The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Firenze turned away, so the cameras couldn’t catch his face. He had to be careful. He couldn’t look like he was turning away. That was the trick of hiding - not being noticed, trying not to be noticed. He forced himself to walk straight, and not duck into the nearest alcove. They don't have a warrant. No one was actively hunting him. The Agency still needs us. We just stay out of sight.

  The cruiser rolled past. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Or, maybe they were too scared to step out of their armored cocoon.

  Rutman lead them through the old business district, to slip around the an espo checkpoint. The square was empty, now - faded glass windows set around cement pavilions, blown through with week-old trash. The moment they stepped foot in the plaza, the silent walls came to life. Viewboards on the shop windows sprang alight, tracked their passing, boomed announcements over the empty concrete.

  The volume had been set, with the assumption of a crowded plaza. Without that tumult, the window ads were thunderous. Electronic barkers extorted them from every angle, flashy holograms hocking fire-sale prices. Firenze stepped too close to a wall, where the corner cut into the dried-fountain basin. The moment the screens saw him, the advert reconfigured, and launched into a pitch for the new DX43 processor. Firenze turned away, but it was too late. The screen watches your face, and communicates to an ad database to see what draws your eyes for longer times. This one's for me.

  Rutman shot a glare, and Firenze hustled away from the windows.

  Back in university, he’d been fascinated by indenvertisement. He’d thought about using the ads people watched to track metadata, and predict social trends, or manipulating buying behavior with “seeded” ads. Powerful concerns, but harmless thoughts, when conceived in an environment where the data was held by a trusted source. Change one variable: do you trust the keepers of law?

  He walked past the burning barrels, the refuse, and the quivering addicts in the shadows, and that thought left him cold. How many of these cameras talked to the Agency? How much could they know about him, his patterns, his thoughts and beliefs, just by where he went and what he watched? How much of him was property, how much was State resource?

  A screen flipped to an ad for a microbrewery, another to a discount auto yard. A third tried to light up, but cracks in the glass distorted the phosphors. It sparked, flashed, and crashed into a fun-house wheel of colors. The speakers behind it crackled, roared, and boomed - fury without purpose.

  The noise must have drawn attention.

  A militia patrol, six men, marched into the plaza from the north side. Firenze felt the blinds on the upper stories drop closed. In the alleys and recesses, the addicts retreated into their shadowed caverns. From the stair stoop next to him, there was a sudden scamper, and a hunched figure, cloaked in heavy rags, lurched along the ground, away from the light and heat of his burning barrel. Firenze stepped back, and nearly bumped into a second man, crouched in the alley. There was a howl, and a sudden burst of motion. Firenze whirled, to catch a glimpse of gnarled teeth and soiled hair. The naked, scraggly man-thing hissed at him, then flung itself into the gutter.

  Firenze's hands flashed up, he lurched backwards. He raised his guard, to push the feral away, but the addict was gone. All that remained were the fading echoes of wet footfalls from the drainage pipe. Blade is one hell of a drug. Firenze swallowed, forced himself to stand tall.

  Only then did he notice that both Rutman and Hill had pushed past him, set themselves between him and the yawning gap into the warrens.

  “Everything level?” Rutman asked. He kept his eyes on the jagged opening of the pipe.

  Firenze forced himself to smile. He joked, “Thought he was gonna eat me for a second.”

  Rutman agreed, “He's probably out of his mind.”

  Firenze stepped back.

  Hill, however, stared into the black pit. He leaned forwards, listened to the distant echoes of thrumming machines and dripping water. His hand hung, precariously near his concealed handgun. He stood, half crouched, like a pressed spring, and whispered, “I wouldn't have gone down there.”

  Firenze said, “Yeah, well, I wouldn't have huffed Blade, either.”

  Hill kept his eyes on the gloom. He asked, “How many of them are in there, you think?”

  “I don't even want to-” Firenze started.

  “Let’s not.” Rutman finished.

  Hill asked, “I wonder if they hunt by scent? Might have marked ya, Princess. He’ll come back for you.”

  Firenze, despite himself, shuddered. He said, “Thanks. I'm never sleeping again. Thank you.”

