teams. Until this year, he’d had a sterling record. One bad call, and Porter was yesterday’s breakfast. Just like her. She’d built her team from Raschel’s file of last-chancers and hard cases. Every one of them was top notch, every one of them damaged, and every one of them hungry.

  The hunger gave them focus, granted them fluid perspective, and lent them a determination unlike any other. That hunger, though, burned all too hot when it was hemmed in, made to dance through protocol - especially dumb protocol. In his reflection, Porter’s lip was curled in a silent growl. He was pissed, threatening to boil over like a volcano. Velasquez couldn’t blame him. There was a big target, down in Charleston. Analysis dug it up while chasing ghost shipments at blue-water ports, cross-referenced with trusted informants. The data was good. The Faction had something heavy down there, but they kept their depots moving. There was a tight window before it vanished, again. Too tight to be taking this slow ride to the Citadel. No wonder, then, that her RAST point man was burning up around the collar.

  You say you want results, and you put me on a leash?

  She already knew the Chief’s answer. ‘Never trust the net, Commander. It’s not secure. That's lesson number four.’ His “lessons” could be enlightening, but right now, she needed speed, not lectures.

  To keep herself from snapping, she turned travel into a numbers game. Three rings of beltway through the historic city. Seventeen levels of descending ramps until they met the tram. Fourteen minutes on the monorail. Six minutes of power-walking through the marble halls. Broken down, it was easy to take in bite-sized chunks. That helped her to stop dwelling on the delays.

  Raschel kept no secretary, not since the last one died in a “freak car accident”. He refused to hire any of the options, called them “plants, spies, and saboteurs”. The Section Chief was, as ever, alone in his office. He holed-up behind his desk, piles of papers stacked precariously, and a burn safe half-open, filled with dim ash. He held out a hand, never looked up, for Velasquez’s paper packet. He flipped through it, like a kineoscope, then passed it back. “Do it.” He said. “And then burn the papers.”

  Velasquez passed the stack to Porter. A quick nod exchanged, and he darted from the room. He’d be on a flitter within the hour, at the raid site in two. Velasquez did not follow. She stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind her back, and stared at the Chief, waiting.

  “Yes?” Raschel asked, with just a hint of tension.

  Here was the trick of it, to ask a pointed question without being seen as insubordinate. It was an art she was lacking, but practice made perfect. “Sir?” Velasquez inquired, as respectfully as she could manage. “There has got to be a better way.”

  “I'm sure there is, but until we discover it, we work by paper, where we must, and by voice when possible. And we burn everything.” Raschel’s tone was clipped, dismissive. He never looked up from his papers.

  “Sir, they can track where I’m moving, where my team is moving-”

  Now he stopped. He set down his papers, sat up in his chair. He said, “It's not the observation of our actions I'm concerned about, Reyna, it's the observations of our intentions. Striker will see the motions, but he won't see the causes. Burned paper is shadow play. The net, however, is a sieve, and hostile. There must be no paper trail, no written record, to use against us. Lesson sixteen, Reyna. The less defined the truth, the more you can frame it. Always give yourself room to wiggle.” The Chief returned to his desk, stared at the pile of papers in front of him. He asked, “Did you see the news, today?” Behind him, the viewscreen showed snowfall on the Citadel, a perfect capture of a riverfront view. Beside the false window, banks of awards and medals hung, dust gathered on their corners.

  “No, sir.” Velasquez admitted. “I don’t like to watch it. Never any good news.”

  Raschel stared directly at her. He said, “Make sure you catch it. Always. Get multiple sources, in different languages. Learn how, and why, they differ in coverage. The truth lies in the margins. That's the seventeenth lesson.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Path crossed the demarcation line, this morning.” He said, almost absently, as he returned to his piles of data. “We should have greased Radek when we had the chance. Remind me, next time, to kill that motherfucker.”

  Velasquez was silent.

  Time passed. He read. She stood.

  Raschel finally said, “You're still here? Speak.”

  “Sir, why did you let Berenson rob the archives?”

  Raschel glanced at her, one eyebrow cocked. He asked, “Now, what ever do you mean?”

  She said, “You didn't move to snatch him after the Airship, even though he was on scene. You didn't move to pursue him, in the month since. You ordered me to let his hacker out of jail, when we could have buried him for years. You ordered me to antagonize that kid, you ordered me to give him resources, and you ordered me to post a tail, and then didn’t let me move in, when the primary waltzed onto the scene.”

  She paused, glanced over to see that Raschel was still calmly sucking coffee from his ISA-branded mug. She continued, “I've used the access you gave me to track Berenson's movements. He went to the Archives twice, in person, using false identicards. He gained access to the data vaults, through personal manipulation and outright theft, and made off with reams full of classified data, including nearly every report on what we're doing against Striker.”

  “And how is that going?” Raschel asked, pointedly. Anger bloomed for a moment, but she clamped down. It’s going badly. Very badly. I have the only team even making a dent in the Blade rackets, and no one has touched any tangible command and control. Four more cities are now disaster zones, and there are riots in the Capital's outer wards.

  She continued, “Berenson’s second attempt tripped the alarm, but the response teams were slowed by a false fire alarm - and a real gas leak - but you never told me. This means that you aren't shooting straight with me, sir. You wanted
my straight talk and wholesale loyalty? Well, sir, that runs both ways! Are we talking, or, are we walking?”

  Raschel took another drink from his mug. He asked, “Have I ever told you how refreshing you are, Reyna? Because, you truly are. I eat, sleep, breathe, and fuck bullshit, every day. It's pleasant to work with someone who will cut through it.” He explained, “This was multi-fold. I had to see if you could find the movement behind our own doors. You saw it, you analyzed it, and you called me on it. Bravo. Test passed.”

  “Sir, you need to stop testing me, and let me start solving this. I can't keep control of this situation if you're tying my hands-”

  “I know, I know.” He held up his arms in mock surrender. “I'm a bastard. Remember that.” His voice leveled, and he added, “More importantly, I want Berenson in play.”

  “Sir?” She couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

  “Right?” He asked. “Berenson’s a psychopath. He's highly resourceful, he's manipulative, he's an outright enemy of the state, but he's the only tool we have, that even comes close to stacking up against his brother. Which is why their grudge match is exactly what we need.”

  “How is that, sir?”

  “The only thing Striker fears, the only thing that bastard respects, is himself. So long as Berenson is out there, lurking in the mist, Striker cannot give us his full attention. You're seeing what his partial attention can do, Rey. We do not need to be the sole focus of his efforts.” He tapped his tablet with his knuckle. “Consider the Path. Radek is a fucker, but he thinks in straight lines - honor, glory, vengeance, you name it. He'd never think of a scheme involving destabilization, sabotage, chemical-warfare-via-drugs, and long-buried societal tensions revolving around lost history. He'd throw a bomb through a window and scream about God. But right now, he's coming at us, and we have to draw up a draft, to put an army down on that line, to deal with his lunatic cult-”

  “Which is going to exacerbate the tensions in dronetown, Chief.” Velasquez stated. “There will be draft riots, I can tell you now.”