They vanished, before the lights came back.
Extrapolation 0100
“It is imperative that I strike a public balance. I must be needed, yet despised. I must be an aid to the Agency, yet also a foil, so that I may dance along the thin line between asset and target. My moves will be monitored. My thoughts will be suspect.
“There are beacons in my body, which transmit my every action. The Agency will use these as a leash, and Tiberius will see them as chains. I will deceive them, both.
“I will elude them - convince them my actions are subversive, but not so devious as to slip their control. I will be seen, striving against them, yet unable to shake the yoke. I will need hands, other than my own, to carry out the mission, while play out this puppet show for the Agency, and for Tiberius’s spies, within.”
It was heavy midnight, buried in a blanket of gray-white snow, and Section Chief Michael Raschel was furious.
The Chief stood, framed between the gray pillars of the parking stack, his government greatcoat snapping in the biting wind. His pocked face was flushed, his gloved finger pointed, and his voice thick with wrath. He stabbed his hand forward, once more, and demanded, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You blow up a fucking squad car-”
“It was a drone!” Berenson protested.
“You didn’t know that!” Raschel snapped back.
Another frigid gust moaned through the pancaked cement, echoing like a frozen bellows. It bit into Raschel’s cheeks, snapped the fringe of his coat. He breathed in that cutting air, used it to keep his calm. Berenson is needling you. Don’t let him. He forced himself to smile. It would be far too easy to get angry. I step out of the Hub for four days, and this asshole snatches the entire Whitehall Arsenal.
Velasquez was right. Berenson was too dangerous to leave alive.
Raschel’s smile grew thin. All it would take was a flick of his fingers. A turn of his head. One motion, and this garage would become a kiln, and all his problems would be solved.
A lesser agent might have done it. Flip the switch, call in the teams. Cut the threads, close the loop. Flush the meat down the dronetown gutter.
Raschel, though, had to worry about the long game. Berenson was infuriating. He was dangerous, capable, and unreliable. In any other situation, he would be rat meat. But, compared to his brother, he was a harmless sideshow. Berenson was a threat. Striker was the threat. There was a simple, awful, calculation - to deal with Striker, he had to deal with Berenson.
That was his hand to play. He just didn’t have to like it.
Berenson said, “It had to be a drone. Its flight pattern and reaction times made that a certainty-”
“There are three people lying in a fucking hospital! Because you set off a goddamned AM charge in the Heights!”
“We should be grateful that no one was killed. That was a fortuitous-”
“It was fortuitous because I pulled the live cars away! It was fortuitous that I got the flash alert, and thought to myself, ‘Gee, who would have the fucking gall to rob the fucking Arsenal?’” Raschel snapped.
It had been one of his least favorite wake-up calls. Trying to sleep on the flitter, his phone starts to ping, and suddenly, he’s stuck in a seventeen-asshole teleconference, trying to play grabass with the blame, while the heist was still in full swing.
Berenson said, “I can neither confirm nor deny-”
Raschel cut him off with a glare. He snarled, “Now. You listen. You listen fucking close. You are done. Final warning. If you fuck with me, I will end you. If you step out of line, I will end you. If you even think about another stunt like this, I will end you.” He paused, tried to work the kink out of his neck. Don’t take the bait. He demanded, “You said you wanted to end this? Fine. But you do it, my way, or I’ll do it, without you.”
“We both know I am the only one who can get inside Tiberius’s head.”
“Yeah, and you’ve got a great track record. They’re still fishing corpses outta that bay.”
Berenson’s smirk vanished, just for a moment. A flicker. He recovered, quickly, and countered, “I made an error. I know this. If you knew me, you would know how deeply that bothers me.” He paused, glanced askance, and added, “I made an error. I lost, yet remain. I will recover. I will retaliate. I will be better.” There was an earnestness in his voice that Raschel almost believed, a wounded gleam in his eyes. Raschel would not be taken in by theater.
“Bravo.” He said. “Now deliver.”
“I will.” Berenson said. “I will rebuild the team. Tiberius will not expect to see them, again. They will be my unseen knife in darkness.”
