She led the way back to the moon pool. She took most of the long walk in silence. By the time they reached the bay, she’d calmed enough to speak. She asked, “So, what happens if worse comes to worst? If the brain comes back online?”
Raschel pointed down one of the snaking corridors, towards a heavy bulkhead, flanked by two marines. He asked, “You see that? Behind that door, is a series of security exchanges. Only marines can get in, and no marine has a jack. They have to use a series of memorized pass-phrases to get through. There are no computers allowed inside those chambers. If any enter, the failsafe triggers. Every day, every shift, the watch officers coordinate and enter that structure, validate verbally with the previous shift, and reset a manual arm. That manual arm is rigged to a thermonuclear device of approximately twenty-five megatons, and is set as a shaped charge on the base of the spine.”
She stared at him.
After a moment, Raschel added, “So, yes, I guess I am a Luddite, after all. And, on the day a machine tries to replace me, I shall swing a very shiny hammer.”
Extrapolation 0011
We will need firepower. The forces Tiberius deployed on the Airship were far more deadly than anything light infantry could handle.
The solution here is neither elegant nor complex. We simply need to become more than light infantry. We can safely assume that he did not waste all his resources on that vessel, and that he will have at least equivalent firepower in his true stronghold. I have compiled a list of weapons which should be able to overmatch his probable forces. These tools are not cheap, light, or legal. Therefore, we will have to perform tactical acquisitions.
“I don't know how to feel about this.” Clausen said, as he crouched between the rooftop vents and the moonless night sky. The balaclava pulled tight over his face, slitted black cloth narrowing his vision. He peeked over the line of vents, glanced across the jagged rooftop. When he dropped back down, he clarified, “I mean, breaking into an Armatech depot? Stealing this kind of shit from our own people?” Serve and protect, right?
“Relax. Lethal force should not be necessary.” Berenson said. The supersoldier dropped a canvas bag onto the roof, finally secure from prying eyes. The zipper whined, and Berenson dug through his stash.
“It won’t be. That’s an order. You just stay on – why the fuck do you have that?” Clausen demanded. Berenson had pulled an automatic scattergun from the duffel, and set it over his knees, sorting between fletchette and fragmentation ammunition.
“This is just a precaution.” Berenson said, as he slipped one of the fletchette cassettes into the gun.
“No.” Clausen said. “Put it away.” There were lines that he would not cross.
Berenson argued, “There might be-”
“Put it back.” Clausen commanded. A man with a hammer tended to find nails to drive.
“Fine. Agreed.” Berenson said. He tossed the gun back, into the bag. “I do not understand the objection. I can shoot them just as well with my pistol.”
“Why don't you leave that, too?” Clausen snapped. He checked his watch. The other teams would be in position. He took another peek over the vents, this time brought up his monocular, to scan thermal.
Behind him, Berenson said, “I am never apart from from my weapon.”
Clausen didn’t lower his monocular. He asked, “Really? You bathe with it?”
“I keep it within reach.”
Were you expecting a normal answer? Clausen ducked back under the vent, and tucked the monocular away. The entrance was clear, except for electronic eyes. Firenze would deal with those. He checked his watch, again. Time. Time enough to hurry up and wait. He passed that time, arguing with Berenson.
Clausen looked to the energy pistol strapped to Berenson’s hip. It was twice as large as a reasonable handgun, and cumbersome. No reasonable person would carry that damned thing, even if it was legal. He said, “You know, you can tell a lot about a guy, by what he shoots. And there's something to be said about the sanity of a casaba cannon.”
“It is effective.” Berenson replied. As if to reply to the unspoken critique, he tested the balance of the weapon.
“It's stupid, dangerous, and criminal.”
“It is an extension of myself-” Berenson started, but was cut off by the sudden click over their radios.
Clausen picked up the scrambler and tapped out a beep code. Rutman's voice came through, clearly. Scooch said, “Midnight. Midnight.”
Clausen answered, “This is Echo, go ahead, Vulture.”
“Chairs are ready. Standing by.” Rutman replied.
