“And why are you allowing this?” The Director's voice thickened. Raschel felt a charge go up his spine. The Director came from Operations, too, and I know that tone. More than his career was on the line, right now.
“Because, sir,” Raschel said, “He won't tell me. He'll go after the prize.” He didn't let Draco question this time, but pressed on towards the conclusion, “You ever worked with a gundog, sir?”
Draco tilted his head slightly. He said, “I would hardly compare the Faction's penultimate genejob with a pointer hound, Chief.”
“It stands, sir. He was programmed, trained, to do this. He'll select the target, he'll point, and then he'll engage. Once he points, we step in, and clean up the mess.”
“It will hardly be that clean.”
“It never is, sir.” Raschel said. He tried to keep his hands from shaking. He was never nervous, but these times were hardly normal. “Sir, may I speak freely?”
“You always do.” Draco replied with the ghost of humor. The storm is passing. Good. Because I'm about to call the thunder.
“We must be prepared for a release of the Durandal files.” Raschel let the bomb fall.
The Director reeled. He took in a sharp breath. Stared. Let it out. He worked his hands together, letting his fingers rub on the servo assists beneath the glove, lost in his own thoughts. For a moment, there was just the whir and click of the skeletal frame, and Draco’s measured breathing. Finally, the Director said, “Impossible.”
“Sir, we may not have a choice. This is the key to Tiberius's leverage, and we need to be prepared to disregard it-”
“I know your methods!” The Director snapped, and it was Raschel's turn to recoil. “This is not a hostage that can be sacrificed. The State must be preserved!”
“Sir, some times, you need to know when to hold, when to fold, and when to walk-”
“No.” Draco said, all fury and edge drained from his words, leaving only cold iron behind. “We can't.”
Raschel did not answer, because the statement could not have been finished.
The Director stepped away from his window, to the front of his desk. Delicately, as if afraid the machinery around his own fingers, he plucked up one of the balsa-wood models, and turned it over and over in his hands. The Director was never improper. He was not the kind of man to lean against a desk, or to fidget and fuss with little trinkets.
Draco said, “This has grown... out of control. Are you aware of the stakes, Michael?”
Raschel, wisely, remained silent.
“This is not a war between governments. This is not a revolution. This is a choice, Michael, a clear and stark decision between the stars and the grave.” The Director's tone balanced between plea and invocation. “The Terran Provisional Authority stands for more than just order, more than just a State, more than a Charter, or any hope or dream – it is the future, the only future, for our species.”
The Director continued. He spoke, not to Raschel, but to an invisible audience only he could see, as if to argue his case before a phantom jury. He said, “Consider, for a moment, the sheer number of stars, the sheer number of planets in this galaxy, and the sheer number of galaxies in our universe. They are like grains of sand on a beach, and how many of those once cradled life? Our scopes and sensors are silent, but there must be millions of living worlds, unless the grimmest conclusions be drawn. Out there, beyond the cradle of the Skyweb, beyond the Phobos bore, lie the certain, silent, remains of thousands of dead civilizations, cut down on their biosphere from chance, accident, or negligence.
“It is insanity to fling ourselves into the blackness of space, to carve out colonies and waypoints on worlds that were never meant for human life. It would be far more rational to remain here, patching over glaring faults, and worrying about practical things. I tell you, Michael, that the ruins of practical civilizations will be studied by the descendants of madmen who made the great leap.” He focused his gaze on the globe in the corner, “We don't have a choice in it, not anymore.”
Draco said, “We are but the stewards of a bargain struck long ago, when our ancestors decided to sack this biosphere in the hope of escaping to another.”
“You're talking about the Bergman drive?” Raschel asked.
“Certainly by then.” The Director said. “But I would argue far earlier, when we first cracked open the skin of our mother earth and drew up black blood, to give our machines life. Right then, we started down a path that would leave this world, or leave it in fire.” He turned his gaze upon Raschel, and declared with conviction that would have made a Path Inquisitor proud, “We should have been gone by now. Nuclear weapons made immolation possible. Negative matter, Bergman, and Strand make it a certainty. Striker, the Path, this would-be-revolution, these are symptoms of a dying world. The Terran Provisional Authority exists to hold this failing vessel together until we can evacuate it. Nothing more, nothing less.
