The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  “No!” Berenson said, indignant. “I promised I would not.” He turned, and pushed his cart towards the wall-mounted disposal chute.

  Clausen pointed, towards the baton that swung from Berenson’s hip, and said, “You didn’t come in with that.”

  Berenson glanced down, and pantomimed shock. He protested, “What, this? I found it.”

  “You found a telescopic shock baton?”

  “Yes.” Berenson said.

  Clausen glared.

  Berenson added, “…on a security guard.”

  “Who is now?” Clausen asked.

  “Unconscious! A little bruised!” Berenson snapped. “He is fine! I am detecting a real lack of trust, here.”

  Clausen glared, again.

  “What?!” Berenson demanded. Exasperated, he explained, “I gave my word. I keep two codes: I do not lie, and I honor my vows. I have not killed anyone, tonight. There are no dead people in this building.” He paused, considered, and added, “…that I am aware of. Someone might have killed a construction worker and put them in the foundation, but that is not my fault!”

  “Fine.” Clausen agreed. He ignored that tangent. A foolish man chased Berenson’s dangling sentences, played into the games. They had more important work at hand. Clausen pointed to the chute, and said, “Let's get out of here.”

  Berenson set to work, loading his cart into the disposal hatch. In that brief pause, Clausen allowed himself a moment to wonder. The most insidious part of working with Berenson was discovering his lack of mystique. That was troubling. If Berenson was just a man, then what was Striker?

  Striker was a legend. A demon. A myth. And undying terror, clawing at the gates.

  Berenson was a sarcastic asshole. A bit broken. Brilliant. Flawed. A human being.

  The thinning line between them made Clausen uneasy, more than even Durandal itself. The traitorous thought was never far from the surface: I could have been him. Clausen steeled himself, and pushed those thoughts away. I have lines that I will not cross. My deeds define me, and that is the difference.

  Berenson’s cart hovered in the open-air shaft, just beyond the hatch. Berenson clambered through, perched himself on the pile, and slowly sank from sight.

  Clausen counted to fifteen, and followed.

  The chute was sweltering, and stank of burnt metal, pressed close as if to smother him. As the cart began to descend, he watched the red-lit sensors flit past, then the dull-black emitters and nozzles. He tried not to imagine what he’d look like, if Princess hadn’t disabled the cleansing system. One dot passed. Two. A dozen floors, and he sank lower, until he heard the rumble below.

  Please be the door.

  Fresh air rushed over him, gloriously cold on his skin. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.

  The world opened up, unfolded into the yellow light of an underground parking garage. For a moment, he could see the thin lines of cars, the empty spaces, exposed to all the empty world. Then, it was gone, and he sank into the open top of a dump truck. He stopped the descent, and waited for Berenson to get clear.

  Overhead, there was a rumble as the reclamation chute ground closed. Foul ashes and rust rained over his back.

  From below, he heard Berenson call, “Clear!”

  Clausen lowered the cart into the truck. One of his men pulled him clear. The techs rushed the cargo, tools in hand, to rip the tracking chips clear. Clausen, though, was needed elsewhere. He popped the back gate, and hopped out, onto the concrete of the garage.

  Hill waited for him, dressed in a Sanitation jumpsuit. The soldier protested, in a thick accent, “Uh… sir, this is a gubbermint ve-hi-cle, and you cain’t be in there without proper-”

  “Quiet.” Clausen ordered.

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  After a moment, Hill asked, “We get it?”

  “We're good.” Clausen tapped his radio, and asked, “Vulture?”

  “Extracting, now. Rendezvous, imminent.”

  “Good, let's get the hell out of-”

  “Wait.” Berenson said. He held up his hand, framed against the gray pillars, as if he was listening to the wind, itself. He asked, “Who is your best shooter?”

  “Reaper.” Clausen stated.

  “Thank you, Sarge. Always did want to make you proud-”

  “Stow it.” Clausen cut him off. “Why?”

  “Change of plan. Their tracking system is better than I find comfortable. We will require a diversion.” Berenson pointed towards a luxury sedan, parked near the exit. “We will take that. Mister Hill, please come with us.” Berenson shoved the armored case into Hill's hands. “Bring this. You will need it.”

