The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “Oh, I'm well aware. But tell that to the Senate. They won't even listen to me, unless they've got a spit up my ass, asking me about exploded Airships and rogue ASOC. Bunch of assholes.” Raschel said. “The point is, we have to contend with the Path, or we'll lose ground to them. We can't give Striker our all, because we've got riots and food shortages and wars and drugs and sabotage... he's throwing this at us, to slow down our response, muddy the water, make us play our cards wrong. We're playing poker against a master, here, and mastery in this game isn't about math, it's about people, and keeping a clear head.”

  Velasquez understood, now, and she felt filth rise up about her. She hypothesized, “So, we let Berenson go? We let him whip up Halstead's unit into a vengeful fury, and we let Striker stew on his brother's ambitions? This buys us time to get our footing, and attack. And the only cost to us, is a tool we weren’t keeping, anyway.”

  Raschel nodded. “Lesson eighteen: the enemy of my enemy is a pleasant convenience.”

  “Those were our people, sir.” She said. Honor and duty do not cover this. What would her grandfather think? She could remember him, in his rocking chair, white hair poking out from the old garrison cap, telling stories of Unification. What would he say about this?

  “They were.” Raschel admitted. “And they knew the risks, same as you or I. They took an oath to serve, until death. They aren't dead, and if they choose to throw in their lot with that psychopath, then the consequences will be theirs to bear.”

  “Consequences? You have a plan for them?” She asked. She already knew the answer.

  “You will have a plan for them. I will attempt to sway them back to our team, once we get closer to last call, but if they do not accept, you will remove them from the table. Until then, it is imperative that Berenson be in play, to distract his brother. He knows that I know this. I know that he knows this. We both know that the other knows, so we'll do our little dance. The moment his threat becomes too great, we cull him. Until then, we use the methods already in place to keep the pressure on Striker, and you keep eyes and ears on Berenson's little toys.”

  It was disgusting. Every inch of it. She knew it. But she had given her oath. “Yes, sir. Let the record show that I object to this entire plan.”

  “No.” He stated, flatly. “Remember lesson sixteen, Reyna - never keep a record.”

  Extrapolation 0001

  “The workings of any organization truly fall on a few key figures. These are the people who bind the whole together, who grease every plan and reinforce the social structure. They are not always the leaders, but without them, everything falls apart. You want to build something quickly? Forget raising an army from the top, down. Find two or three of these key players, get their buy-in. They will spread the word through the crowd, and find two or three more. The ripple effect will carry from there.

  “Think of someone you know, someone about whom you would say, 'well, if he is involved, then I shall follow'. Find those people. They are the hub of the wheel. Make them your own, and you put all else in motion.”

  This was the type of bar where people went to get drunk. There was no pretension in the design. There was no band, games, or dance floor. There was simply a long, winding bar and a set of tables packed into the tight space, with the only entertainment being a dart board hung in the corner, poorly lit. The drinks were cheap and simple, and the chairs were built of shoddy, breakable plastic, to reduce the chance of fatalities when someone was inevitably clubbed over the head.

  It was a bar for rough customers to slam down stout drinks, stare at the walls, and wait for someone to fight. At the edge of this bar, furthest from the door, Aaron Hill was hitting on everything that moved past, more intent on bringing on that promised melee, than in actually taking home a partner.

  “Reaper, you fucked up bastard.” Clausen said.

  Hill froze, mid-pickup, and then broke out into a stupid-wide grin. “Hey, Sarge!” He yelled, almost managing to hide his slur.

  “Doorman said you've been trying to find a hooker to pay you for sex?” Clausen said, as he leaned up on the scarred surface of the bar.

  “It's always been a goal of mine, Sarge. Bucket list, you know. A man's gotta have dreams.” Hill replied. He drained his beer, and slid it down the counter towards a pile of empties.

  Without a word, Clausen dropped a voucher on the counter. Just as silently, a bottle replaced it, the bartender popping the lid and then departing without even a nod. “Nice place.” Clausen said. He sipped from the smoking rim of the bottle. It was liquid, but not much more.

  “Gets me drunk, Sarge, and cheap. Can't ask for more.”

  “How about if I said we were going after Striker?” Clausen asked.