“You leave them the hell out of this.”
“They are the best tool for the job.”
“You’ve done enough to them. Leave them alone.” Raschel picked his words, carefully. This wasn’t just for Berenson. This was for the unseen listener, whoever Berenson had on overwatch. Let them hear him, and remember that he wasn’t the enemy. “Or do you need to watch them die, to a man? You’re a piece of work.”
“Then I will go it, alone, Chief. Either way, I needed those weapons.”
“So you stole them?”
“I will neither confirm, nor deny, that assertion. Let us agree: the problem is solved.”
Some days, Raschel really missed fighting the Path. They were simple. All he had to do, there, was outflank, outmaneuver, and outgun. Clean. Easy. Hell, even the Faction - the original Counsel, not Striker’s cult - had been clearer than this. This was insanity. He was in bed with a lunatic. A smug, smarmy, jackass lunatic.
He said, “The point stands. If you exceed your contract, in any way - your ride ends. Swiftly.”
“Fine.” Berenson agreed.
“You want to help bring down Striker? Get us data. Analyze him. Let us handle the shooting.”
“That is exactly what I am doing.” Berenson insisted. “This team will be your bloodhound. I will build them up, use them to sniff out Tiberius, and point him for you. Then you can bring the hammer.”
“And that’s all.” Raschel said. “If you go rogue - if you pull any more nonsense - I will rain down upon you with so much fury that heaven and hell will call off Armageddon from dick envy. Are we clear?”
“Absolutely.” Berenson said. “I told you, I am here to take down Tiberius. I keep my word, Chief. All I need is a little slack on my leash, so I can deliver.”
“You had slack. Too much.” Raschel said. “Let me lay out your borders - what you are allowed to do: you are allowed to build up this unit. Any step beyond that? You go through me. You tell us everything you might even think we want to know. You find Striker. You point him out. You let us pull the trigger.”
“I understand.”
“From here on out? Your boosters are on a tighter frame.” Raschel said. He fished, deep into his coat, and pulled an autoinjector from his pocket. He rolled the silver tube across his gloved palm, let it catch the glint of the recessed lights. For now, you need me, more than I need you. He added, “This will stave off the phage for two weeks. If you don’t produce results in that time frame, I might forget to bring a dose.”
Raschel tossed it, casually, towards Berenson. The genejob snatched it up, pulled it tight.
“Stay healthy.” Raschel snapped, as he walked away.
He slipped through the pillars, back to the line of sedans, past the RAST cordon. He dropped into the back seat of his car, and pulled the door shut. He had to work, not to slam it. It was the little things.
As his car descended the ramps, and turned back onto the street, he finally let his game-face break. With a snarl, he slammed his fist into the seat-back, then broke into a stream of profanity.
To his left, Velasquez - professional as ever - turned to him, and asked, “Sir?”
“He’s gonna try and fuck me, Rey.” Raschel said. He shook his hand, twisted away the ache from where his Agency ring had bit into his finger. He stopped, laughed, and pulled out his cigarette pack. A quick flick of
his lighter, and he took a drag. He admitted, “You were right. About Berenson. We were gone for four goddamned days, and he goes off half-cocked. Fuck him.” He took another deep breath, savored the burn in his lungs, and found his center, once more. “I want a trail on him, twenty-four-seven. When he goes after Striker, which he will, I want firepower to rival the fucking sun. I’m gonna snuff them both.”
Raschel blew the smoke out. The writing was on the wall. This would end in fire.
Extrapolation 0101
“We will never achieve victory, if we focus on ‘beating’ Tiberius. In any direct confrontation, he will triumph, as his strategy is built not upon armies, but information.
“Tiberius has constructed an elaborate trap for the Provisional Authority. Through the leveraging of information, he has placed them under his thumb, and constricts their options. The Authority possesses unrivaled firepower - they could sweep him from the board in a single stroke. But, he knows about Durandal, and he knows that they know, he knows. With this, he is safe from their ponderous and telegraphed attacks. If they push upon him, he will release his endgame, and they will fall.
