The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  But right now, she was an obstacle, and a dangerous one, at that. With one ugly turn of phrase, this room could end a shootout. The worst part was, no one in the lunch crowd was even aware of the intricate tit-for-tat that had just played out in the back corner. Clausen glanced over the room, and said, “Neither of us wants to see this go down here. These people don't need any trouble.”

  “Agreed.” Velasquez said. “Can I win you over, Sergeant?

  “No, ma'am. Can I get you to back off?”

  “No, sir.” She replied. “A pleasure, Sergeant Clausen, and a pity.” She pushed back from the table, stood slowly, and half-turned towards the door. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “You're a good man, and a fine soldier. I know you won't listen, but I'll tell you anyway, step clear of this while you can.”

  “Same to you, Commander.” Clausen answered, and gave her a slight nod of respect. “Know your line, and never cross it.”

  With that, she was gone, her backup trailing her out the swinging glass door. Clausen took a deep breath, as the lunch crowd kept on chattering.

  At the bar, Rutman took another swig of coffee, to conceal his subvocal transmission. Clausen's earpiece chimed, and he heard Scooch whisper, “God damn, Sarn't, don’t know how she fucking made me.” He paused, and added, “What do you think she’s doing later?”

  Clausen didn’t answer. This wasn't done yet.

  A moment passed, and then the kitchen door banged open, which was impressive, in that they were a soft-swivel design supposedly impossible to slam. For a moment, the doors hung open, perhaps stunned by the fury that had split them. From between them, framed against the kitchen light, Section Chief Michael Raschel entered the stage. He was as time-worn as Clausen remembered, with leathery skin, and gray hair creeping up his sideburns like a row of spears. The pocks on his face were like landmines, and the sneer that split his lip broken only by the hairline scars over mouth. He let the whole world see him, made them see him. Even the lunch crowd noticed, glanced over, before assuming the manager was just pissed, and moving on. Clausen saw, though, he knew the show was meant for him, and him alone. The kitchen door, an excellent choice. Good angles.

  It was the Chief’s turn at the table. Where Velasquez had dragged the chair, Raschel tossed it. He slammed into the seat, like an exhausted prize-fighter, and demanded, “What the fuck was that?”

  Clausen shrugged, and replied, “Ask your agent, Chief.”

  Raschel sighed, ran one hand over his face, as if to wipe away his irritation. He said, “Commander Velasquez is good at many things, but apparently a soft-sell is not one of them.”

  “I don't believe she does anything 'soft'.” Clausen answered.

  “God damn boot pounders.” Raschel said. “All right, you asked for it, kid. You shoot down the soft sell, well, here comes the real motherfucker.”

  “In person, too.” Clausen added. Keep him off guard, stay on the offensive.

  “You're in over your head, Sergeant.”

  “Then help me out. Let us come in.”

  “Not going to happen.” Raschel explained. “And tell your dangle-nuts out there with the laser mic to back the fuck off.” He flashed a scrambler from inside his suit-coat. “You kids are fucking amateurs. Not like the old days.”

  Clausen ignored the tangent, recognizing it for what it was: diversion. “Let us come in, and we go after Striker, together.”

  “Can't. You're radioactive.”

  “You did that.” Clausen said, holding the fury in check, like a corked volcano in his chest. You torched the whole damn lot of us, but what you did to the Old Man was unfor-fucking-givable.

  Raschel must have heard the unsaid, because his next words cut right to the heart. “He knew the stakes, god damn it! It was right there, on the fucking papers! If it went tits up, it was cut and disavow, just like a dozen other jobs. You don't get to pick and fucking choose when to sprout some bushido bullshit. There’s no honor in this, kid, just a lot of fucking blood.”

  Clausen felt the fury build, and his voice sunk lower as he leaned in to speak, until it sounded like his words would scrape gravel. “Disavow, my ass, sir. You set this up from the get. We were meant to be burned!”

  “Berenson set you up! I don't see you sporting hate-wood for him.” Raschel spat back.

  “Berenson's a son of a bitch, but he came clean. He's on board for one more run.” Clausen left the “unlike you” unstated.

