The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  He’d gone to ground on a dozen terrains. He’d learned to map them, think of the world around him as an actor in the conflict, and leverage it. In that thought-space, he had to be rat and wolf, at once. See, and be unseen. Hunt, and know you are hunted. Strike from shadow, and be as fog. It was a terrible, crushing place, the kind of always-on that drove a man over the edge of sanity, where even sleep seemed a desperate risk.

  Clausen was used to it. The terrain changed, but the space was the same. He’d just never expected to find that space, at home.

  Just outside the Olympia Terrace, he’d found a staging point. An abandoned office park, where the staff left too quick to shut down the power. Corporate security had paid a small fortune for an array of automated defenses - sweepers, pain screens, even a couple drones - whether those had stayed on by accident, or by ‘accident’, was entirely unknown. The big point was, those defenses kept most the looters away. Why ransack this office, when there were a dozen others nearby, which wouldn’t leave you with a permanent limp.

  Of course, that same defense was a golden opportunity for bolder vagrants, as it promised power, datalink, and relative isolation. For a team of rogue ASOC operatives, corporate-tier defenses weren’t a deterrent; they were a perk.

  A quick probe, a breach, and a quick tap on the security server, and this was a nice, temporary home. It wasn’t quite a bunker, but inside the chaos of the quarantine zone, it was close enough. Using the datalink was dangerous. Any transmission meant the ISA could snoop them, but Firenze insisted that his routers would conceal them. It was good enough. Clausen could make this base work, and put his team back together.

  What was left of it.

  “What about Top?” Hill asked. The solider sat with his chair cocked back against a dead potted plant, hit boots propped against the edge of the conference table. His heavy coat was slung around his shoulders, and his ready bag was beside him, sling exposed. He kept his angle on the door clear, and never let his eyes drift from the gap.

  “Dead.” Clausen said. Sergeant Major Ruiz had been the first man he’d looked for.

  “Ham?” Hill asked. He chewed his gum as he spoke, and stared hard, into the open hall.

  “Gone.” Clausen answered. On the table, a holoscreen projector whirred. In the air above, a dozen personnel files floated, with a hundred more listed by name and number. All of ASOC NORCOM was in this list - and most of that list was red. Clausen stabbed at the floating list, pointed to name, listed [DECEASED]. The light bent around his fingertip, the mist parted at his wrist. He preferred to work with hard copies. If you got pissed, you could throw them around, and be satisfied. Stabbing a holoprojector just gave you a wet hand. It was very un-fulfilling.

  “Holler?” Hill asked.

  “Toast.” Clausen said.

  “What about Toast?” Rutman asked. Scooch sat in the opposite point of the triangle, propped against the filing cabinet. Unlike the others, he refused to wear a proper shirt, pulling a heavy coat over a ‘feel good’ t-shirt. He also refused to take off his sunglasses. Far be it for a mere blizzard to force Charlie Rutman to wear long sleeves. Hell, five degrees warmer, and he’d have insisted on shorts.

  “Toast is… also toast.” Clausen said.

  “Fuck a duck, Sarn't.” Rutman replied. In disgust, he tossed his datapad across the table. It skittered across the lightboards, sent waves and patchwork through the holographic fog. He asked, “Is there anyone left?”

  Clausen had to work to fight back his grimace. He had to work, just as hard, to choke back the answer, ‘That’s what we’re looking for.’ Scooch wasn't really asking a question, he was venting. So many dead. Clausen had to acknowledge it, and push past. Keep the team on focus. He said, “We've got the three of us, Firenze, and Berenson. It's a start.”

  “That's four and half shooters, Sarn't.” Rutman said.

  Hill replied, “Princess pulled his weight. We’ve got five shooters.”

  “Wonderful.” Rutman said.

  “Hey, Scooch, if you're not going to use your balls, can I hang 'em off my truck?” Hill asked.

  “Fuck off.” Rutman said. There was no heat in his words. He said, “I didn't say I wasn't down for this, I'm just pointing out what-”

  Clausen stopped the tangent. He read the next name on the list, and asked, “Archer?”

  Silence.

  Clausen pointed to the files, and asked, “Lieutenant Archer? He's not listed KIA.”

