“They left you to die.” Clausen said.
“Neural degradation.” Berenson answered. “Doctor Park was correct in his assumptions. There were too many flaws in the Titan Five production line. Over time, the buildup and stress would degrade the processing abilities, and we would descend into madness. There was no cure, and no reason to treat it. The Faction was already dead when they realized the error. Better to throw us into the maw of the Authority, to cover the Council’s retreat. It was the best use of limited resources. Tiberius just came out the worst for it.”
“Whatever happened to Doctor Ji-Seouk Park?” Clausen asked. “We never collared him.”
“Tragedy.” Berenson answered. He put his hands down, onto his lap, and smiled, with his self-assurance returned. “Mechanical failure during his evacuation flight. It was brief, but immeasurably painful.”
“Karma’s a real bitch.” Clausen said.
“It was a terrible tragedy.” Berenson repeated, without any inflection at all.
Extrapolation 0111
“All I have mentioned is merely for survival. If we wish to win, to gain any measure from our campaign, then we will need more than soldiers and weapons. Direct action alone will not win the day, because there are two targets that must be struck simultaneously, and only one of these is a thing which we can physically touch. If we pursue Tiberius and eliminate him, but do not rectify the systemic poison in the Authority, then his time bombs and plots will surely undo everything we gained, if not immediately, then within a year. If we attempt to confront the Authority, Tiberius will run free, and burn the house down while we prepare supper. In a further complication, both objectives must be accomplished without allowing the Path to mobilize and reignite the War. All would be for nothing if the ghosts of the last conflict claimed us.
“In short, we must subvert Tiberius's endgame, while negating the Agency's counter-play, excise the poison that is Durandal from the Authority's structure, and deny the Path the opportunity to capitalize upon any of this, all with little more than a light platoon of dishonored soldiers. Most men would call this a suicidally impossible task. I like to think of it as a challenge.”
Berenson stood on the rotted stage, framed by mildewed curtains and a warped silver screen. The theater was dead long before the quarantine, killed by immersive VR and softjacks. Its doors had been barred and windows shuttered, to seal out the riffraff. Decades of disuse ate away at the grand old building, until the deep purple carpet turned brown and the seats all peeled up around the edges. The stench of decay dripped from every corner of the theater, and it grew stronger every time a light popped on or off.
The projector whirred, and the screen behind Berenson lit, showing a placeholder card. Berenson glanced to it, then to the crowd packed into the lowest seats. He grinned, like an old time showman, and twinkled his laser pointer over the lines of heads. Before he could even start, Charlie Rutman, seated in the third row, protested, “Look, we don’t even know where he’s coming from!” Rutman drummed his stylus off the rim of the chair ahead of him, to punctuate his point. “All the firepower in the world isn’t gonna help us if we can’t hit the son of a bitch.”
Berenson glanced over the crowd of irritated faces and crossed arms, and then glanced down to Clausen, seated on the edge of the first row. He looked over them, once again, a puzzled expression on his face. Clausen could almost hear the gears spinning in the genejob’s head.
“Oh.” Berenson said. “Well, then…” He shrugged. “Striker is based at MacPhereson Airbase.”
The room went quiet. Berenson glanced over them all again, as if confused that no one else had figured this out. He turned again to Clausen, who motioned with a roll of his fingers. Come on, out with it.
“I figured it out approximately one week after the Airship crash, immediately before I contacted your team.”
“How the hell did you do that?” Bruce Devallo demanded.
“And why the fuck didn’t you share?” Rutman added.
“Operational security.” Clausen answered, from his seat. Several heads whipped to the side, to stare at him. “Compartmentalization. You know the drill. He told me, I checked it out.” Clausen pointed a finger at Berenson. “Now he explains to all of you.”
