The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  What was the alternative? Anything she ran against the tide would be shut down before it hit the air. She’d be fired. Every single person who worked for her would be fired. They would be lucky to dodge the loving ‘protective custody’ for the ‘duration of the crisis’. Nothing gained in the futile gesture, and much lost. Her best hope was to slide as much news through the slop as she could, rather than go down in a blaze of pointless protest.

  Or so she told herself.

  In the dark of her mind, when she let herself slip from her chemical regimen, and kiss the edge of sleep, she’d hear that young woman screaming in protest. Integrity! Truth! The world had been so clear to a young champion, but so murky for the powerful woman. Maybe somewhere, out there on the wild net, some kid will see the bridle on us and rise, screaming, 'never!'. Maybe, at least in that way, I can inspire my successor. She'd never been a pessimist. Now she counted the failures of the day on a notepad, with a big dopey smiley-face drawn above the tally.

  She crumpled the note, and hurled it into the waste bin. Who would see them? The net was on lockdown, ever since the “Surge” happened. Two weeks ago, a data storm had carved a path across the globe, blown whole nodes offline from the overload. She’d gotten with her tech guys on some of the affiliate channels, and they were revved up about it. She’d had some good packages, before Vonner put those on the blacklist. The only mention the Mirror made of it was a blackout in South Africa, where local bureaus claimed “stress testing” was occurring. All lies.

  Her soft jack chimed. The ring, normally a pleasant chirp, dug into her skull like a jackhammer. She reached out, and, on her desk, and old rotary phone appeared, projected from her contact lenses. The stories on her desk, the prospective packages from affiliates, all faded. She touched the phone, and found herself seated on the riverside in Capital City, next to Mac, her political feed editor on station.

  Mac was furious. She could see it in his flushed cheeks, his rumpled comb-over. He was a good editor, could smell quality content from a mile away, but couldn’t play poker to save his life. The moment she was there, he howled, “God damn it, Miranda!”

  “Why, hello to you, too.” Her head hurt too much for this.

  Mac paused, saw her weary expression, and restarted. “Sorry. Just got off the phone with my handler.” He spat that last word. “They’re pulling the Mind Blade piece.”

  Her headache was stronger than ever, like a jackhammer on her temples. “Pulling? Jesus, they didn’t-” she stopped herself. She couldn’t be this frayed. Not in front of her people. Carefully, she asked, “How much?”

  “The whole goddamn thing! I got Senator Kearnsey, on record, admitting that the DCA doesn't know what the hell’s in it, that the dronetown body-count is lowballed by a factor of seven, and that they’ve got internal leaks and compromises straight up to the executive level. I had all that, and they’re burning it.”

  Some days were worse than others. Her world was swimming, as she tried to force herself to focus. There had to be a workaround. There had to be something. “Maybe they're pushing because of an ongoing investigation. Did you ask about delaying the story-”

  “I tried! I'm not some goddamn field hack, Miranda! Nothing! They want it dead!”

  “Let me take a try at it, I'll see if I can reason with Vonner-”

  “They broke into my house! Took my files! Same thing to Jesse and Ben and everyone whose touched this damned thing! No one’s answering my calls! It’s like I’ve got a sudden case of plague, Miranda, and I’m the only one who didn’t get the fucking memo!”

  Now her stomach was turning, too. She could feel anger, unproductive, useless anger, starting to build. Not at Mac. He had no right to talk to her like this, but if she were him, she’d be climbing a wall. They'd worked together too long for her to get pissed about this. Still, he owed her some respect- no, he didn’t. Maybe once, but not since she started taking taking orders from the fucking Agency. Her head felt like it was going to explode. This is what a stroke feels like.

  She had to do something. She had too. “Did you back it up remotely?”

  Mac calmed, and answered, “Yeah. Of course.” He let out a mirthless laugh, “It's gone, too.”

  “Look, Mac, I'll talk to Vonner. Maybe he'll listen to me. I can be pretty convincing?”

  “Would you? I'd owe you one. Again.”

  “I'll look into it. And, keep your head down. I can't have another one of my guys getting bounced.”

  “Thanks.” Mac glanced to the side, then reached for something off camera. The video jumped, fuzzed, popped. “There's something else.”

  She demanded, “Is that a scrambler?”

  “Yeah, one of the tech guys is a bit... creative.”

  “What is it?” Scramblers were illegal. They could both burn for being here, under it’s dome.

  “There was something else in that report. The Senate Committee, the DCA, no one knows where the hell this stuff is coming from. With one exception. Some fucking Agency taskforce, run by a ball buster named Velasquez. She fell off the grid three months ago, put on administrative leave. It’s a lie. There’s some narcotics group chasing the Blade trail, and they keep sniffing around cities where the Airship Plymouth unloaded.”

  “The Airship? The one that exploded?” She demanded, and leaned closer, into the conversation. It was stupid. This whole exchange was digital. Mac mirrored her movement. She asked “You think those arms deals might have been drug deals?”