“Acknowledged, Vulture. Echo, out.” He turned to Berenson. “Trucks are in position at the lower depot.”
Berenson nodded, pulled his own balaclava down, over his face. “You take care of the shopping. I will acquire the specialty items.”
“No killing.” Clausen reminded him.
“Unless needed.” Berenson countered.
“No killing.” Clausen repeated.
Berenson shrugged in acquiescence.
Clausen waited.
“Fine.” Berenson said.
Clausen knelt over the roof hatch, and pressed the thermite strip against the latch. Here's hoping Princess shut down the alarm, or this’ll be a real short trip. With a flick of his gloved hand, he ripped the backer from the tape. Another twist of the wrist, and he tapped the spark tool against the ignition pad.
There was a flash, a rain of sparks. The tacky mix ignited, flashed to liquid. The hatch was cut free, left with a clean, glowing edge. Clausen snatched up the hatch, the heat searing through his thick gloves. He hurled it aside, and dropped into the building.
He landed in a hallway, just like the maps had promised. He landed softly, just like he’d been trained. Immediately, he fell to the side, and melted into the shadows between the doorways. Check left, check right. Clear. He stepped forward, and felt, more than heard, Berenson drop through, after him.
The halls were empty. Armatech couldn't get waivers for any more than a token staff during the unrest, which meant the Whitehall Arsenal was forced to rely on an automated security system. As any consultant would argue, automation was fine, so long as there were people to monitor it. Without that, you never knew when you were blind. Armatech must have thought that dropping a couple dozen million credits on a sensor suite and an Orthrus Security Intelligence would have been enough. They were mostly right. With that amount of expense, the security should have been fine. Except Clausen had Firenze. Even better, Berenson was really good at palming ISA paperwork, and Clausen’s team could get Princess right up on the Orthrus blackbox. Which meant that the ‘couple dozen million’ security suite was going to be playing with itself, for the foreseeable future.
Clausen hoped the “inspection” was going well, down below. It was a stupid fire-drill routine, the kind that kept everyone running in circles. Schoolyard shit, really, but it gave Princess a good chunk of time inside the network’s air gap. From there, the kid could put his computer-girlfriend-thing into the net, and work some voodoo.
Clausen crept past cameras. He stepped over laser trips and pressure sensors. He pushed past all those, and far more he couldn't see. He never flinched, or hesitated. He trusted his team. They would keep him hidden. He'd done this, before. He’d done it in Path enclaves. He’d done it in Faction safehouses. Doing it here was just a change of paint. It was almost unsettling, how easy this was.
He hoped, he prayed, that no guard came looking. They’re good people, doing their jobs. They’re trying to keep these weapons away from the bad guys. The worst thing that could happen was overeager security. A new guard, who hadn’t fallen into routine, or a hungry officer, bucking for promotion. If one of them came the hall, Clausen might be forced to violence. He’d try to evade, first. Certainly. But that wasn’t always an option. If it came to it, he’d have to use force. The mission depended on it. He’d do his job, and hate himself in the morning.
The team needed firepower, and nothing o
ver-the-counter. That meant three options: steal from the Authority, which was suicidal; go to the black market, for which they lacked funds; or steal from companies that made the weapons. There was no good option, but there was a best option.
In the Authority, almost all light and crew-served weapons came from Armatech. Through decades of political trading, structured donations, and reasonable quality, Armatech had constructed a money funnel straight from the Senate floor to their bottom line. Guidance chips, smart munitions, sensor pods, and bullets all bore the Armatech logo. They ran leadership seminars. They outsourced army paperwork. They hired one out of every three retired flag officers. If it bore an Authority flag, and it went boom, bang, or zoom, it went through Armatech hands. This gave Armatech influence, but it also made them dependent. It was only semi-joking, when the chattering classes said that Armatech’s bottom line was the defense budget. Without a war, there were only so many bombs needed, so the company devoted itself to ‘future war’. That meant long-horizon projects. That meant speculative budgets. That meant, weaponry which answered questions no one thought to ask.