“Thank you, Mister Clausen.” Berenson acknowledged, and turned towards the screen. The image flashed, and jumped to an orbital view of the Earth. The globe spun, and then the satellite zoomed in, on a dark miasma that hung over the eastern edge of the Euro Hub. “Using the data we acquired on the Plymouth, I was able to determine the points of resupply for the Airship, the locations where it took on mass indicative of the heavy weapons that we saw deployed. Now, Tiberius and Sakharov used repairs to mask the transfers, but when cross-referenced against the maintenance logs, I was able to filter out the chaff, and isolate the illegal cargo movement.
“With the junk data removed, I analyzed the resupply sites. They were appropriately random in their distribution, so as not to point to any particular spot as either centric or forbidden, but there is always a pattern, even in the apparent lack of patterns. With my knowledge of Tiberius's behaviors, I filled in three likely regions he would be concealing his base, based upon his need for freedom, secrecy, and projection capacity. Once I compared this list against his love for the poetic, the answer was apparent. He is operating from MacPhereson Airbase.”
The screen behind Berenson flickered again. This time, it showed the schematics of a large complex, a wheeled hub in the sands of the Waste, perched like a spider atop the crystal dunes. He continued, “Constructed after Durandal, in order to continue the research of the Hodges Report, and perhaps discover the Waste's secrets, MacPhereson was built to be combination HAZMAT laboratory and military base. It is located in the eye of a stable crystal storm, hardened against the local radiation, and capable of sustaining a population of fifteen hundred without resupply, indefinitely. It has fabrication facilities, hydroponics gardens, an on-site reactor, sequencers for bio-production, labs, and every accessory for military needs-”
Clausen interrupted, and tagged the upper corner with his own laser pointer, “Please note the silo on the southwest spoke.”
“I was getting there.” Berenson protested. He continued, “When it was built, MacPhereson was equipped with a launch facility for atmospheric tests, as well as ground-to-orbit transit. In order to conserve resources, the Corps of Engineers dropped a prefab strategic launcher onto the base, and then converted it to scientific purposes.”
“Oh, fuck that.” Someone said, from the darkened hall.
“I do not doubt that Tiberius has converted it into something devious. It could be a conventional missile, or nuclear, or Strand-doped, or something even more exotic, but it is his likely axis of defense against an orbital assault, and for inflicting terror, so we must treat it as a primary objective.”
“Why’d we abandon this place to begin with? It couldn’t have been cheap to build.”
“Clever minds became concerned that the research conducted here could reveal the lies of the Hodges report, and the base was closed in the Peace Dividend budgets. MacPhereson was primarily built underground, and would have cost too much to remove, so it was simply shut off and left behind, with the hostile nature of the Waste as a guarantor of security. Perpetual remote connections are impossible to sustain in the storms, so all the Faction had to do was wait for a bad squall, slip in, and bypass the automation. By the time the uplink returned, MacPhereson was under a new master.
“It is quite poetic, really. He has set himself in the cradle of the Authority's power. The one-world State was born here. Given his way, the one-world State will die here. Logically executed, well concealed, and beautifully symbolic.” Berenson sighed. “I wish I could claim credit for such a masterstroke.”
“… and we were talking about stopping him.” Clausen said. “Let's get back to that part.”
“You are right, but I cannot help but be distracted. Like any artist, there are moments w
hen I must stand back and appreciate the work of another, even a rival-” Clausen coughed. Berenson jolted from his reverie, and offered an awkward smile. “I am sorry. To task: there is a flaw in his fortress. The same storms and radiation that shield him, blind him, and the Waste is too vast to control the border. An orbital approach is too obvious, his spies would warn him before we closed range. However, a small craft, taken in low, through the storms, could breach the perimeter before an alarm could be raised.”
“Flying though the damn storm?” Rutman demanded. “That's insane!”
Berenson shrugged.
“Fine, whatever.” Rutman said, and leaned back, into his chair. “On with it.”
“We approach in a stealth craft, paradrop onto the base-”
“Through the radiation?” Firenze asked. It was the first time he’d glanced up from his computer the whole night.
“Yes. Exposure should be short.”
“Still lethal.” Firenze countered.
“None of us are likely to survive this assault.” Berenson said.