That is the terrible truth of his game: he does not need to win. We do. This places us in a severe handicap. Worse still, is the psychological burden that he inflicts upon his opponents: he has used our actions to construct this very trap. We created this disaster, when we struck at him. This psychological pressure is a useful tool - it forces the Authority - and ourselves - to act cautiously, lest we ensnare ourselves, once more.
“Without the Airship, Tiberius’ threats would have been empty. His release of the Durandal files would be conspiracy fodder, easily buried in the news cycle, and wiped from the net. However, with the disaster behind us, the public is radicalized, ready to rise up with little provocation. Further, the Agency is on edge - paranoid - and willing to take dangerous risks. All he need do is leak the files, provoke the Agency, and let inertia take hold. He does not need to survive his own endgame.
“Tiberius’ plots neuter the Authority’s strengths, and capitalize upon its weaknesses. They are incapable of winning, without our action, but we are doubly engaged. We must defeat Tiberius, without falling prey to his trap. This means, we cannot merely kill him, and hope to erase his damning data. Even if, through some miracle, we were able to stop his every fail-deadly insurance, we would not have stopped inertia.
“The Authority suffers a crippling flaw - a skeleton-stuffed closet - and that will bring it down. It may fall today, or tomorrow, or ten years from now, but it will fall. It possesses a systemic error. So long as the albatross of Durandal hangs around its neck, it will a man condemned. Durandal must be addressed.
“I turn, then, to Tiberius’ own plans: an explosive release of information, that will snuff out the state. I consider this - that he has revealed the keystone - and wonder how I might modify his premise: a fire burns, where explosives detonate. The same energy that would annihilate, might be turned towards useful light. If we could seize his leverage - and expend it, on our terms - we could change the conditions of his war.
“The challenge, then, is to survive long enough to gain that opportunity.”
The door slammed open. Paint flecks rained from the molded ceiling.
Firenze bolted to his feet. His assist box crashed to the floor. He stood, broke through the holoprojector mist and bits of broken code. Behind him, there was a terrible clatter, as a half-dozen men sprang to the ready.
No assault came.
Instead, Rutman barged through the gap, a heavy pack lumped over his shoulder. He declared, “We’re blown. Rendezvous charlie.”
That was the five minute warning.
The still became motion.
Weapons stowed. Bags filled. Whatever could be jammed into a rucksack, became your carried life. That’s all you got. Everyone’s lives, blended together in quick-packs, and humped to the next relay.
Word spread like wildfire, through the rotted tenement walls. News jumped room to room, triggered contingencies and fallbacks with clockwork precision. For Firenze, this was still an alien thing. What the team did was a sort of brutal personal triage - in a split second, they would evaluate what parts of themselves were essential, and what could be sacrificed - and then, given a choice between the two, there was no choice at all.
The first soldier pushed past Firenze before he’d tied down his assist box. The second was out the door before Firenze had powered off his projector.
“Come on, Princess!” Rutman ordered. He stood at the door, his duffel slung over his shoulder, his sunglasses cocked and locked. He glanced to his watch, tapped it, and added, “Grab you kit and move!”
“I need more time.” Firenze protested. He waved his hands over the tangle of cables and his assist box. Of all the time to spring this - when I’ve got everything unpacked.
A hand slapped him on the back, and Hill said, “We got you, Princess.”
Firenze spun.
Hill pointed to the pile of cables, and said, “Grab the big black one. The one with the wires. See the little one, with the slanted top? Get it. Bring the folding display. Fuck the rest.” The commando tossed an empty bag to Firenze. The canvas sprawled out when it hit the floor, exposed zippers and straps.
Firenze glanced down, from the assist box to the associated node booster to the portable computer. That’s all you need to run. The little kick was all he needed. He moved under his own power, now, ripped the computer apart, saved the critical at the expense of the convenient. As he worked, a sudden question struck him, and he asked, “How the hell did you know that?”
“A soldier must understand the battlespace he engages upon.” Hill said. He gave his words a heavy gravitas, so unlike his normal drawl.