  “He's a fucking potato.” Rutman said. “I saw him in the hospital. After the crash. He’s jacked up on IVs and a neural rig. It'll be a fucking miracle if he learns to blink without prompting.” He stopped, growled at himself, and snatched his datacard back, from the table. He flipped down the list, and asked, “Facker?”

  “Gone.”

  “He ain't listed.” Rutman said.

  “He's gone.” Hill said. His tone was certain. Rutman didn't ask, again.

  Clausen took the name off the list.

  Hill asked, “What about Doggo?”

  He's a goddamn ghost. Clausen bit back his response. There'd been no sign of Donegan since the Airship. He hadn't shown up at the trial, he hadn't shown up for release. He'd vanished. Resigned his commission, and fallen off the damn planet. Never took him for a coward. He’ll have his reasons. Clausen said none of this. He replied, “No dice.”

  The room was silent, as they scanned their lists. The climate system groaned, sputtered through the vents. Snow swept along the stained panel windows. The wind howled over the roof. No one spoke.

  They had five shooters, no firepower they didn’t built on a microfab, no transport, and they were reliant on Antonius Goddamn Berenson. In total: they were fucked.

  Clausen brushed the holodisplay again, popped open a new window. Win or lose, we never quit. He had to try a different approach. He said, “Pull the arrest records. Forget sifting casualty reports. Let's see they bothered burning, and work from there.”

  For a few moments, there was silence again, except for the light tick-tap of datacards and keypads.

  Clausen knew he had a hit, when Rutman asked, “What about Pants?”

  Tech Sergeant Oswalt “Pants” Jennings. Rated for vertol flight. Came from the Pioneers. Really hates beets. Clausen had to suppress a smile. A couple tours back, they’d done a training exchange with an ASOC unit from eastern EUROCOM. Two out of three meals were borscht - beet stew. Jennings was a trooper. He’d choked down bowl after bowl, and even posed, smiling, for the photos. He’d never seen a man drink so much mouthwash.

  Clausen flagged Jennings’ name on the list, and ordered, “Find him.”

  Hill popped up with another name, and said, “Bernie.”

  Specialist Dean Garrett, one of the youngest to pass Selection. A butcher with the M254.

  Rutman agreed, “He's out of the clink, he'll be good for this. We get him a Hog, couple belts-”

  “We’re gonna need more than a Hog-” Hill started.

  Clausen, again, terminated the tangent. He said, “We've got a plan for that. Right now, we need shooters, not a list of problems.”

  “Beast.” Rutman offered. “And Sludge.”

  Diaz and Trevinger. The sniper/spotter pair weren't in the main scrap on the Plymouth. They'd made it out cleaner than most. “Get them.” After a moment, another name popped off the list. “Monterra.”

  Hill grinned, and said, “I knew Sandy'd fuckin' live.”

  “Sandy?” Clausen asked. He'd never really worked with Sergeant Monterra, so he didn't know the origin of the nickname.

  “You don't want to know.” Rutman said. “You don't want to know.”

  “Some things, man wasn't meant to understand.” Hill agreed. “She’ll be up for a good killing, though.”

  “Alright, get her on board.”

  Now, the names rolled in. Janning. Chen. Margot. Lassiter. Jackson. Cole. Herren. Kelso. Novich. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Two companies of the Authority's best had stormed the Plymouth. Little mor
e than two dozen had staggered out. Striker will bleed for that. Twelve hundred civilians perished, because ASOC had failed. Striker will die for that.

  “Hock?” Rutman asked.

  It was Hill's turn to shake his head. “Ate his own gun.”

  “Fuck me.” Rutman said. “What about Fuentes?”

  “I've got nothing after release.”

  Clausen fought off the pounding headache. It threatened him, every time he looked at this damned list. So many dead. So many broken. How did we fail so badly? David “Hock” Warther was one of the toughest sons-of-bitches Clausen had ever known. He'd killed himself - suicide - because of that damned Airship. Just like Parvotti.

  Parvotti put the gun to his head-

  Clausen broke his train of thought. He closed his eyes, took a breath. Clear. Think clear. He focused on the fog, on the names and numbers floating in the mist. He said, “Put Fuentes on the list. He’s just lying low.” I hope. “We'll find him.”

  “I've got a hit on Peeps.” Rutman said.