  “Welcome.” Hill said, as his fingers caressing the hidden grip of his pistol.

  From deep below, there was a sudden crash, a resounding bong that echoed through the warren of pipes, and the distant sound of frenzied splashing. Firenze tensed, Hill brushed his shirt away from the holster-

  “Fuck this, we're leaving.” Rutman said. He backed away.

  “Yeah.” Firenze agreed.

  Hill stared down the hole a moment longer. Finally, he nodded, and stepped back. He never turned away, not until they were twenty meters clear of the pipe.

  They pressed on down the alley, wound through the trash and stoops, stayed clear of every torn-open grating. Firenze kept checking over his shoulder, until he turned the corner, and another, back onto the main street. He walked a little faster than he had to. No one complained about the quickened tempo. Everything is coming apart.

  The boulevard was covered in barricades. Posters hung, bearing rolling displays of quarantines and civil protection ordnances, mixed with “Volunteer” propaganda for the coming war, and stimulus incentives for the militia. “Do your part!” a poster boasted, as it showed a soldier, holding back a wall of ice. “Keep the peace!” another declared, as a civil protection officer smiled, and held a small child.

  These might have been more effective without the graffiti, or the curfew alerts clumped about them.

  A lift car flashed overhead, through the spires, threaded through the Gothic web of bridges and tiered balconies, until it vanished into one of the upper bypasses. It had government plates, just like all the aircar traffic, anymore.

  Rutman watched it pass, then asked Hill, “Survey?”

  “Nah.” Hill replied. “No scanners. Wasn't for us.” He popped a piece of gum into his mouth. He chewed vigorously, and then added, “Watch the passives, and for birdies.”

  Passive scanners, traffic plates, adaptive advertisements, and micro-drones... the cornerstones of the modern city. Sidewalk segments tracked pedestrian movement. All-seeing cameras and sensors, tied to the local grid, labeled each unique vehicle and pedestrian, and optimized the transit systems to disperse load and manage crowds, as well as enable emergency services to react quickly. These were linked to small drones, designed to look like building-nesting birds, or even hidden in plain sight as the common highway drones, to track patterns that might indicate a coming riot, protest, or mob. Or us.

  Rutman nodded. “Nothing so far. Keep moving, we'll switch back at the Queenston Station.”

  Satellites in the open air. Scanner thresholds in dronetown at every tunnel and warren. Drones at every level. Civil protection prowling the streets. Still it comes apart, but not from lack of force.

  It was horrifying, to watch the city disintegrate, to watch the world unravel, so perfectly, from just a few plucked strings. The Terran Provisional Authority might be more provisional than we ever thought. In college, he'd halfheartedly talked of revolution, but now, it made him ill. What comes next? The streets answered his question, with naked fear and force, barely chained pandemonium and the horrors in the shadows. This is no liberation we're witnessing. It’s devolution to chaos.

  Unless someone stops it.

  “Do you trust him?” Firenze blurted.

  Rutman asked, “Who?”

  Hill answered, “Wonderboy.”

  “Ah, hell no.” Rutman said. “But we don't got a choice.”

  Firenze said,
“I was really hoping you guys would have a better answer.”

  “Look, we're all on that boat.” Rutman said. “Sarn't says we use Wonderboy's plan, so we use his plan. Shit goes sideways? Every one of us knows where to put the bullets.”

  Hill added, “Just keep your smell check running. If it stinks like shit, call it out.”

  Firenze said, “Well, let me tell you, poking the Authority in the eye smells a little funny-”

  “We're not poking the Authority in the eye. We're punching the Agency in the dick on the way towards saving it.” Hill answered. “Big difference.”

  That's the gray zone, isn't it? We aren't going rogue. The Agency went rogue. We're the loyal ones. The argument wouldn't hold up in court, but that had little bearing on whether it was true. Perspective. It's all perspective. That was hardly as reassuring as Firenze would have liked.

  Still, he agreed, “The Charter.”

