The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Finally, he straightened, and said, “I am fine.” The sweat was thicker than ever.

  “It's killing you.”

  “Slowly.” Berenson admitted, his smirk somehow just as strong as ever. “But I can beat it. I just need to save my booster shots. One last dance.”

  “I thought you said those were for the vomiting?”

  “They are.” Berenson answered. “I keep vomitting up my organs. Fortunately, most grow back.” He winced. “This does leave me on low doses until show time.”

  “Right.” Clausen said, and turned to walk away.

  “You are not going to ask?”

  “What?”

  “You are not going to ask, ‘what I am going to do, after this is over’?”

  “No.” Clausen said. “Not my problem. I'm gonna fix my mess, then I'll deal with yours.” He stopped, and asked, “Are you gonna be trouble?”

  For once, Berenson didn't smirk, or joke. He pulled himself upright against the railing, stood tall, and answered quietly, “No.” The ghost of his smile returned, and he added, “I made two promises, Mister Clausen. One, that I would shepherd this unit home, and another, that I would save this government. I am here to defeat Tiberius, and I will keep my word. I am your man, Sergeant, until the day I die.”

  Clausen had no answer for that.

  “That does not mean I will not run, evade, or hide. I will never stand and face the Authority's 'justice' – they have no sovereignty over me – but I will not act against you, or your people. My days as Striker ended a long time ago.” Berenson said it like solemn gospel.

  Clausen shook his head, tried to process it. Berenson was hard to get a handle on. Most men were simple. You got a look at them, what they did, you could place them. Sometimes, you were wrong, and you had to change the picture, but that was just a matter of framing. Berenson? He was like one of those three-d puzzles, the kind you had to cross your eyes to see fully. Every time you thought you had a fix on him, you’d find something else, and the picture would slip away. All you could get was inference, shadows, and a headache.

  Clausen had to laugh. This was stupid. The two of them stood in the decayed lobby, tucked between the faded ropes and dulled brass poles. The old ad boards, long dead, lined the walls like black mirrors. Clausen glanced to one, to the shadowed reflections it held. That’s all they were, anymore. Him and Berenson, both. Echoes of men. “What are you?” Clausen demanded, suddenly. He didn’t realize he’d spoken until he heard his voice.

  “I am what I am.” Berenson answered. “I am not a puzzle, to be solved. Do not waste your thoughts. After all, in the end, we are all treated the same.”

  “You a fatalist, then?”

  “I am a realist.” Berenson countered. “Time does three things to all men. It makes them dead, it makes them fools, and it makes them irrelevant. The only difference between us is the order in which these events occur.”

  “That's... wonderful.” Clausen said, sarcastically.

  “It is liberating, Mister Clausen, to live with a minimum degree of delusion. Clarity is what gives me freedom.” Berenson replied. “Do you know why I was never a prisoner, why this nanophage does not concern me?”

  “I think you're going to tell me, no matter what I say.”

  Berenson smirked, but answered, “These things can only effect what I am, but not who I am. This is why I am so immensely concerned with the Authority's attempts to duplicate me.”

  That was one hell of an statement. If nothing else, this would be interesting.

  “Go on.” Clausen said.

  Berenson held his arms wide, like a conductor for some invisible symphony, and said, “Look at it, Mister Clausen! The double thrust of memdope and imprint is nearly upon us. Tell me, why do you think you fell down that alcoholic spiral? Why were so many of your troop found in bars and hotel rooms, plowing through bottles? You are not weak men, but your bodies were craving a chemical numbness. You were trying to self-medicate. There was no crutch for you to fall back on.”

  Clausen wanted to jump to his own defense, to declare that he was 'just fine, thanks'. That would have been the obvious move. Instead, he let Berenson’s bait pass, and stayed silent.

  “Memdope is the leading edge. It lets you retain the memories of stress, the mechanical causes and effects. You can train harder, learn from error. You know exactly what happened and why, but you never wake up sweating. You never find yourself suddenly thinking about the corpses piled in the streets, or trying to stitch together the memories of the things you did with your conception of who you are. The things in your head become facts, not memories, not really. Just like a graybox. A movie, you can always recall. Indulge me. What was your 'tell', Mister Clausen? Was it the ocean? They do love to use the ocean when they set up the trigger.”