  Peter Peters. His parent's must have hated him, for that damned name. Staff Sergeant, came into ASOC from Sigma. Decent enough guy, for a Sigmite. Hell of a soldier.

  Rutman continued, “Looks like he got himself into a bust for picking up hookers.” The soldier's eyes narrowed, behind his mirrored shades. He added, “Nasty hookers.”

  Hill leaned over, caught a glimpse of the story on Rutman’s tablet. He whistled, and said, “Suicide by 'asshole buffet'. That's a helluva way to go.”

  Not funny, Reaper. Not funny.

  Clausen said, “Pay his damned bail, bring him in.”

  “Aye, Sarge.” Hill said. He caught the reproach in Clausen’s tone, and looked away, just slightly abashed. Not enough, though, to stop him from mouthing the words, ‘asshole buffet’ to Scooch, when he thought Clausen wasn’t looking.

  “Any EWOs left?” Clausen asked. “We've got nearly enough to breach a room, but other than Pants, we're short on wizards.”

  “I can't find Frogger on any of casualty lists, Sarn't.” Rutman said.

  “Same. Or court records.” Hill agreed.

  Clausen glanced at the holoproject. Landis Gerdoux. Only two EWOs had survived the Plymouth. Donegan was missing. Now Gerdoux was, too? How- “Of course they are.” He said.

  “Sarn't?” Rutman asked.

  “Of course we can't find the damn wizards. They're going to pull a Princess and poof right off the grid.” Clausen said. And unlike Firenze, these guys have the fieldcraft to bury themselves, deep.

  “Didn't he hang out with Pants?” Rutman asked. “I think I scrounged them up some...” he trailed off for a moment. He offered Clausen his best 'innocent' smile. Clausen waved him on, and Rutman finished, “…stuff. I scrounged them some totally legal stuff once – twice - a couple a times. Point is, if you find Pants, you'll get Frogger. We can put him on the shit list.”

  “Shit list.” Hill said. “I like that.”

  Clausen turned back to his screen. Twenty-two people, against Striker's nightmare army, against the Agency, against a freight train of bad decisions and poisoned history. It wasn't enough.

  Scooch must have read something on his face, because he said, “Got us one more, Sarn't.”

  Clausen glanced up, raised his eyebrows.

  “Devo.” Rutman said.

  Technical Sergeant Bruce Devallo. Came from the Pathfinders, out of the Pioneers. “We could use another engineer.” He agreed. “Where'd you find him?”

  “He tried to do a wipe, like Pants and Doggo, but got caught on an advert-bot out in Central.” Rutman said, as he spun his tablet about, to show the engineer's face. “He was going under the name, 'B. Richard Johnson'-”

  Hill snapped, “That was my code name! Sumbitch stole it!”

  Clausen said, “I'll take it.”

  That was the last of it. The barrel had been thoroughly scraped. Clausen split the contact lists, and purged the records. Two dozen soldiers, that he had to convince, to give up what little life they had left, to go on a half-cocked charge into hell, with no backup, extraction, or fall-back. Two dozen, against the world.

  “Two squads.” Hill said, echoing Clausen’s thoughts. “We've got two squads.”

  “If they all come.” Rutman said. “No guarantee they'll show.”

  “They will.” Hill said.

  Clausen knew he was right, but it didn't help the anvil in his stomach. He’d ask, and they’d come. He would pull them with him, over the brink, into this last battle. He almost wished they’d say, 'no'.

  Almost.

  He couldn't be selfish with the sacrifice. This wasn’t just his fight. This belonged to ASOC. This was for the Colonel. He’d ask, and they’d come, because they’d be waiting. How could he deny them?

  Clausen forced himself to smile, to show confidence. He said, “You know, I think we could let a few of them stay home. Give Striker a fighting chance.”

  The other two laughed, like they believed it. They’d follow him. They’d all follow him, as he lead them into twilight, and the heart of the storm.

  Iteration 0110

  “They call us Luddites, you know.” Raschel said.

  Water bubbled past the window of the submersible, as they descended. Two days out of the conference, they'd caught a private skimmer, and landed on a deep sea rig, in the heart of Oceania. She’d never felt so alone, as when she’d stepped onto that skimmer pad, and stood in the ocean wind. Unending blue unfurled in all directions. They were truly nowhere, on a little speck of orange and gray, detritus on the sea. The chief engineer had taken them on the tour, showed them the drill shaft, the turbines, the dronehouse. They were probing the Challenger Deep, pushing through bedrock in the deepest seas, for oil buried in pockets, unreachable. They’d stood on the ramp of the submersible, and the engineer had assured her it was ‘for repair work’, even as Raschel beckoned her aboard.