  “What the hell is-” Hill started to ask, before he realized the others were already moving towards the car.

  The elevator doors opened. Rutman led Firenze from the building, both dressed in cheap government suits. Before they could get four steps into the garage, Clausen called to them, “Scooch! Get the truck. Plan B! Princess! Come here!”

  Both men broke into a sprint. Rutman clambered into the driver's seat of the dump truck, and put it in motion for the exit. Firenze raced to the back seat of the sedan, but Berenson opened the passenger door, and waited.

  Clausen took the wheel.

  With a quick flash of his utility knife, and the column was open. He snapped the ignition circuit, pulled out the main wire, and plugged to a breaker box. The pre-launch checklist began to chime.

  In the back seat, Hill began to fiddle with the chest’s lock.

  Firenze arrived, stopped to ask a question, but Berenson pushed him into the open passenger seat. The supersoldier explained, “You will need to be in front.”

  “Wh-”

  Berenson pushed a knife into Firenze’s hands, and explained, “The flight systems are controlled by a computer in the dash. Get into it, and quickly.”

  “Right.” Firenze didn't ask why. He knew better, by now.

  Berenson slipped into the back, next to Hill, and pulled out a data card.

  Clausen twisted the wire, made another connection. The breaker box chimed. The car surged. It leapt into the air, scraped along the ceiling. The roof bent groaned, the frame whined, but it did not bend. Clausen snatched the controls, and forced the car back down. With a horrid scratch, the car descended to a safe hover.

  “We're good! We're good!” Clausen said.

  Alarms began to wail throughout the compound.

  “Shit.”

  Clausen slammed the accelerator.

  The electrojet roared to life, and they rocketed into the exit tunnel, skimmed along the ground.

  Ahead, the gates began to close. Concealed barriers rose from the floor. The reinforced dump truck surged ahead of them, swerved around the rising walls, and slammed through the guard shack, instead. Bad design, Armatech. The truck cleared of the tunnel, crashed onto the street, and skidded around the corner, out of sight.

  The lift car zipped right over the ground-impeding barricades, and flew up, into the air. They flew into the upper reaches of the urban chasms, past the neon billboards, and into the thin lanes of aircar traffic.

  Clausen glanced back, to check for pursuit. There was none. He allowed himself a moment of relaxation, and said, “It might be clear. We need to ditch this thing-”

  In the rearview mirror, he saw the pile of chips in Berenson’s hands. His stomach fell, and he shot a murderous glare. He demanded, “Are those the fucking tracking chips?!”

  Berenson shrugged, and admitted, “Maybe? They are better with us, than on the truck. We can evade.”

  Clausen gritted his teeth, and asked, “Can we ditch those, please?”

  “Sure.” Berenson said. He cracked his window, and the wind became a staccato thunder, slamming through the car. Berenson poured the wafers free, and they vanished into the neons, below. He closed his window, and added, “They're on us, anyway.”

  Behind them, a police flitter rose, lights blazing. God damn it.

  Clausen pushed the wh
eel forward, sent the car diving into denser traffic.

  In the backseat, Hill was still trying to breach the case.

  In the passenger seat, Firenze had ripped the flight computer from the dashboard, and the bundle of wires now rested on his lap, plugged into his tablet.

  Without warning, the car stopped.

  Clausen slammed into the wheel, and the armored case bounced from his seat-back.

  He shook himself clear, grabbed the controls. He pushed the throttle to maximum. Nothing. Shit. He flipped the electrojet reset. Nothing. Shit shit. Without panic, he recited the situation for his team, “Car is unresponsive. Propulsion is offline. We’re a hundred meters up. I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Police lockout, tied into the flight system.” Berenson stated. “Mister Firenze? The computer?”

  “I'm working!” The hacker said, a wire held between his teeth.

  “Work faster.” Clausen ordered. “Berenson! What’s in that case?”

  “Our backup plan.” Berenson said.

  Hill finally peeled the purge strip clear. With a flick of a monoblade, the case slid open. The soldier's eyes went wide. For a moment, Hill sat speechless, his jaw agape.