  “Alone?” Hill asked. He stared at his next beer, as if not sure if he'd had enough, or too much.

  “Nah, a couple of us are on it. You want in?”

  Hill weighed the bottle in his hand, then pounded it back. He declared, “Hell yes, sir.”

  Clausen continued, “Mind, we don't have support, or sanction-”

  “Alright.” Hill said.

  “We'll probably all get killed-”

  “Fuck yeah!” Hill agreed. He slammed his bottle against the bar for emphasis. “First to fight!”

  The barkeep shot a glare down the line.

  Clausen sighed, and asked, “You’ve been waiting for this, haven't you?”

  “Damn skippy.” Hill said. “Me and Scooch been making plans. We talk about it, about every night.” Hill said. He tilted his beer, like a scale, and admitted, “We never really get beyond the 'swearing vengeance' part. No real planning, to be honest. Lot of drinking.”

  “Well, we've got the thinking part covered. Before we do this, though, I need to know-”

  Hill held up his hand, to stop him. He asked, “You knew Dag, right?”

  “Of course.” Clausen replied. Kawalski. Died trying to protect civilians. They used a goddamn century laser on her.

  Hill plucked at the corner of the bar, his voice soft as he stared at his shoes. He said, “She was one of my very best friends, Sarge. We went through selection together. I ever tell you that?”

  “No.” Clausen admitted. He thought he'd heard all Hill's stories by now.

  “I didn't talk about it, much. She asked me not to. Doesn't matter. Not anymore.” Hill slammed back his drink. He continued, “We were in the same class, doing SCUBA training – demo and shit. We were on a marathon dive, planting dummy charges, and my fucking BCD loses pressure – all the air shoots out, and I'm sinking like a rock, trying to patch the leak. I'll be fine, probably, but I'm fucked for passing. But, Dag stops, comes back, gets a sealant patch on it, and we finish the run, both of us over time. Like that, we're done. So sorry, please try again in six months.”

  “Shit.” Clausen said. He let the invective stand in for sympathy.

  “Yeah, well, fuck that. She could have done the damn course just fine, and I'd have been alright. I'd have pointed out so low I couldn't apply again for a tour, sure, but, it wasn't the end of me. So, I ask her, and she just gives me this look – you know it, the 'what the fuck were you expecting me to do' look – and takes her bounce.” Hill checked the bottle for any remnants, and, finding none, continued, “So, I march my happy ass down to the instructors, and I tell them to bounce me. I tell them I fucked up, and she went back to pull my ass out.”

  “I thought you said your BCD ruptured?” Clausen asked.

  “It did. Shitty old war gear, but you tell that to the bastard Master Specialist over in supply.” Hill said. “Twenty years of service, dead-ended in a stockroom, more power than a bird colonel. Yeah, he'd be real fucking accommodating.” The commando shrugged, and said, “I’d be lucky if he didn't take my boots back. Say I was polishing with the wrong fucking stroke – circles, not streaks, by the way.

  “Anyway, I go over there, and admit that I failed proper inspection, and that Dag saved my ass-”

  “You'd be hard bounced.” Clausen sai
d. “Done.”

  “Yeah.” Hill said. “But I wasn't letting someone get fucked, on my account. I got her back in, got them to give her another run at it. She blew it away. Fastest time in unit. I took my bounce, and started getting ready for that discharge.” He gave a weak smile, and added, “Instead, just before tour ends, I get a letter, suggesting that I put in for selection. Must be a mistake, right? Turns out, my bounce didn't get logged, doesn't exist, and a certain Sergeant Kawalski is recommending me.” His thin smile grew. He said, “She was the best, Sarge, the god damn best. Lived and breathed everything they taught us.”

  Hill stopped. His wan smile was gone. In its place was the iciest glare Clausen had ever seen. Hill said, “I wore her guts like paint.” His words were flat, like two-ton bricks, slamming into place. “I swear, Sergeant, I will find every one of those bastards, I will hunt them. Bleed them. For Dag. For every man, woman, and child they killed. And when I find Striker... I am going to brand every name onto his bones, until he can recite their litany by the texture of pain.”

  All of a sudden, it was Clausen who wanted a drink.