  Kestrels circled over the beaches, and he could hear the thrum of the vertol- Clausen slapped the errant thought down. He demanded, “What’s your point?”

  “My point is a question.” Berenson said. “Your government holds me up as the adversary, but then tries to turn its very soldiers into me.”

  “Soldiers aren't programmed.” Clausen replied. I know where you're going.

  “Yet. They are not programmed, yet.” Berenson said. “Hence, imprinting. Why bother with training, when you can just slam thirty years of combat experience into some wetware, and then run a couple months of physical preparation? With implants, you only need a week for surgery. Every day, your government gets ever closer to turning you into me.”

  Clausen said, “And yet, here we are.”

  Berenson tilted his head, allowing Clausen to mount an attack, waiting for the thrust of the argument.

  Clausen asked, “Who is programming you, now?”

  “No one.” Berenson replied. “But only-”

  “Doesn't matter.” Clausen cut him off. “You're here, I'm here, because things got out of control, and we have to put it right. You can claim it's about vengeance, you can claim it's about whatever the hell you want, but you chose to be here. Your nightmare scenario says that people won't make a choice, and on that, I think you're woefully underestimating us.”

  “You still think the Authority can be redeemed?” Berenson demanded. “Make no mistake, Mister Clausen, the stench goes straight to the top.”

  “Power corrupts?” Clausen asked.

  “Power liberates.” Berenson clarified. “The huddled masses point at those in power and cry 'corruption'. This is a balm to soothe their own impotence. The only difference between the poor man judging and the rich man embezzling is that one had access to a bank account of sufficient depth. All men are equally disposed to corruption. Power – force, wealth, or privilege – is merely a mechanism to express their urges.”

  “Again, your optimism is stunning.”

  “The top levels of the Authority are riddled with truly liberated men. If you think such a system can be redeemed, then I commend your powers of delusion-”

  “I thought you promised to save the Authority?” Clausen demanded.

  “I said I would try. I can only go so far.” Berenson glanced to the snow outside, to the blackened streets and the distant flash of sirens. “Tiberius is burning it all down, with nothing more than inertia. We can slam the brakes, but we do not control the engine. At best, Mister Clausen, I can offer you the opportunity for personal redemption that you so desire.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not the only one.” Clausen said, and stepped out the door.

  Berenson would have some witty reply. He knew it, so he ended the argument before it began, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Talking with Berenson was like a damned night fight, all provocation and misdirection. It was smoke and mirrors, and you never quite knew if you’d won until dawn. Sometimes, the best move was to walk away, before you got baited into something stupid. Clausen needed time to think. The cold air would do him good.

  He was ten steps from the theater when the cold finally speared through him.
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br />   It was the nasty kind of cold, so dry that it sucked the juice out of your eyes, hurt your throat when you breathed. A warm coat gave you five or six paces before you were miserable, and a good hat bought you maybe three more. Clausen pushed through the dirty snow, carefully picked his step over unploughed sidewalks and hidden curbs. Traffic was sparse, which meant each lonely car blinded him when it passed. All of it was ground traffic. Anything that flew was impounded a week ago. “Public safety”, they said, “A temporary measure.”

  The shops were blackened, the windows mirrored and broken. The snow drifted over the threshold of the nearest shops, crawled into the darkened halls. A streetlight sputtered, dirty power choking the bulb to a dull gray speck in the center of the lamp. What light remained was orange, from emergency strips in the roadway, and flashers on walls, and it turned the snow a sickly, shadowed yellow. Normally, the horizon would stay lit, always minutes until dawn, as the light of the city spilled over the rooftops, bathing midnight in a curious glow that played games with time. Now, the horizon’s only light came from fires, flickering and distant, reflected in the towers of smoke that rolled through the sky.

  The world was dead, and Clausen was walking between the gravestones.

  He reached into his coat, grasped his empty flask, and gave it a little shake, just to check. He could really use a drink right now.