“The Collapse may have delayed us too long. It may have already killed us, each and every one of us, but I refuse to concede! I will hold this State together with sheer will. I will drag each and every citizen towards the escape hatch-”
He broke off, suddenly, glanced back towards the window and the swirling bits of ice in the waters. Quietly, he continued, “We are riding a dying steed, broken and tottering towards its end, and our contemporaries squabble for the honor of shooting it dead, while we are the only men searching for a replacement. The Seven-Fold Path, the Children of God, they seek to rescind the bargain, as if they could deny the damage wrought by the Collapse and simply fold it all away and reclaim the world as it never-was. The die was cast long ago, and no mystical lies will change hard facts. The only way out is forward, and any delay is suicide.
“The Faction would ride this spiral down to its inevitable conclusion, just to watch and say, 'we told you so' - while we all burned as equals. They had a point once, believed in the wrong things, but honestly believed in them. Striker is just a rampaging child, churlishly burning down houses for his own amusement. He knocks out the pillars of society, attacks systemic faults already guaranteed to fail, in order to deny anyone an escape from this prison. They call him a genius.” Draco scowled, disgust clear on his curled lips. “He is not. He is a damaged child who murders stray cats, and has cut into so many, that he knows which parts will kill them quickest, when removed. That is not genius. It is educated barbarism. The man would build nothing, leave nothing in his wake, but fire. Tamerlane contributed more to civilization than this madman. All around us: ignorance and devastation, and no plan for the day after.” As he spoke, his hands twitched, the servos clicking and whirring as errant signals caused the mechanism to misfire.
The Director continued, “So when I hear words such as 'compromise', 'negotiate', and 'delay', the only sounds that reach my ears are funeral bells. We are at war with extinction, not with men, and I fear, that I may be the only one who truly realizes the stakes.
“The timer is running out, and the bargain cannot be unmade. I cannot make Durandal go away, and I would use it again if I had to. This is our chance to save our species, and I will do whatever I must to maximize that chance, which means I need all the leverage, all the power, I can aggregate, and I do not have time for distractions like Radek, Striker, or the Charter. This is our final hour, and history may judge us. My only aim is that there will be a history to judge, and so long as that stands, I can live with whatever verdict our descendants would place upon my part in this fiasco.” Draco finished. “So, there is no 'holding, folding, or walking away’. Every life on this planet is already in the pot. The only choice we have is 'all in'. Win, or die.”
“I understand, sir, and I agree.” Raschel said. “But I need tools.”
“What do you want?”
“Want, sir? I want more money, more resources, more people, more time, and less oversight.”
“What do you need, then?”
“A cruiser, sir, a dock on the far side of the Skyweb, a man on the switch on ev
ery broadcast channel on this rock, and permission to do what I need to do when the shit hits the fan, and deal with the cleanup later.” Raschel said. And throw in the moon, if you're feeling generous.
“Done. I'll make it happen.”
It was finished. The stakes were set, the turn revealed, and there was nothing left but to wait and watch the river.
Raschel hated waiting.
#
Two hours on the maglev, and Firenze found himself in another world.
The lockdown hadn't reached Old Greenwich yet, but the rail-station blackshirts kept their own sort of martial law. If it hadn't been for a fake identicard putting him as a pay-by-hour tech specialist, with a thousand credit minimum fee, they'd never have let him off the train. This was a private town, and one that was determined to cling to its bubble. If that meant paying for almost-mercs to keep the underclass at bay, well, that was the price they’d pay. Rutman had been clear, before he left, though: the blackshirts weren’t just hired guns, and couldn’t be treated like it. A town like this mandated grass blade-length, so, of course, they’d gone ahead and deputized the goons, making those rent-a-thugs genuine temporary espos. As if that made it more civilized.