  “Persephone.” He'd called it. Queen of the underworld, and an oil rig in the middle of nowhere. This was going nowhere good, and fast.

  Now, she sat on the bench, as the air slowly changed to a deep-sea brew, the “trimix” of oxygen, nitrogen, and helium. The Chief's voice sounded tinny, as his lungs adjusted. “A Luddite!” He declared, in mock fury.

  “Why is that so bad, sir?” She asked. She had to push back the urge to giggle, as her voice broke. Laughter was dangerous, as tense as she was. One crack in her wall, and she might crumble.

  “It's a misuse of the term.” He said. Everything in his countenance was stern, serious, but his voice was ludicrously mismatched. She couldn’t help but smile. He ignored her, and continued, “People who toss the word around are trying to say that the Agency, or the Authority, just aren't up to speed in the modern world. They believe our controls outdated, our hand too heavy, and our sensibilities bound to an earlier age... perhaps the Jurassic. These little bastards hurl around the word like it means “anti-progress” or “reactionary”. That's why you'll here it associated with terms like “jackboot” and “the man”. Now, I keep quite an impressive jackboot collection, myself, but this kind of shit pisses me off!”

  “Why's that, sir?” She asked, to humor him.

  “It's the wrong word!” He declared, exasperated. “If they wanted to call me a counter-progressive, then they should just do so. Revanchist, chauvinist, fascist, those are all fine words. But, no, every time, some patchouli wearing assclown calls me a Luddite, and it pisses me off.”

  He continued, “Luddites weren't counter-progress, nor were they anti-technology. They were artisans, weavers to be precise, in the thick of the Industrial Revolution. How good are you on pre-Collapse history?” He asked. He paused for a beat, checked her blank expression. “That's when we all got out of the fields and went into factories, the first time.”

  She nodded. She'd never seen the need to study pre-Collapse, in depth. It was mostly theory, conjecture, and wishful thinking. Everything got knocked clean, and given a fresh start. There was no need to dwell on
the poetry of an age long dead.

  Raschel, apparently, disagreed. He continued, “So these artisans suddenly find themselves out of work, because mechanical looms are just plain better than them. Cheaper in the long haul, more accurate, and more reliable. Machines don't need to eat, sleep, or take a shit. They just hammer away, bang, bang, bang. So, this rabble of out of work artisans gets royally furious. Their entire line of work is now gone, and they won't be eating anytime soon, since unskilled laborers and the new machines are putting them out the doors. Their solution? They renegotiate their employment with a hammer, riot and smash up looms, and otherwise make life a living hell for our contemporaries, a couple hundred years ago.

  “Now, obviously, the men like us, way back when, they can't have this, so their bosses send them to go run down the rioters.” Raschel said. Velasquez was having a harder time hearing the tinniness in his voice. Perhaps she was getting used to the new air? He said, “So the rabble goes and runs off into the figurative woods, vanishes back into society, until called by their fictional leader, King Ludd. The army gets called in. The Luddites get crushed and executed. From then on, whenever someone is protesting technology, they got called a “Luddite”, but that missed the point!”

  “Which is?” Velasquez asked. Something clanged against the hatch of the submersible. Velasquez turned towards the sound, but Raschel didn’t react. This is expected?

  Raschel continued, “The Luddites weren't protesting technology. They were protesting, with a hammer, the idea of being replaced by technology.”

  “And the point of this is?” She asked.

  He never answered.

  The hatch spun, then swung open. They stood in Persephone.

  Raschel ducked through the hatch, and she followed him out. Immediately, she was confronted with the whip-smart salute of a marine guard. She stood, in a stadium-sized hollow clamshell, surrounded by shallow docking ponds, speckled with minisubs and drones. The metal roof arced, high overhead, lit by the folded reflections of the pools. A boatswain's whistle sounded, and a voice called, “Section Chief Michael Raschel, coming aboard!” The words echoed from the PA, down the metals halls, and chased the boatswain’s pipe off into echoes.