  Ahead, a flickering light, garish red neon, called his eyes. It was a dive bar, windows still whole, lights still up. A plume of steam rose from a generator tucked on the roof, and a well-armed wall of muscle stood out front. The whole world needed a drink, right now. The only places doing business now were bars and dealers. Mind Blade. Mother fucking Mind Blade. Clausen gave a little nod to the bouncer, a professional, ‘no trouble here, boss’, and kept walking. At least booze was predictable. It killed you slow. Blade was… something else. Any other year, it would have been the big thing. Senate hearings. News specials. The team would have probably gotten an on-call or two to go smash some narco-king’s personal palace. This year?

  Fuck all.

  This year, it was a stinger note on the march. It was a fucking afterthought, shown up by power failures, terrorists, riots, wars, and general purpose ass-hattery. Turn on the news, and you got stories of some jackass crashing a lift car into a tower and stabbing his coworkers, or an armed mob burning down a hospital. Keep it on long enough, and you’d hear all about the traitors, who burned down an Airship, and left twelve hundred people to die.

  Goddamn them.

  God damn him.

  The metal flask bent under his fingers. He let it go, pushed it back into his jacket. He kept walking.

  He’d always been the strong one. Always the one that carried. His family. His team. Brian Clausen, hardest sumbitch in the Army. Brian Clausen, does it with a smile. Solid. Reliable. Best man to have on the team. A good man. Right?

  She’d left him. Sarah left him.

  Maybe she’d seen through him. That’s why he hadn’t said anything. He could have told her. He nearly did. He’d almost told her about his mission. Told her he was saving lives. He’d almost told her all of it. He’d almost made her understand that he couldn’t stop, that he had to go, like fire had to burn. Almost.

  He’d said nothing.

  He’d gone, and pissed away everything he’d ever believed.

  Parvotti, dead.

  Marcos, dead.

  Slim, dead.

  Maurice, dead.

  Poole, dead.

  All dead, because he’d failed them. Twelve hundred more, dead because of his order. Set the charges. He could hear his own voice, giving the command. He could smell the ionized stink of the engine room. He could see the way Rutman stared at him, the blame in his eyes.

  He could feel the way the ship bucked, under his feet, as the blasts broke her spine. He could see the ocean below.

  The Colonel told him to be a better man.

  He’d failed.

  He was in bed with Striker. He was working for a madman.

  He’d started this, to stop a traitor named Sakharov. A fallen soldier, a pawn of a master. Clausen felt the sneer tug at his lips, heard the snarled laugh that bubble from his core. Not so different, really. Sakharov set that ship to blow, and forced Clausen’s hand. Now it was Clausen’s turn, and he was placing charges on a far larger scale.

  There was a harsh bite in when you realized that you might be a God damned traitor.

  He could justify it, all he liked.

  All to serve and uphold the Charter.

  She’d still left him. She’d seen right through his bullshit.

  He was a goddamned killer, a murderer, and a traitor. A weapon to be pointed and used by the kind of men who liked the thought of death in their name.

  So when he talked to Berenson, and got on edge, he knew why. Because Berenson didn’t bother draping anything in a flag, or cloaking any nastiness in ideals. The Colonel was dead, Berenson was alive, and men like Raschel held the strings while the monster battered at the door. Amen.

  It was about damned time Clausen made his peace with it and got fucking on with it. There was killing to be done. Rough work for rough men. Fuck memdope. Fuck the drink. Fuck the Blade addicts in the their warrens. Fuck the whole goddamned world and-

  “I’m sorry.”

  The words pierced him, a cleaner wound than the cold.

  Charlie Rutman leaned against the concrete edge of the building, sunglasses reflecting the passing lights. Scooch never took those damned things off.

  Clausen stopped, dead in his tracks, the snow crunching underfoot. “What?” He asked.

  Rutman shrugged, like he was embarrassed. “Look, Sarn’t, I never got a chance to talk to you. After… you know…”

  “Don’t.” Clausen answered. He started walking, again.