  He lowered his voice, and answered, “Don't know, it was only one report, but, it disappeared right out from under the Committee, and even Kearnsey doesn't know what happened to it. Could be hearsay...”

  “Could be the scoop of a lifetime. If the Agency is squelching this-”

  “Exactly.” Mac nodded, then disabled the scrambler. “Thanks again, and good luck.”

  “You’re welcome. Take care, Mac.” She cut the call, and returned to her office.

  She’d just started to reach for her laptop when the call alert buzzed, once more. No name. That's odd. Doug from IT kept sending out passive-aggressive mails about not answering trojan calls. He’d sent out a seven paragraph all-caps essay about how “employees must never answer these calls while jacked-in”. She answered it, anyway. The company net had good security.

  She stood in an empty warehouse, surrounded by the towering walls and lines of frosted glass. A lone man stood opposite her, hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat, held fast against the draft that hurled through the empty train tracks that threaded the warehouse. He headache was gone. Her blood ran cold in her veins. Not him.

  She’d met him, once before. Months ago, without warning, and without cause, he’d stolen her car. She’d just sat down in the driver’s seat, when she’d smelled pizza. She’d tried to turn, and felt the cold ring of a gun against her neck. She’d been trapped in her own car. He’s back. Oh, God, he’s back. He’d made her drive around the city, while he ate pizza in the back seat, and ranted about government conspiracies and where to get the best breadsticks. He was a madman. A nut case. When he’d left her, trembling and terrified, in this very warehouse, she’d not moved for half an hour. When she’d gotten home, she’d had to shower, again and again, but the warmth wouldn’t stick.

  This madman, who’d played games with her, and joked with her, and ranted at her. This madman, who’d been terrifyingly, horrifyingly… right.

  He’d known about the Plymouth. He’d predicted it’s destruction, a month before the world knew its name. He’d predicted it, named the men involved, and then vanished. She’d tried to track him, trace him, identify him… nothing. The man was a ghost.

  And now, here they were again. The Airship. Mind Blade. The Agency. A disaster, all pointing to one man who’d known the answers before she’d heard the question.

  “Who are you?” She demanded. “Who do you work for?”

  “We need to talk. In person.” The man answered.

  “Who are you?” She repeated.r />
  “Not here.” He said. “The net is compromised. I will explain everything, once we meet.”

  “Are you going to kidnap me, again?”

  “No, that was a trust-building exercise.”

  “Interesting way to do it.” She shot back. “You could have presented information, instead.”

  “My options were limited, and I had little choice.” He shrugged. “You, however, get one, very important, decision. I will be at the Fastrack Diner in three hours. You may come alone, and I will answer your questions. Do not be followed.”

  “That dump? Alone? So you can kidnap me again?” She paused, and then added, “I make a policy not to use psychopaths as primary sources.”

  “That dump, because it is not surveilled. Alone, because it is less noticeable. Not followed, because I have a dossier that will answer every single question you have. It is your choice. Follow my instructions, and receive your answers, or do not, and continue as you are. I was right, before. I am right, now.” The connection broke.

  Miranda Owens was alone in her office, with headaches and guilt as her only companions. She'd never been scared of much. She'd dealt with maniacs and lunatics before. She'd received death threats and deranged stalkers' love and everything in between. Hardline Path clerics had placed a bounty on her head, damning her for everything from 'insulting God, his Church, and his people' right on through 'whoring with the Devil'. She was still marked for death in a decent slice of the world. None of that had ever bothered her.

  It wasn't fear she was feeling, not fear of death or injury, anyway.

  It was dread. Dread, because that she knew herself too well, knew she'd been pushed a little to far, and she was on the tipping point. She'd always been a proponent of self analysis. “The Truth Will Out” still sat on her desk corner. Gnothi Seauton. What she felt was dread, because she knew what her choice was, and she knew her answer. Dread, because she knew what his dossier would hold.

  She couldn’t name it, couldn’t list its contents, but she’d run the Agency’s news long enough to see the patterns, to see where she couldn't tread, where the holes in the story lie. Plymouth. Mind Blade. The Agency. The chill in her gut spread over her skin, and she could feel the goosebumps as the dread began to morph into anticipation. She’d always been good at puzzles. She started with the edges, and built inward, so she could see what shapes filled the void. The edges were starting to form, and something terrible lurked inside. If she went, she would see. When she saw, she would no longer be able to abide the rules and mandates. She would be compelled to act, and that would be the end. There would be consequences. Awful ones. Prison, death, not just for her, but for everyone she dragged down with her.

  That was the choice she dreaded. She dreaded it, because she’d already chosen.

  There never was really a choice, at all.

  She snatched her keys from her desk, and sprinted for her car.