“But, if we do live, we die from cancer?”
“Perhaps.” Berenson said. “With good medical care and some luck, you might make it.”
“Lovely.”
Berenson continued, “After we paradrop through the storm-”
“Wait. One thing.” Clausen interrupted. “You mean the crystal storm? The one with millions of razors, whipping around?”
“Survival is already-”
“I’m not talking about long term, here.” Clausen countered. “I mean, operational effectiveness. I don’t mind the jump, I just want to land with a firing gun.”
“The eye is usually calm.” Berenson answered. “That is why MacPhereson was built here. If it is not, then we lose. This is a gambit we chose to take.”
“Alright. Good enough.”
“Now,” Berenson asked, “before I continue, are there any other questions on the first move?”
From the back of the room, Hill asked, “Can we keep some?”
“What?” Berenson asked, flatly.
“Can I keep some? The crystals! As a souvenir. Or are they, like, protected resources?”
Berenson blinked, once, and reached up to massage his forehead, as if to assist in processing the last question.
Clausen quipped, “Hey, you wanted this team.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” Berenson said, with a sigh. “Yes, Mister Hill, you may.” He took a deep breath, and continued, “After we paradrop on the base, we will split into three teams. Alpha will land here-” Berenson shone a laser dot on the southwestern spoke. “-and assault the silo complex. Bravo will land here and strike the communications hub, seizing network supremacy and destroying the sensor towers-”
“Wait, we're already inside, why bother with demo?” Rutman asked.
Before Berenson could answer, Clausen replied, “Cut off his eyes and ears, so he can't tell if we have more forces coming in. He can't concentrate his firepower, because he doesn’t know what we have in reserve.”
“Makes sense, Sarn't.”
Berenson aimed his pointer at the large cylindrical facility off the northeastern spoke, “Delta will lance into the research facility, looting and shooting everything that looks expensive. Their goal is pandemonium, to draw forces away from the primary lances of Alpha and Bravo. The dropship, meanwhile, will make an autopilot impact on the power plant, forcing the base onto backup, further complicating Tiberius's defense. We will need to devise an altitude fused trigger for one of the dial-a-yield devices. The reactor is remote enough that we can safely employ a three kiloton charge.”
Someone coughed.
“Is there a problem?”
“Just casual nuking, nothing much.” Rutman said.
“Stow it, Scooch.” Clausen ordered. “You have a better plan?”
“Fuck no.”
Berenson ignored him, “This entire assault will take no more than seven minutes. After that, Tiberius will have his heavy forces brought to bear upon us, and it will be a last stand.”
Clausen paraphrased, “Just so everyone here is clear: the going plan is to paradrop through hell onto a fortified post, seize control against heavy resistance, destroy an unknown strategic weapon, cripple the enemy’s R&D facility, cut his communications, and then cling to our positions until killed.”
The room was silent.
“Go tell the Spartans, passerby.” Berenson said. “This is the Hot Gates, ladies and gentlemen. Our goal is not victory, but a valiant stand that defies his supremacy and empowers the seething masses. Once his immediate threat is neutralized, and his resources crippled, the world will have a chance to answer his questions. After that, our lives are an afterthought.”
“Tell everyone what you’re doing.” Clausen said.
“I go straight for the head of the hydra, and meet Tiberius upon his chosen ground.”
Firenze asked, “Okay, well, this all sounds wonderfully 'today is a good day to die' and shit, but how the hell are you going to just walk up to Striker and confront him? How are we even going to get there, without him seeing it?! You think like him, right? Well, that means he thinks like you, and there aren’t that many stealth birds we could steal. He’ll know we’re coming the moment we pull a grand theft vertol.”
Berenson grinned, like a proud teacher, and explained, “He will let us in, so long as we do not appear overwhelmingly threatening.”
“What? That's insane-”
“He will let us in because he wants to know my gambit, to see it play out. He will let us hit him for the same reason I walked onto his Airship, because he knows I have something planned, and he can't help but want to see it play out.”