  Berenson explained, “That is the Mark Five, Area Denial Weapons System, dubbed 'Rolling Thunder' by its marketing team. It fires variable-yield Mjolnir antimatter shells, capable of delivering more firepower at the squad level than the entire combined armies of the pre-Collapse world.”

  Hill swung the weapon back, to face the pursuing squad car. “Should be crew served-” he mumbled, as he flipped the power toggle. An OLED screen swung out, just past the trigger guard, and booted from black to blue to lush color.

  “Good morning!” A pleasant voice said. “The time is eleven fifteen local, the temperature is two degrees Celsius. Demonstration mode is active. To deactivate, please verify biometrics as an authorized Armatech partner.”

  “Sarge! It talks!” Hill cried out. He hunched closer to the screen, tried to rip away the lockdown/demonstration controls.

  Clausen snapped back, “I don't care if it tap dances! Take out that cruiser! Watch the collateral on that thing!”

  “Yes, try not to miss.” Berenson agreed. “It would waste ammunition, we would be forced to acquire more. These rounds are exceedingly rare, even for a proof-of-concept design.”

  From pile of wiring in the passenger seat, Firenze begged, “Can we all please be quiet? I can't think with-”

  The car jolted, and plunged from the sky.

  To their credit, no one screamed.

  Clausen held onto the flight controls with one hand, the other braced on the ceiling to hold himself in position. Berenson let the freefall take him, smiling serenely, as he floated over his chair. Firenze, suspended in his mess of cabling, let out a monotone whine, like a bearing track about to break. Hill, already turned backwards in his seat, slammed into the roof. The Rolling Thunder belched. With a thump, crackle, and the stink of ionized air, the gun jolted. A fist-sized cannister crashed into the rear windshield, shattered it, and then vanished into the whistling night.

  “Fuck!” Hill cried. When he realized he was alive, he said, “Good news, Sarge! It’s got a minimum range!”

  “Fantastic!”

  Firenze screamed over both of them, “Online!”

  The flight controls caught.

  Clausen pulled back on the wheel, with all he had, as though brute strength would overcome the electronics.

  The car leveled, amid the pines, and then pulled up, and away, once more.

  The wind thumped through the car, slapped them with frozen blasts. Clausen screamed, over the howling wind, “Princess! Can you make this thing hold still?”

  The car bucked. It jumped, like water on a hot, greased pan. Up, down, side to side. It pitched, yawed, and rolled, and brushed by buildings close enough to trade paint. The car shuddered right, and the fender split an office window, plowed through it like an icebreaker. A moment later, the emergency collision sensors fired, and hurled the car back into open air.

  “Hurry!” Clausen snapped, and he fought the controls towards open air.

  “I'm trying! It's not... good... OS! I don't have my tools!”

  From the back, Hill cried, “Stop bitching, start fixing!”

  In calm, polite tones, the Rolling Thunder stated, “This unit is not in a proper firing position. Weapon discharge is not recommended.”

  “It's still talking, Sarge!”

  “God damn it!” Clausen snapped, as he pulled the car into the upper thoroughfare, above the heavy traffic. They were sitting ducks for the police, but at least they were clear of the civies. “Princess! Stabilize the-”

  “I'm trying! I don't have Lauren!”

  “Hey, you got a girlfriend?” Hill asked.

  “Now is not a good time!” Firenze snapped back.

  “It is his computer.” Berenson said. “Rather, it is the personality mask of his computer – it is also his girlfriend.”

  “Fuck you!” Firenze screamed. He turned from his tablet and the tangle of wires, and protested, “That's an unfair-”

  “Fix the fucking car!” Clausen ordered. “Fix now! Talk later!”

  Hill asked, “Can you fuck it?”

  “What?!” Clausen snapped, “Reaper! You can fuck anything!”

  “I ain't judging, Sarge.”

  Firenze screamed, “Would you all please shut up! I'm trying to –” His tablet chimed, and his cry turned victorious. “Finally!”

  The car stabilized.

  Berenson stopped his watch.

  Clausen had control of the vehicle. He stopped it, dead in the air, slewed the back end around. He didn’t have to give the order to prep for the shot. Hill was already in motion.