Firenze scrubbed his hands in the station washroom, tried to stop the shaking. He’d been inches from the Agency’s long arm, staring that blackshirt in the eyes, smiling, and holding out his papers. Good afternoon, sir, anything I can do to help? No, sergeant, doing alright. Business? Contract work. Fixing some old biddy’s viewer. Ah, very good. Move along. He’d kept his cool. He’d played his part. Now he just had to scrub a little harder, and push the adrenaline’s fading tremors down with hot water.
Rutman had already split, took another maglev north. He’d passed along a whispered location to Hill, they’d given a backslap-hug, and then Scooch was gone, whisked away on the bright white train. He said it was an easy job, just babysitting Sarge for some “negotiation” with the Agency. Silver light, drowning me- Firenze gasped, felt the cold metal fingers closing around his throat, the memory of drowning in liquid metal. He splashed his face, chased the nightmare away. His breath steadied, and he looked to his reflection in the mirror. He forced himself to smile. Let's see them try that mind-rape shit on Clausen. His smile became a sneer. Let’s see them try that on me, again. It won’t end the same, I promise you that.
“You ready, Princess?” Hill asked. The soldier leaned against one of the stalls. Hill had stayed as Firenze’s “battle buddy”, but the his identicard listed him as Firenze’s “personal assistant”, to Hill’s incredible amusement. “Mint, my good sir?” Hill asked, proffering a stick of gum.
“Not unless you wash your goddamn hands.” Firenze shot back.
“Why? I didn’t piss on them.” Hill said.
“Classy.”
They descended, down through classical wrought-iron stairwells, through the twists and twirls of the green copper. Above, below, and around, the espos watched. The blackshirts concealed themselves as best they could, but were betrayed by the shining repeater k-guns, and gleaming black/silver uniforms. They littered the station walkways like a fascist Christmas tree, all tinsel and jackboots. The local citizens gave them the courtesy of deliberately ignoring their presence.
“Man, fuck these guys.” Hill said, under his breath. Firenze couldn't help but utterly agree.
Three more steps down the gantry, and Hill added, “Amateurs. Look at that one, by the clocktower.”
Firenze followed the instruction as stealthily as he could, looking without looking. Across the quaint town square, high above, an obese espo leaned over his balcony perch, shiny black k-gun slung over his shoulder. “Nice railgun.” Firenze said.
“Right.” Hill agreed. “But no discipline. Probably spent more on the damn k-gun than an entire infantry platoon, but couldn't be bothered to pull PT. These idiots are going to get butchered when the city boils.”
“Oh.” With that little nudge, Firenze could see it. In his head, he built a little checklist, comparing the way he’d seen ASOC train, the way they worked, and he mirrored it against the blackshirts, and found them wanting. It was jarring, now that he looked for it. The espos cradled their weapons like toys, fondled the triggers, tinkered with the battery packs. They let their gaze wander, looked at whatever interested them. They strolled when they walked, and clumped up to talk. “Security theater.” Firenze pronounced.
Hill nodded, and said, “Works great against the occasional refugee. Not so much when that train's carrying thirty tons of fuck-all into paradise.” They stepped onto the cobblestone road, leaving the stairs behind. Hill asked, “So why the fuck did Doggo stuff himself out here with these idiots?”
“Hell if I know.” Firenze answered.
Lieutenant Donegan had been nearly impossible to track down. After the Airship, he’d turned in his commission, taken a waiver on retirement, and vanished into an utterly professional fog. Two days after splash-down, and the EWO was a ghost. No credit use, no identicard flags, not a single hit on the grid. Gone. All known contacts were broken, and not one of his friends or family had seen him for months. Lauren had run sniffers over every inch of the local net, searched for any sign of him, and the best they’d dug up was a series of angry, ranting posts defending Halstead’s unit. A quick spike hit, and the hardware config popped a match to a hardware profile Firenze remembered from drilling before the Airship. They’d traced the origin of the posting to a microbrewery outside Old Greenwich, that part was easy enough, but this was a vapor trail, a ghost hunt. It was the best lead they had.