  “He's reeling you in, you're inside his fucking vortex, and you can't even see it. Good Christ, did Bill teach you nothing? This guy's toxic, and he's going to pull you right down-”

  Something clicked in the back of Clausen's head, as the passion in the Chief's voice suddenly made sense. Without fury, Clausen asked, “You're scared of him, aren't you?”

  To his shock, Raschel answered, openly, “Yes! I'm scared of what he can do. Young children play in the tide, but the old sailor fears the sea. It's respect, experience, and professional fucking caution!”

  “The dead aren't afraid, Chief.” Clausen stated, coldly. “And you made damn sure to kill us.”

  “He's got you eating out his hand, with blinders on and singing scripture! Do you not see how he's playing-”

  “I see precisely what angle he's playing.” Clausen said. For a moment, he wanted to fling the word Durandal onto the table, just to see how big of an explosion he could make, but he was a professional, and he would keep that card close. “He will not drag us over that line. A line you've long forgotten.”

  “How dare you.” Raschel hissed. “You are on the verge of treason, and you question my dedication-”

  “Your honor, not your dedication.” Clausen countered. “'Just following orders' hasn't stood since pre-Collapse, I thought you'd read the Unified Code? Maybe you missed that, along with 'protect and uphold'?”

  The Section Chief leaned back, pulled in the air, to quench some hidden fire. Still, the patrons sat, oblivious to the confrontation in the rear of the restaurant, or how the prospect of sudden and catastrophic violence was drawing ever closer. Rutman saw it, though, and he twisted, just so, to clear his line.

  Raschel sighed, again. He leaned back in his chair, and pressed three fingers to his temple, as if to forestall a stroke. A deep breath, and he stated, calmly, “This is stupid. You have one man in here with you, one more on the opposite roof. I have over a dozen RAST officers waiting to storm this building. You are outnumbered. Do you want to do this?”

  Clausen answered, “My men are trained killers, sir, and you know exactly how good we are. You know the weapons we have, and how much devastation will occur if you push. Unless you're quite interested in comparing quality and quantity, I'd suggest we leave that question unresolved.”

  Raschel used arguments like a duelist, and, like a fickle blade, his attacks changed angles. He said, “I hear Miss Deacon has moved-”

  He never got any further. In an instant, Clausen had the old man on the table. One hand to lock Raschel’s arm, the other to the throat. He let the Chief slide back, then caught him by the collar, clenched fist pressed against Raschel’s neck. They were face to face, just inches apart. Still no one noticed. Raschel nearly tapped the alarm. Rutman nearly drew the needler. The bloodbath was coming. Clausen spoke, his voice as cold and empty as the dark of space, and he ordered, “Do not finish that sentence.”

  Maybe Raschel saw an emotional response. Maybe he thought this gave him opportunity. He opened his mouth to speak, and Clausen jerked him closer, and locked him with a glare that slapped the old man’s mouth shut.

  “Let me tell you how this will play out.” Clausen spoke clinically, like a doctor pealing open a grisly cadaver. “You think you would manipulate me, by threatening her. This will not work. That tactic only works on reasonable men. In this, I am highly unreasonable. If any harm should come to her, through intent or neglect, I will assume that you did it. If she dies, or goes missing, I will assume that you have killed her. In my mind, I have already attended her f
uneral, made my peace, and said goodbye. This will not hurt me. Instead, I will go numb. I will assume that any further news of her condition is a lie designed to manipulate me. I will turn upon you with every tool you have given me, every ounce of training you have granted me, every scarring experience you have inflicted upon me, and I will bring destruction to your house, one hundred fold. I will cease any actions that do not contribute directly towards your destruction. I will not hurt you, I will not kill you. I will break you. I will break you in every way that a man can break another, and I will feel nothing for it. Are we clear?”

  Raschel tried to respond. Clausen pulled him, closer still, and stared him down. Raschel was silent. Clausen demanded, “Look into my eyes, sir, and tell me, what do you professionally see?”

  “Nothing.” Raschel murmured, his slick veneer broken. The man was afraid. He understood.