  Like a thrown switch, Hill was back to his normal, cheery self. He said, “So, yeah, I'm down for this joyride.” He shrugged, nonchalant, “I can get Scooch, too.”

  Clausen blinked. Hard. He asked, “Can you get him, tonight?”

  “Damn straight!”

  “Tell him to meet us at the old metro station, down the block. Give him half an hour. You ready to head out?” Clausen asked, with a quick glance to the 'empties' pile.

  “Born ready.” Hill snatched up Clausen's drink and finished it. Only then did he ask, “Uh, you weren't...”

  “We're fine. Let's go.”

  The moment Clausen pressed the door open, the wind cut at him, like a frozen razor. As he pushed through the red-lit door, the first gusts hurled snow against his eyes. He winced, pulled up his hand. He forced himself to look, into the whorls of blinding snow and pitch shadows.

  Normally, he liked winter in the city. The snow made everything pure. The white blanket would bury the dirt, bury the grime. For just a little while, the world could be innocent, again.

  It was different, this year. The snow didn't transform the the city, it strangled it.

  It was four blocks to the station, but the walk was murderous. The wind howled, hurled up the razor grains of snow. The heat was sucked from his lips, from his cheeks. Snot froze in his nose, sent bulging pain deep into his eyes.

  A single vendor pushed past, leaned hard into the cracked sides of his rolling stall, desperately shoved it against the powdery onslaught. Behind him, three blackshirt police - espos - huddled in a doorway, clustered around a portable heater. They watched the vendor. They glanced to their watches. He would fail curfew, soon. Then they could make their quota.

  Clausen pushed past the neon lights, past the watchfire glow of the streetlamps. OLED tape snapped in the gale, shining its scrolling lights against the snowbanks. Behind the frozen windows, every viewscreen lied. One called for a state of emergency. The next insisted that ‘everything was fine’. Between the cut-out frames of buildings, in the sunken holes between the blizzard and the glare, “Civil Order” militia clustered, temp badges gleaming with pride.

  They kept close to their heaters, tonight. A few of them glanced to the espos, checked to see if the ‘real cops’ had moved. Every time, they were satisfied. Two men walking across the street wasn't enough to make them push into the cold.

  Still, Clausen felt their eyes on him. They're just trying to help. City police are too thin. They're just trying to help. His lips tightened, his fist clenched.

  At the entrance to the metro, a uniformed patrol waited, standing guard at the stairwell. As Clausen and Hill approached, one of the officers stepped forward. Hand raised, he said, “Hold there.”

  Both stopped.

  The officer spoke through frost specked lips, set deep behind a high collar. He said, “Identicards? Keep your hands visible. No sudden movements. Please.”

  “What's going on, officer? Is there something wrong?” Clausen asked, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

  “Just a spot check. We're sweeping the transit system. No reason for alarm. Now, are you carrying any weapons? Illicit material?”

  “No.”

  A second officer scanned their presented cards, then waved the sensor bar across their bodies. It beeped, as it passed Hill’s jacket pocket.

  The first cop grabbed Hill. The second produced a multitool.

  The cop asked, “What's this, Mister…” the officer's glasses flashed as the data rolled past, “…Hill?”

  “A knife, officer. For work.” Hill explained.

  “Ah, and what do you – oh my. Colorful history.”

  Ah hell. Clausen closed his eyes. Of course this happens.

  Hill replied, “I work at a shipping plant, sir. I ship things.”

  “And what does this knife do?”

  “It cuts boxes, sir.”

  “Hmm... appears to be three millimeters over limit.” The officer checked the blade. “That's a six hundred credit fine, and we're taking the weapon.”

  “It's not a weapon! It's a damned box knife!”

  “Let it go.” Clausen said.

  “And, it appears that your work requires a 'Good Citizen' policy. This will go on your record, Mister Hill. The fine has been deducted from your identicard account, and you've been fired. Good day.” The officer waved them past.

  For a moment, it looked like Hill was about to commit a few more crimes, starting with ‘assaulting an officer’ and escalating. Clausen marched him into the building, and whispered, “It isn't worth it.” He nearly pushed Hill through the turnstiles.

  “I swear to God, I will-”

  “Not yet. Not now. Later.” Clausen promised.