Until now. Because Clausen had a lot of pertinent questions, and Armatech had a lot of creative answers.
Armatech kept stock in their research centers, a hundred tools in all shapes and sizes, each set aside for test and verification. If the Authority wished to know the effects of varied metallurgy, or a new method of caseless powder-molding, Armatech would happily fire off a million rounds, and send the reports with a bill. If a police department wanted to refit their arsenal, Armatech would test hundreds of weapons to find just the right equipment. If a special forces commander needed a custom seeker munition for his snipers, Armatech would roll up a pallet-load, with a smile. And when the Authority opened the doors of the “Next Generation Army” project for energy weapon testing? Armatech stacked the contest with a dozen entrants.
The Whitehall Arsenal was Armatech's primary site for internal testing, and it doubled as a proving grounds for Northern Hub sales. The entire complex was the size of a stadium, nestled in the center of the contractor city that had flowered around it. Once, this had been a secure and isolated facility. But it was far from dronetown, employed thousands, and paid well. Small businesses followed, and homes. The city grew over the Arsenal, encased it concrete and glass, and then, naturally, began to file suit, because the weapons plant was too close to the school.
That urban overgrowth gave cover. The Agency's infamous overreach gave concealment. Firenze's computer skill gave them opportunity. All that was left was looting and leaving.
Clausen stopped at the access door. It was no different than any other in this complex: dull silver door between nu-ferns, on awful burgundy carpet. Hidden behind the dull corporate pleasantry was entire battery of biometric security, all blinded. Clausen placed his hand against the lock, listened for the click. It chirped, flashed, and went black - disabled from a central command. Thanks, Princess.
This was why he didn’t trust computers. One guard would foil this.
Clausen waited, for the green light. He checked the corridor, tried to stay hidden in the nu-ferns. One guard… The access light went green. There was a click, and the door popped free. Clausen slipped in.
The next room was the antechamber, which led directly to a reinforced door. That door was flanked with two workstations, each with a biometric lock. This was the true access, separated by an “air gap” - physical space apart from the network, and absolutely zero datalinks. To get through, a visitor would need to be approved by two discrete gatekeepers, each of had to grant biometric approval. No gatekeepers? No entry.
In theory.
Clausen reached into his jacket, and fished out a scroll case. With a flick, he popped the cap, and slipped the rolled gelatin from the tube. Without power, the datascreen hung like a dead jellyfish, electric blue cut with faint spines. Clausen unfurled the screens, and placed them over the palm scanners.
There were more secure methods of biometrics, certainly. Iris scanners, for one. DNA wafters for another. Those types of hard bio readers - “comprehensive authentication” - were favored in Authority facilities, but were taboo beyond the direct reach of the Agency. Those intrusive biometrics were an unpleasant reminder that Authority, behind its soft gloves, still possessed an iron fist. As the uncomfortable peace dragged on, even the companies closest to the state teat made a point to use “softer” methods of authentication.
Unlike fingerprint scanners, which were easily fooled with copied prints, modern palm scanners were not reading lines. Modern biometrics gathered dozens of points of discrete data, such as hand size, relative dimensions, and even vein patterns. The hardest to fool was the pulse tracker, which measured relative heat and pulse rhythm, to prevent opening under duress, or the unfortunate application of a severed limb.
But, as Doggo liked to say, “Every technical problem has a technical solution, and it’s usually cheaper.”
Enter: the datascreen. Originally designed as a blend of portable display technology and chic fashion accessory, the roll-up datascreen was an instant, organic, viewer. Its mundane use was to place a screen in an unusual location - adhered to a ceiling, hung like a banner, wherever. Clausen had another purpose.
He pressed the screen over the biometric reader, pressed the air out from beneath the spongy surface. He fished out a second screen, laid it over the first. Light and heat were two flavors of the same candy, and a modded datascreen could produce either. As a final touch, he set a series of micro speakers atop the set, and clipped the rig to a portable drive, then repeated the process on the second console.
The entire breach took forty seconds.