  Rutman added, “Hail Mary and Hallelujah.” He paused for a moment, to check a street corner. Cars didn’t stop for powered-down intersections. Not anymore. He glanced one way, then another. As he stepped into the street, he added, “They crossed a line, and now Striker's got their balls. We take him down, they get some grab-ass on the sideline.” He popped up, onto the curve, and said, “It’d be so much easier if they'd just play ball.”

  “You know how it is.” Firenze said. “Sometimes, you need someone else to tell you, 'Man, you're too drunk for this' and pull you back from bad decisions.”

  “Exactly, Princess. Exactly.” Rutman agreed. “We're giving them a buddy-check.”

  Hill added, “So, what we're saying here is, is that the Authority is about to go down on some hooker with a suspiciously large man-hands, and we've got to make sure it wakes up with some self-respect.”

  “Couldn't have put it better myself.” Rutman said. “Although, you forgot about the psycho with an ax, waiting in the bathroom.”

  “Ah, sorry, Scooch, I was too hung up on the man-hands.” Hill replied. “And the fact that she reeks like aftershave and sulfa powder.”

  “Ugh, God.” Firenze said. He tried to force the image from his mind. “Where do you come up with that shit?”

  “He was raised by sewer crocodiles.” Rutman said.

  “Gators, Scooch. Gators. There's a difference.”

  Despite himself, Firenze smiled, forgetting for a moment where he was walking, and why he watching the walls and the sky for all-seeing eyes. Months ago, he'd taken the blasé joking as some sort of macho posturing, or absurd denial of the danger they were mired in. Now, he knew better. It was a way to keep your head clear, a way to stay on the ball, to break down the mountain of impossible odds into smaller, conquerable portions. It was comforting.

  They had almost reached the transit station. They stood below the sweeping steps and the maglev scaffold. Once, the blue-glass station had been a gem in dronetown, lined with gardens and kept by a dedicated security force. Now, the glass was shattered, covered over with tarps and caution signs, with little sign of the security detachment outside their bunkered office.

  Firenze had a fake identicard to flash for when they passed the threshold, but as they climbed the steps, a man ahead of them simply jumped the broken turnstile, instead. No transit police came to call the man on his infraction.

  “Bad sign.” Firenze noted.

  “What?” Hill asked, as he passed through the archway, his false identicard chirping as the rail system deducted the daily fee via wireless.

  “It's a bad sign when the windows break, or when fare-jumpers ride free.” Firenze noted. “Broken windows. It means a broken structure, and crime will follow.” Crime came. It came, it looted, and then it ran the hell out here, too.

  “That's why we're here.” Rutman said, as he passed through the threshold. “First to fight.”

  Hill answered, reflexively, “Last to quit.”

  Idiots running the wrong direction. Firenze stepped through the gate, heard the chirp of a successful pass. “Damn straight.” He said, as they ascended towards the last train out of the city.

  #

  Michael Raschel was not a man who waited. He took pride in this, curated it. He was the last to enter a room and the first to leave, a spectacle and slight of hand, all at once. He demanded, he commanded. The Senate itself would strike two gavels before he deign come down and face the cameras and preening politicians. He was a man of action, and he was always too busy for this - whatever this might be in that moment. Once a field agent, always a field agent. He wasn't happy unless he was the hub of at least three spinning wheels, the only stable point in the storm, and the only man on the ball. He waited on no one.

  Except for the Director.

  Raschel paced the Citadel lobby. Myriad reports, feeds, and updates streamed across his glasses. His gloved hands flicking side to side, as he burned through paperwork like a forest fire. He took calls, mostly on subvocals, but occasionally snarling an invective, just loud enough that the secretary would flinch behind her great oak desk. He hated waiting. That was doubly true when decisive action was so close at hand. It made him feel useless, and that was the worst feeling in the world.

  Reyna's out there, in the shit, getting the good stuff.

  Sometimes, he envied her. She was out there, in the trenches, in the long stakeouts, living on protein bars, hydration packs, and pissing in a bottle for days on end. That was real. Even at its worst, at its most boring, she was still doing something. This was just pacing. It was putting up make-work that any office drone could punch out. He couldn't liaise, he couldn't observe, he couldn't prowl the underbelly. It was all business, and the worst kind of business, the kind that wouldn't let him forget that he was bound up a bureaucratic choker like a ten-credit whore.