  Rutman jogged, to catch up, then slowed to pace. He said, “Sarn’t, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-”

  Clausen knew where this was going. He didn’t like it. He stopped, once more, and faced Rutman, eye to eye, staring down at the smaller man. “You’ve got nothing - nothing - to apologize for-”

  “I shouldn’t have blamed you-”

  Anger boiled over like a broken pot on an unwatched stove. The cold was gone, replaced by white-hot fury. Clausen snarled, “Yes, you should! It was my order!”

  “My hands, Sarn’t!” Rutman snapped back, and Clausen stopped short.

  Just for a moment, he forgot to hate himself.

  Rutman cried, “I set those charges, Sarn’t.” Clausen started to protest, but the soldier kept talking, “Yeah, you gave the order. But I listened. Just like you did! We do what we’re told. Because it’s what needs done. I blamed you, because it was easier than blaming myself. I blamed you, because it was fucking easier than staring at this ocean of shit and trying sail it.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Clausen said, quieter.

  “Yeah, I know. Cause you’re better than that. Most people? We want to shove all the shit on someone else’s plate. That’s defensive. That’s reactive. You, though? You’re a fucking martyr. Best NCO in the whole fucking Authority. You don’t push shit off, you gather it up. That makes you the shit, Sarn’t, when it gets nasty, but right now, it is not what we need.”

  “Are you lecturing me?” Clausen asked.

  “Yeah, a bit.” Rutman admitted. “I had to drink a little to get the courage, so you better listen before the buzz runs out. This ain’t your fault, and it isn’t doing anyone any good for you to try and carry all the bullshit yourself. No one’s good enough for that, Sarn’t, not even you.”

  Clausen stood there, for a long moment, chewing on his thoughts.

  Rutman waited.

  Clausen said, “You know, we aren’t done. I’m asking you to go right back into this-”

  “And we all volunteered.” Rutman answered.

  “But Berenson-”

  “Fuck Berenson.”

  Clausen laughed.

  “No, I’m serious. Fuck that guy. W
e might be on the same page, right now, but we are not him.” Rutman reached up, to push some of the falling snow from his glasses. “We’re ASOC, Sarn’t. First to fight.”

  “Last to quit.” Clausen agreed. He sighed, heavily, letting his breath puff into the air. “How’s everyone taking it?”

  “The mission? They can’t wait to punch Striker’s teeth in.”

  “Well, tell the boys to get in line. I got dibs.” Clausen answered, with a smile. “And… thanks.”

  “No prob.”

  “You tell anyone I was having a pity party-”

  “And you’ll force-feed me my sunglasses. I know.” Rutman gave a shrug. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go drink at that awesome bar you walked passed.”

  “That’s the kind of bar where you go to get stabbed, Scooch.”

  “I know, right?” Rutman answered. With a smile, he was gone.

  Again, Clausen was alone. One foot past the other, he kept his march. The snow swirled around him, but he was immune to it. The cold cut him, but he was impervious to it. Lights washed over him, and he looked away, as the gray snow returned the searchlight glare. Sirens blared, shining blue over the gravestone buildings, as the lift car sped past, it’s thrumming-roar pulling the snow behind it. For a moment, it was raining, and then it was snow, again, as the shadows past.

  Would I do it, again?

  That was the armor piercing question. Debrief, counseling, all in one. Would I do it, again, if I knew what I knew?

  Would he take the mission? Yes. There was no choice. He was the best for the job.

  Would he give the order?

  Snow gave way under his boots as he passed through the night. Would he give it? Condemn those twelve hundred people to death? He could feel the sweat on his palms, hear the ringing in his ears. The Colonel was on the net, waiting for him. Rutman stared at him from across the carnage. Twelve hundred people, hung between life and death. Berenson grinned at him. We have no choice.

  Yes.

  He knew it. The shaking in his chest grew into a shudder. Twelve hundred, or uncounted thousands.

  There was a line.

  He stopped, leaned against an old advert kiosk. It stood like an obelisk, in the center of a silent transit stop. The snow washed over the umbrella-like roof, swirled in curtains around him. His hands rested on the smooth plasteel, slick under his gloves. It flickered, sputtered, and sprung to life.