“You’re quoting something?” Firenze guessed, as he buried the last of his kit into the bag.
“The only book he’s ever read.” Rutman said.
“The only book worth reading.” Hill corrected.
“The ‘Rifleman’s Primer’.” Rutman explained. “There’s good stuff in there.” He took one last glance around, behind his mirrored glasses. He gave a curt nod, and said, “Let’s go.”
Firenze said, “Can’t. Still need my fabkit, goggles, personal supplies-”
Hill produced a second bag, this one bursting with hidden angles and bulky hardware. “Figured you'd be a little pressed for time, so I packed a kit for you.” Hill slapped the bag, and listed, “Dry rations and hydro packs, first aid kit, toiletries, maps, radio, couple batteries, multitool, duct tape, paracord, credit voucher, change of clothes, trash bag, heat packs, steel wool, char cloth, lighter, tac knife,” he gasped a breath, and continued, “pistol, spare magazine, and two kilos of magic computer bullshit.” Hill tossed the pack over his shoulder. “I couldn't figure what you'd want for your 'me time' - if you know what I'm saying - so I got you one issue of 'Jumblies' and one issue of 'Overclocking Monthly’.”
Firenze’s felt the burn on his cheeks, the sting of rising blood. Direct hit. He snapped back, “Fuck you. With a rake.” He tied down his bag, and hoisted it over his shoulders. “So, where're we going?”
It was a stupid question. Clausen had cut the team up into sets, Alpha through Echo, and given each set a standard rendezvous point. In the event of a bugout, cards would be drawn, and that would be the point used. Those who knew that point would become team leaders, and escort the others to safety. In the event of capture, only one safe house would be compromised. Firenze, living on the net, where his brain could be cracked open, wasn’t allowed to know any of the fall-back positions. There’s no way they’d tell him. That would be stupid.
He still asked.
“Stick with me, Princess.” Rutman said, as he led them into the streets.
The gutters hadn't been cleaned in weeks. Trash piled on the curb, sprinkled over the gray slush, clogged the vents into the underground. Sagging holes melted through the ice, leaked white steam through the trash heaps, like the breath of some buried beas
t. The foul gasps spread through the dronetown warrens, with every shudder of the great machinery below.
The doors were locked. The windows were barred. Needy eyes peeked from shuttered blinds.
Rutman lead them through the alleys, through the access paths and hatchways. Everywhere, they were watched. Everywhere, they were the other - predator and prey for those silent eyes.
Firenze had grown up in dronetown. It had always been ugly, dirty, and unsafe. But, in the midst of the makework brigades, squalor, and crime, it had always been a neighborhood. People lived there. People knew each other. People talked. They stood on the balconies, when the climate control shorted, and they argued about who was wrecking their lives, today, and how much their children deserved better, tomorrow. They shared bread and traded beer on Remembrance Day. They stood together, when dronetown bared its blackened soul and took someone far too young, and they would ask, ‘how did it come to this?’. They would vow to make it better. They would fail, but they would get back up, and try again, because this was their home.
This was different. This wasn’t a bad neighborhood.
This was a nightmare.
OLED tape bisected the alleyways, closed down the streets, and shuttered the vertical access hatches. Yellow text rolled by in unending streams: “SEALED BY ORDER OF THE TERRAN PROVISIONAL AUTHORITY, CIVIL CODE 4.16A.” Speakers echoed police warnings and public service announcements. Every day, the tape expanded, spread over the streets like a perverse carnival. It sealed business doors and quarantined streets. It wrapped the light-poles and entryways, and sprouted camera clusters at every bend.
A squad car trundled down the street. Inside its darkened windows, two officers - always two - hunched over their dashboard, hands low and guns ready. They interacted through their wireless, now, as they unleashed an electric inquisition of every nook and cranny. Doors spat back unauthorized access attempts. Cameras showed every figure who jumped a cordon. Shattered windows reported the nature of their breaking. Every bit spat back its story to the cruiser, without an ounce of context or pity.
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