He’d brought ceramic ‘bones’ with him, in case the biometrics had osse-verification, but these plates were too old for the that firmware. Without the bonework, he was ninety seconds ahead.
With a flip of a switch, and a quick cleanup, he passed the final door.
The moment he stepped into the armory, his breath caught. Clausen had known what to expect. He’d seen the manifest. Further, he was a man comfortable with weapons, of all shapes and sizes. He was not the type of man to be shocked by a stockpile, or even an arsenal. But this? Even for him, this was a lot of guns.
Run down the walls, lined along the central lockers, hung from rack upon rack of gunmetal and black polymer. Locked cases snapped open with the crackle of the lights, and a warehouse of destruction beckoned him, called him to peruse the blue-lighted corridors.
It’s not even my birthday.
Clausen snatched a lift cart, and clipped his list to the back. No time to window shop. Stick to the list.
And what a list it was: ASG Mk4 rotary scattergun, microgrenade munitions. M254 Crew Served Weapon, ammo belts. M30 Autocannons (with digital optics), dual-purpose shells. SPKR Mod.1 Coilguns, buffer cartridges. M299 Bizon antimaterial railgun, standalone power pack, shells. Monomolecular knives and bayonets. Monowire spools. Mk 8 Fragmentation grenades. Mk 6 Incendiary grenades. M26 SASR laser weapon, power cells. Hyper Velocity Rockets. Laser triggered, dial-a-yield fusion devices.
Clausen piled his cart higher, until the munition mountain threatened to block his view. With a final glance to the list, he pushed the cart back towards the door. Along the way, he allowed himself some targets of opportunity: Automag microrocket pistol, magazines. Electrolaser and power cells. Extra batteries for the k-guns. A Needler, just in case.
His watch beeped. Time was running low.
He slipped the lift cart free of the armory, with only a single delay to snag a couple of exotic ammunition cases from the well. Kris Kringle, eat your fat heart out.
Berenson waited by the extraction point.
The supersoldier had his own sled full of kit, a teetering pile of armor and tech supplies, heavy on the TACNET modules. More important was the single, armored case - about the size of a magician’s trunk - carefully placed in the center of the pile. The armored case gleamed under the hallway lights, the only breaks in t
he sheen along the purge-safe explosives and deluxe digital lock.
“Is that it?” Clausen asked.
“Absolutely.” Berenson replied. He patted the case for punctuation.
Planning the mission, Berenson had played coy with his descriptions, insisting, “Armatech designed a weapon perfect for our needs, and unthinkable for most others.” He kept smirking about it, the whole ride here, occasionally letting out some cryptic line about, “You are going to love this.” Clausen didn’t like any of that, but Berenson was the game in town, and if the entry fee was indulging in the games, then Clausen would have to play.
Now, though, the radiological warnings etched onto that case gave him cause for concern. Clausen demanded, “What’s in there?”
“You'll see.” Berenson promised. “This will be the best Christmas, ever.”
Clausen felt his eyes narrow, as Berenson threw up his hands in protest.
Clausen demanded, “You know we’ll shoot you, right? If this is some trick?” Berenson may be ‘on their side’, but there was little reason to relax. Weeks slipped past, with no sign of betrayal, but Clausen did not grow lax. He’d had paranoia beaten into his core. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, and keep your sidearm loaded.
Berenson smirked, and replied, with just a touch of heat, “I am aware. You remind me. Daily.” He paused, and switched to a deep, mocking baritone impersonation, “Okay, everyone, pay attention. This guy is an asshole. If anything goes wrong, shoot him in the face. Even if it is totally not his fault.” He shot a wry glance at Clausen, and said, in his normal tenor, “I am beginning to take it personally.”
“I can't help it. You've got a very shootable face.”
Clausen wasn’t sure what unsettled him, more: the thought that Berenson was playing them, or the idea that he wasn’t. One was a problem to be solved. The other carried far deeper concerns.
There weren’t time for those kinds of worry. Clausen pushed the thoughts away, and asked, “You didn't kill anyone, did you?”
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