  “Exactly.” Clausen released him. The two dropped back, into their chairs. Clausen, looming, and Raschel, gasping.

  Raschel rubbed at his neck, worked his head side to side to get the kink out. He glanced to Clausen, and said, “Striker is dangerous. He will go for your family. Anyone you love.”

  “Then, Section Chief, perhaps you should devote a few less resources to counting my dick freckles, and concentrate on making sure that she doesn't so much as stub her toe.”

  For a moment, the silence reigned, and Raschel cleaned part of his face with his napkin.

  Finally, the Agency man replied, “Well, at least we know where we are.” Raschel stood, and tried to offer a consolation, “But you misunderstand me.”

  Clausen ignored him.

  The Section Chief sighed. “Well played, kid. Bill knew how to pick 'em.” He paused again. “You're digging your own grave, and don't let me stop you, but remember, we’re the good guys here. Miss Deacon will get a protection detail.”

  Clausen nodded, and let him slink away.

  The lunch crowd never even noticed.

  Extrapolation 0110

  “The 'trick' to Tiberius, is that his actions always pose a question. Nothing he does is without meaning, and this is especially true in conflict. The Airship and his current threat, both are queries directed at two distinct groups: the rulers, and the ruled. Now, the trouble is, he has masked the true nature of the inquiry. The question appears to be, 'How far will you go to save your civilization?', but this is a deception, and any attempt to answer it will end in tragedy.

  “The true question is twofold. The first component, addressed to the rulers, is, 'What is more important, the State’s apparatus or its purpose?' The second, to the ruled, is, 'Can the demos be trusted to keep a rational and free society?' The challenge is steep. The questions are hidden, and both must be answered correctly. Failure, here, is incomprehensibly destructive.”

  #

  Clausen always knocked before he entered. It didn’t matter if he stood at the rotted frame of a tenement door or the molded cement arch of a subway station hatch. He always knocked.

  His knuckles bounced from the shiny stone wall, flecks of gloss paint stuck to his skin. He was glad his hand came away dry, that the awful fungus that crept down into the old dronetown tube stations hadn’t yet claimed this section. Warren tunnels hadn’t been Clausen’s first choice of bunker, or even his third. It was sheer practicality. After poking the Agency on the nose, they’d had to go deeper. In this case, literally. Down, below dronetown, into abandoned transit hubs and old war bunkers, where every time you pointed a light down a long line of dead track, you’d see eyes flashing back.

  The vagrants and scavs had stayed clear, since the first night. He’d had Monterra and Cole string antipersonnel devices along the edge of their bunker, and then fire off a few frag rounds down the nearest, darkest hole. After that, surprise, surprise, they’d been left alone. He still kept a post on the wire, and counted the days until the next bug out.

  There was no answer to his knock. This really wasn’t a surprise. Firenze was oblivious, even on his best days. If he was tunneled into some task, a man could light a flare behind his head and nearly set his hair on fire before the kid would notice. Not that anyone had tested. Repeatedly. They’d stopped even bothering if Princess was plugged into his box. It was just unprofessional.

  Still, would a bit of situational awareness kill the kid? The lack of it certainly might.

  Clausen pushed through the ratted tarp that served for a door, and found himself inside Firenze’s latest hovel. The hacker had claimed a room just outside the utility main, and he and Devallo had torched into the spine access. A towel was draped over the jagged edge of the cut, and wires raced out of the exposed conduit, and snaked around the room in crazy tangles. Box after box was laced through the chaos, and in the center, Firenze was propped up on an office chair, the back perched against the wall. He stared, intently, at a tablet screen in his left hand, while his right made spider-like dances through the air.

  Not fully jacked in, then.

  “Morning, kid.” Clausen said.

  Firenze almost fell out of his chair. He jolted, as if struck by lightning, and the tablet clattered to the floor. His eyes snapped into focus, and he blinked, hard.

  “Jesus, you alright?” Clausen asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Firenze answered. “Fine. Just… working. Lotta code.” He plucked up his tablet and tossed it onto the table behind him. The black frame skittered over the old metal, before coming to rest against a truly monumental pile of empty soda cans. Firenze glanced at the caffeine memorial, and repeated, “Whole lotta code.”