  “Yes, Sarge.” Hill agreed. He forced himself calm. They headed down, into the station.

  In years past, the magnificent stone caverns of the terminal would have been filled with a crush of pedestrians. This was a main hub, linking the underground to the skyport. Tiers of travelers would have weaved through ramps and Corinthian columns. Now, the halls lay empty, but for a few maintenance bots, that trundled on automated paths. The shops were closed, signs hung, warning any curfew violators to go home.

  Clausen checked his watch. Forty minutes until curfew. No one took chances, not on government property.

  “Spooky.” Hill said.

  They descended lower still, three levels of tracks below surface. There, Berenson waited.

  The supersoldier stood in the center of the empty promenade, on the raised stone walk between the tracks, framed by tunnel lights, the wind from the deep tunnels snapping his greatcoat about his legs. With a flourish, he snapped closed his watch, and tucked it away.

  Theatrical bastard.

  Behind Clausen, Hill stopped. He demanded, “What the hell is he doin' here?”

  “He's the brains of the rodeo.” Clausen said.

  “Ah, fuck that, Sarge. He's a sumbitch!” Hill delcared.

  “Agreed. But we need him. And he needs us. For now, he's our son of a bitch.”

  “Why the hell's that?”

  Berenson said, “Because, without me, you lack aim. Without you, I lack a weapon. There is a symbiotic relationship at play.”

  “Symbiotic?” Hill mangled the word. He said, “Fuck that noise. I don't trust him.”

  Clausen said, “I trust him. On this.”

  “Why, Sarge?”

  “He let me shoot him.”

  “He what?” Hill demanded.

  “I got better.” Berenson said.

  “He got better.” Clausen echoed.

  “That's just fucked up-” Hill trailed off. He stared down the line, as Firenze stepped out from a closed shop. Hill demanded, “Princess! You're on the crazy bus, too?”

  Firenze ignored Hill, and said, “Surveillance is jammed and looped for fifteen minutes. We have time to talk.” He added
, “Good to see you, too.”

  There was a clatter from the stairwell. Rutman stepped around the corner. He stopped short, backed up. He stared hard at Berenson, and his hand twitched - Rutman reached for a gun he didn’t have. He demanded, “The hell, Sarn't? Why’s he here?”

  Hill answered, “Cause Sarge shot him and now they're friends!”

  Rutman said, “That's a little fucked up.”

  “Yeah, I think that goes without saying.” Firenze said.

  Rutman asked, “So... is this some form of trust fall? We all have to shoot each other to join the club? 'Cause, I'm not cool with that.”

  Clausen answered, “Relax. Only person getting shot is Berenson.”

  “You do know I feel pain, right?” Berenson asked. He glanced, again, to his watch. “Time is short. What has Clausen told you?”

  Rutman glanced at Hill. Hill shrugged. Rutman sighed.

  Hill said, “Sarge wants to get us some payback. Get the team together, go dark ages on this bastard.”

  Rutman agreed, “That's pretty much what I got.”

  Clausen said, “Well, that's because it’s pretty much it. Berenson’s got the plan, it seems relatively betrayal-free, and not half bad. More risk than I'd like, but we're up a creek here-”

  Berenson said, “Fortes fortuna adiuvat.”

  “Yeah, that. Anyway.” Clausen ignored the interjection. He said, “We're going in. Full tilt boogie. Survivability’s iffy, and if we lose, and somehow don't die, we're in jail until the sun goes cold. Anything goes wrong, first hint of betrayal, we all shoot Berenson. That’s the basics. Everyone clear?”

  Rutman nodded. He said, “Got it. Reaper?”

  Hill shrugged, and said, “Shit, Sarge, I got nothing better to do.”

  Just like that, Clausen had a team.

  Iteration 0110

  Another week, another disaster.

  Porter's team got mauled, and she hadn't been there.

  They’d traced the Charleston seizure back to a transshipment hub in Port Harcourt, on the Bonny river. It was a giant container farm, a bulk cargo skyscraper maze beside ocean. She’d coordinated with local police and customs for a “training exercise” to hide her team’s movement. Porter's team caught a flitter, rendezvoused with local response units, and set out to search and seize the flagged containers.