“Can't believe he wouldn't even talk to us.” Hill muttered.
Firenze shrugged. Well, he is kind of a dick.
Clausen should have come, or Jennings, or Rutman, or even Hill. They knew Donegan. But Berenson had insisted on Firenze, for some godawful reason. Donegan hates me. Why should I go? But, Clausen agreed, saying that he had “places to be”, and Berenson believed Firenze “spoke Donegan’s language”. What language is that? 'Douchese'? Ancient 'cockian' with a hint of 'raging dickhole'? He didn’t bother protesting. There wasn’t time for it. This was all or nothing, for all of them.
They caught an autocab to the edge of town. It was disconcerting, the way the spaces added up out here. No towers, no skyways, no tiered access points. This was Arcadia, where ground level meant dirt, and the sky was preserved as public space. It was unnatural. The only way it even kept running was the pop cap. Not just common sense birth caps, either. You couldn’t move into Arcadia unless someone moved out, which usually meant into a funeral urn, and that took a long while, since, if you were rich enough to afford Arcadia, you could probably afford all the anti-prog treatments science could conjure.
Firenze had to keep from pressing his face to the autocab’s window. The squat little houses were absurd, the open sky between them terrifying, and he couldn’t look away, jaw dropped like an utter scav. You’re playing a top tier contractor. You’ve been here before. He forced himself to look away, to pretend like this was normal.
He’d always wanted this. Growing up, he’d locked himself in with his computers, taught and tinkered, skipped so much of his childhood to learn the skills to make the Academy. All to make himself one of these people, the ones who didn’t need makework: the few, the elite, the producers. Another couple of years, and he could have had this. Well, not this. This was old money. He could have had a penthouse, at least a mainline window suite. But then, he could have bought anti-prog, outlived a couple people, and, a couple of decades in… this could have been his.
And now, it turned out, he didn’t even like it. It was too quiet. There wasn’t the hum-thrum of the air cycler, the knowledge that anyone you needed was just a skip down the way, or an open node on every corner. There was no heart.
The sparse houses grew sparser still, giving way to the immaculate forests and their automated tenders, and the close crop of rolling beach, tucked safely behind the filtered breakwall. Set against this constructed paradise was a sing
le building, a small piece of history, a microbrewery as old as the Collapse, or maybe even older, its front carefully restored, its windows meticulously fogged and frosted, its archaic chimney puffing smoke. This was where the trace had ended.
They approached up the worked stone path, to the threshold. There was a weapons scanner. Firenze threw a glance back, and Hill nodded. He'd stay out here, until something went wrong.
Firenze pulled back the door, felt the warm air smack into his like a blanket, and he froze. Rutman would have loved this place. The entire bar was stonework, bricked in, with flat cement counters. Golden brass pipe-works covered the back of the bar, and massive stills lurked just beyond. The place reeked of hops, but also of history, and the carefully hung pictures along the wall laid out a time-line, told in this shifting dress of its patrons, from the ghosts of an old world, through the rugged survivors in the Collapse, to the meticulous modern Arcadians.
Donegan was somewhat less impressive than his chosen bunker. He was haggard, slumped over the end of the bar, one empty bottle on the counter and another half-drunk beside it, his datagloves rumpled, his glasses askew, and his microbox nearly toppling out of his pocket. Well, that explains the 'semi-coherent' tone of his posts, and his inability to jam his trail.
Donegan looked up from his stoop, blinked twice, and then polished off his drink with a grimace. “Bout time, is it?” He asked, cleanly. He didn’t sound as far gone as his unkempt stubble implied.
Firenze dropped into the chair next to him, and asked, “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” Donegan said, and then called to the bartender, “One for my pal here.” The barkeep dropped a thick bottle in front of Firenze, popped the top with a flourish, and poured the golden beer into a snifter. Donegan nodded to the drink, and explained, “Best in the Hub, and forget anyone who says otherwise.” To the bartender, he added, “On my tab, please.”
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