  Clausen commanded, “Set for airburst, below the lift drive-”

  “Minimal kill, Sarge?” Hill called back to confirm.

  “It is a drone.” Berenson stated. “Set proximity burst at ten meters, point two klick flight limit-”

  “I know how to shoot, thanks!” Hill said, as he toggled the control screen.

  “Warning, warning, you are firing the 'Rolling Thunder' Mark Five Weapons System before completing the required training course-”

  Hill pressed the trigger.

  The cannon jumped, slammed back, against the open face of the rear windshield. The air stank like lightning, tasted like iron. The belt shuddered, the barrel flashed, and a two meter arc of flame spat into the night-

  For a moment, the bolt of superheated gas hung like a spider’s thread, drawn between the shattered rear window and the hood of the police drone. The yellow-white thread twisted in the night, drowning the neons below, until a bead, like glass, grew from the impact, and made just the slightest dimple in the metal hood of the squad car.

  Then there was fire.

  It was as if the fist of God had descended. The squad car, solid metal and plastics, folded up like papier-mache. It rolled up on the impact, the shockwave tearing through it like liquid, armored glass boiling away from burning plastics. The fire grew, as the drone wilted, and then the frame was gone, vanished in the radiance of a midnight sun.

  Like gravel striking a stilled pond, ripples rolled across the surface of the pristine fire. Downtown was lit by the dawn of this new star, deep shadows carved down the alleys by the hard light.

  The shockwave kissed the glass facades of the skyscrapers. The compression wave chased the starlight, and the glass walls burst, and rained down into the lower streets. Blazing heat, like summer noon, pierced their car. Clausen knocked the rearview mirror away, the sunburn nearly blinding him. Ahead, the light and shadow were solid things, as they raced out of the sun, chasing their own shadow.

  “Jesus Fuck!” Firenze screamed. “What the fuck-”

  “I AM THE SUN KING!” Hill cried.

  The car rolled with the shockwave, stood on its nose, and never slowed. The ground grew closer, as they fell, once more.

  Clausen had control ag
ain.

  Only then did he exhale.

  “I understand, Princess! I understand!” Hill declared, as he clutched the steaming cannon, his face contorted into a madman’s grin.

  His breathing under control, Clausen said, “New plan. Reaper does not get that weapon.”

  “But her name's Agnes!” Hill protested.

  An alarm sounded. The car lost power.

  Lift cars were designed, thankfully, to “fail safely”, so the Bergman drive didn’t simply explode, but instead, entered a terminal spin down. Unfortunately for those inside, “fail safely” was less about the occupants of the car, and more about the world outside it. The car didn’t crash, per se, but it didn’t really land, either. The spin down gave them just enough time to grab on, and pray for soft ground.

  Clausen forced the car down in city park, like he was flying a grand piano. It slammed into the dirt, sent showers of dirt over the shattered windshield. Everything went to hell in the tumble.

  The webbing failed, and Clausen crashed against the wheel. There were stars, and the air was ripped from his lungs. He let the pain have him, just for a moment. Only for a moment. He had to keep moving.

  He was hanging from his safety belt, the dull ache in his chest. Nothing broken, I think. He coughed, fumbled for the release.

  “Everyone alive?” He asked.

  He got mumbled replies, in three voices. Good.

  “We’ve gotta go.” He ordered.

  The hunters would be here, soon. He opened his eyes, stared through the shattered windshield, to the starlight high above the splashes of dirt.

  Starlight? Where are the streetlights?

  Firenze had already wiggled free of the peeled-open roof. The hacker glanced around them, in awe, and said, “Fucking hell. We need another ride. Something that wasn’t on during the pulse.” He turned, to help pull Hill from the wreck. “Maybe two cars. One for us, and one for the fucking ‘sun king’ and his scepter.”

  Hill, short of breath and doubled over, winced, but still answered, “Hey, Princess. Don’t judge. You make sweet love to a ‘puter.”

  “I never said-”

  “Question?” Berenson asked. “Do I ride with the royal court, or with the entourage?”

  Clausen hoisted himself free of the open top, and shot a glare to the supersoldier. “Three cars. We’ll take three cars, and I’m driving alone.”