  The secretary watched him, half-crouched behind her desk. Raschel put on his professional smile, and apologized, “Sorry, ma'am. Just some professional aggression.”

  She nodded. After a long, tense silence, she added, “You can go in now.”

  He gave her an overly courteous nod. Things used to be so simple. Before Berenson, before Striker, before this incredibly stupid crisis, his job had been easy. Keep the lid on. Put a little pressure on people who needed it. Do a little maintenance. Ten goddamn years of ‘everything’s fine, move along’. Now, here he was, called down to the Director’s office, to explain, once more, why he hadn’t delivered. Good times.

  He steeled himself at the door, and then stepped through.

  Draco waited by the window. The Director watched the snow fall about a picturesque waterfall. The view was exquisite: cold waters churned gray, as they ground up blocks of plunging ice. Raschel didn't know where the waterfall was, or if it even existed, but if the Director chose to set his view outside the Capital, that meant he was feeling philosophical. Lesser men, in crisis, might give in to emotion, or panic, but Niklaus Draco preferred the sanctuary of pure thought. When he turned to philosophy, the situation was dire.

  Draco turned from his perfect scene, his gloved hands still clutched behind his back. There was no sign of whoever had been meeting with him moments before. Second exit, hidden by the bookshelf. Even from me, the man keeps his secrets. It’s important, for dominance. Raschel knew the game. He played it well, himself. He’d come to power at the Director’s side, stayed there because he was good. The Director trusted him, as much as Draco trusted anyone. They’d done great things, together. They’d broken the Faction, once. With Bill Halstead, and a unit that doesn't exist. Obsidian Razor.

  Raschel tried to clear his head. This wasn’t the time to indulge old ghosts. Not when the Director was waxing philosophical. He needed to be on his game, because this was not going to be fun.

  “You asked to see me, sir?” Raschel inquired, as innocent as he could muster.

  “Yes, I did.” The Director countered. “I was hoping for a status report. I wish to hear how you've taken down Striker, or how you've contained the rogue ASOC unit.”

  It’s going to be the s
low knife, then.

  Raschel answered, “We haven't.”

  “Oh?” The Director asked, voice deadly flat. "Why is that?”

  “We can’t track Striker. He's either mobile, or holed up in a location we cannot triangulate-”

  “Did you not recover the information from the Airship's computers? Do you not have enough analysts pouring over it? Is there not enough metadata to work with? You have flight-plans, mass loads, maintenance logs, computer flags – some of these things cannot be faked without revealing greater truths!”

  “Yes, sir, that's all true.” Raschel said.

  Silence answered.

  Raschel continued, “But that merely determined that he was loading heavy equipment from somewhere in Northern Africa, Southern Europe, or Western Asia. All attempts to trace back Blade to any warehouses are ending in dead ends and ambushes. He's had this plan in the works for god knows how long, and he knows exactly our methods of detection. I'll get him, sir, but I need time to chase all the forks in the river.”

  “How much time?”

  “Six, seven months.” Raschel said.

  “There may not be an Authority left to save at that time.” The Director said, as softly as the snow falling around his waterfall.

  “I know, sir, that's why I'm using Berenson's angles.” Raschel waited for the begged question, but received only silence. He continued, “Berenson wants revenge, he wants to hit his brother back, as hard as he got hit. He's going to press on Striker, and he's keeping him properly paranoid, buying us time and breath to take the bastard down.”

  “Antonius Berenson is just as dangerous as his brother.”

  “But he's under our watch, twenty-four-seven.” Raschel said. “They hop around, changing locations, blowing through identities like a hooker through coke… but it's not helping them. My team is on them, watching for any sign of the double-cross.”

  “And how, exactly, will Berenson find Striker, when we cannot?”

  “He can get inside his own head better than we can. He knows, better than anyone, how Striker thinks, how he operates. I'd bet my left nut that he's known exactly where to hit since two weeks after the Plymouth did the swan dive. He's just getting his hand in order.”