  “How’s it coming?” Clausen asked. “We need to move soon, and I need to know whether you still need direct node access at the next scramble.”

  “Well, no. Yes. I mean, probably. But not yet.” Firenze answered.

  Clausen gave the kid his best stern look.

  “Yes. I will need it, again. But not for a few days. Still compiling the last bit. You wouldn’t believe the kind of mess we got on the last probe run. Even with the QE key, we’re talking some mondo ICE on this bad boy. I think, if I get about seven parallel-” he cut himself off, and corrected, “Computer magic. I’m going to do computer magic. I need a few days to prepare the ritual.”

  “Right. Gotcha.”

  Firenze popped to his feet, and grabbed another tablet. Eagerly, he said, “Which means, I had time to take a poke at Berenson’s graybox.” He paused, and added, “Man, I’m glad Hill’s not here. He’d have said something awful about that.”

  “Graybox?” Clausen asked.

  “His wetware data storage. Skull drive. All the files he gave us to understand Striker.”

  “They’re memories?” Clausen asked.

  “Fuck no, Sarge. That would be insane! And useless.”

  Instead of asking for an explanation, Clausen just waited.

  “Memories are funny. I mean, I’ve seen some awesome work with grayboxes and neural models, where they try to replicate the experience of something, and cast it over onto a second subject. Mostly cyber’d up rats, a couple of group experience test cases, crazy shit. Thing is, even the rosiest of these would be the last thing we’d want to dig through. The brain is an incredible computer. Every second, it’s being fed over eleven million bits of data, but it’s only processing through about fifty bits. That means, your brain is doing a fucking incredible amount of sorting, sifting, compressing… it’s determining, right there, what matters, how it matters, and slamming that into memory. Short term, long term, there’s a whole crazy batch of cycles running to sort the whole thing out.

  “What a graybox does, is, it catches all the data. All of it. Like a video recorder, an audio recorder, a smell recorder. A good enough box will catch electrostatic charges and inner-ear spatial awareness. It’s like a tap in the line, before the brain does its sorting trick.”

  Clausen interjected, “I’m gonna guess that takes a lot of storage?”

  “Fuck yes, it does.” Firenze agreed. “From what I’ve seen, it looks like Berenson’s sk
ull drive could store about a year of data in raw form, maybe a decade on compression. It looks like there’s some legacy hardware in there for a cloud drive. Fucking batshit.”

  “Makes sense.” Clausen observed.

  “Oh, it does, Doctor Clausen?” Firenze quipped.

  “Sure does. Wouldn’t want all your sensitive data on your combat drones. Offload that to a remote command and control. Striker was the point man for the Faction teams. Someone else would pull intel.” Clausen shrugged. “Just how I’d do it.”

  Firenze nodded. “Sarcasm rescinded, Sarge.” He continued, “Now, Berenson’s feeds are, as expected, much higher density than any civilian graybox I’ve ever seen-”

  “People have these?” Clausen demanded.

  “Uh, yeah?” Firenze answered. “I’ve got one. Only holds a couple hours of data, but sometimes, I like to go relive my graduation party.”

  Clausen stared.

  “It’s like a hard jack, except it’s the same, every time. Like the most in-depth family video ever made.”

  “You can literally re-watch memories?”

  “Not memories, Sarge.” Firenze correct. “Look, little thought experiment. Let’s say you go see an opera-”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Pretend, Sarge. You go see an opera. We record your memories on one hand, and your graybox feed on the other.”

  “Like hell I’m putting a wire in my head.”

  “It’s a thought experiment!” Firenze exclaimed. “Anyhow. If we played them back, we’d get completely different data. The graybox would show the entire opera. Every movement of your head. Every time someone coughed quietly. The fact that the guy in row four checked his phone twelve times. The singer who slipped off pitch. It’s an objective recording. Your memory, on the other hand, would only remember how annoyed you were about the light from the phone, how awesome the climactic song was, and how it made you think of your dead grandmother, followed by a rabbit-hole of linked memories relating to said deceased family. Completely different experiences through different mediums.”