“No offense, but that's psychotic.”
“I try not to judge.” Berenson said.
Before he could return the briefing, the lights fizzled, popped, and went black. In an instant, the theater was black, with just the fading glow of hot bulbs to show the outlines of the chairs. Clausen glanced to the roof, to the fading light, and felt his stomach turn-
The lights flickered. The ship rocked.
He struck the deck. Blood filled his mouth, and he spat it onto the cold plating. In the dark, Parvotti screamed.
Clausen opened his eyes, tried to remember where he was. The world was spinning around him. Theater. Red light district. Briefing. Power's out. That's all. Breath. Blink. Keep cool, soldier. Keep your head in the game.
His hands were clamped to the armrests, hard enough that blood poured from his nails. He tried to let go, but his hands were like clamps. He had to start from the tips. Index finger, right hand. His entire mind focused onto one digit. Lift it up. Middle finger, right hand. First knuckle. Second. His breath was ragged. It had never been like this. He could smell the ocean, hear the calling of the kestrels. His right hand was free.
He’d done this before. He’d been through hell before. Why was this tearing him up? He could remember Tansana, the way the bodies were piled. He could hear the putter of the engine on the fishing skiff in Lao Drang. Why did the Airship feel so different?
Memdope. He knew it, the moment he asked the question.
He was not a slave to the dope. He was not. His left hand was free.
He was not a push button soldier. He was not a puppet on the dope strings.
He forced his thoughts to the sea, to the warm, salty air. He closed his eyes, and watched the birds circle-
He opened his eyes, and he was calm, again.
The lights came back, and he sat, with his legs calmly crossed, and nodded at each shaking soldier that glanced his way.
“What the hell was that?” Hill demanded.
Firenze had his glasses on, running from his datacard and netlink. “Looks like the power to this sector just went down. Whole city's blacked out. News says it was an explosion at a relay station…” his voice trailed off, and he added, resignedly, “…and there are fires in dronetown, already. Because, of course there are.”
“Could be coming this way.” Clausen stated. “Pack it up. All this data’s being dumped to your local drives. I want tactical options on my pad by oh-seven-hundred Wednesday. Not just the good stuff, I want edge plays, too.” He looked to the door. “Split up and rendezvous on plan Delta. Expect police sweeps of the whole sector within the hour.”
Within moments, the theater was nearly empty, the stream of soldiers vanishing out the doors. Berenson took a moment longer, to pack his projector back into his bag. Clausen had to walk past him on the way out, and braced for whatever challenge the genejob wanted to spar about, today. When Berenson offered none, Clausen stopped. “Are you okay-” Clausen started to ask, and then saw the powdered blush on Berenson’s cheek, “Are you wearing makeup?”
“Shh!” Berenson looked around, scandalized. “Yes.”
“You're wearing makeup.” Clausen repeated. He didn’t know whether repeating it made it sound less ridiculous, or more. “Hiding the phage?”
“Yes.” Berenson admitted.
Clausen took a moment, to reevaluate the scene. Berenson leaned, nonchalantly, against the stage. His hands were shaking, gripped fiercely to the wooden lip. Berenson was grinning, as always. His lips were thin, sweat beads rolling down his sideburns.
“Still beating you, isn't it?” Clausen demanded.
“I have a slight fever.” Berenson answered. His eyes were nearly glossed over, and seemed to have trouble focusing.
“How come your wetware isn't tanking this?”
“It is not a panacea. Sometimes influenza wins, and sometimes, monomaniacal government agents stick you with a custom war crime, just to keep things spicy-” Berenson tried to joke, but he coughed again, and seized up, gasping for air.
“You're not going to make it until next week.” Clausen said. “We need to-”
“No, I can-” Berenson started, then cringed, and fell silent. He held up a finger to indicate 'please wait', while he doubled over and groaned. He spasmed, coughed, and staggered back. With a shudder, he spat silver-red blood onto the floor. To his credit, he never dropped his hand until he’d finished gasping.
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