  #

  Brigadier Jonathon Harper hated baby-sitting. He had never liked children, especially not the spoiled ones, who thought themselves a collection of precious snowflakes, who deserved to be showered in recognition and praise for the merest acts of competence. More than this, though, he detested adults who behaved like these craven children, the overly-educated, overly-empowered political classes who liked to treat the finest forces in the entire Authority as little more than armed nannies and bag-holders. Baby-sitting children was bad enough. Babysitting the inept overgrown children who staffed the middle tiers of the government was infuriating.

  Harper was an officer's officer, erudite and worldly, with impressive command of philosophy, history, and psychology. He was well versed on all aspects of warfare, how it had evolved from sharpened stones to directed energy weapons, the biographies men and women who'd shaped it, and the ebb and flow of conflict throughout the ages. He was well read, he was well written, and he’d been flirting with a teaching post at the Citadel for the last four years. It was said, throughout the upper echelons of the army, that Jon Harper was the perfect man to dissect the challenges of modern asymmetrical conflict, and it was often added that this proficiency was the only thing that made him sufferable.

  He knew his reputation. He didn’t hide from it. Instead, he groomed it. He had achieved the perfect balance of rigid, smug, insufferable cunt, and professional, understated competence. It kept him exactly where he wanted to be, running the direct action elements of the Authority Special Warfare Command, both below the attention of politicians and above the control of massed bureaucrats. In this manner, he could run his men well, study his history, and occasionally attend high society, without ever being beholden to it.

  Until Bill Halstead had gone and blown up that damned Airship.

  Harper scowled, and one of the nearest diplomatic attaches scooted away. The Brigadier's scowl was legendary.

  It wasn’t just that “Wild Bill” Halstead scuttled a flying city. It wasn’t just that he’d sunk twelve hundred people in watery grave. It wasn’t just that the fallout had left a stain on ASOC so deep it would take a generation to scrub out, and that the entire NORCOM community had been left a ghost town. It was the miasma that surrounded the aftermath, the lies and doublespeak that came pouring out of Capital City. If Halstead had blasted that Airship, he’d have had a damn good reason. What he didn’t have, was a good reason to be there in the first place. Harper didn’t buy the charges of treason, arms dealing, and assorted crimes that circulated the news. He could smell the ISA stink from across oceans.

  This was, of course, the problem. He’d warned his teams for years, that they were running too fast and too loose. He’d posted the alerts, that the very culture which had allowed ASOC to thrive - adaptable, flexible, flat, and always eager - was paradoxically, it’s major weakness. ASOC needed more structure, more oversight. There had been too much of a growth of a cowboy culture, and that let the bilge from the Agency filter in. Once the corrosion reached critical mass, lines would get blurred. Objectives would get murky. Principles would fall to pragmatism at ever rising decision-making levels. Missions would slip, and drag, and… well, Airships would get blown out of the sky, and good soldiers would rot up in traitors’ graves.

  All of this meant, of course, that Harper had one fine mess on his plate.

  He’d been tucked away inside of EUROCOM when the crash hit the news, and he’d started packing his office before the first commercial break. Within a day, he’d gotten the call: be on the next flight to North Hub, and take over ASOC NORCOM, before it burns down.

  Few soldiers cared for the medicine he offered, but those that know best had given the prescription. Discipline, order, and drill were on the plate. Survival training for two weeks, a week of cultural training on Path hotspots, a red-team training mission in dronetown, then more inspections. He’d expected blowback, and the men had delivered. The elites never cared for drill and discipline. They liked things flat and flexible. They’d keep their own order, do their missions, and do it right, their way. It’s what made the line officers hate and fear them. It’s what made them so useful. It’s also what had made them vulnerable to a memetic infection: bad orders, taken as a puzzle to solve, instead of a mission to uphold. Harper was here to deliver immunization, and put them back into line.

  Moreover, soldiers exhausted by prolonged training lacked the energy to mutiny. Bill Halstead had been one of the chosen few, the elite of the elite. His fingerprint was on nearly every corner of NORCOM, and those men were his men. Now, he was burning in effigy, and every one of them was having to grapple with the soul-crushing question of whether their beloved commander was a traitor, or the victim of a frame job. No matter what answer they chose, Harper didn’t like the next choice. Crushed morale during a crisis would be crippling. Insurrection would be unthinkable. The solution, was to work the body and mind, until the spirit could recover.

  As an added bonus, Harper could keep this wedge of ASOC out of the thrice-damned “civil protection” debacle. As he, and a core group of his c
lose subordinates from EUROCOM ran cadre on their western brethren, he could keep those forces from being deployed as garrisons or special police units. Those things were dirty work, and would blunt the fine razor that ASOC maintained. He would be damned before he’d see his men doing dronetown sweep-and-clears. Leave that bloody work for Sigma and the RAST teams. ASOC was for fighting the enemy, not citizens.

  It was that last bit that got him shuffled down here. More and more units got pulled from the line, and into civil protection, and soon, the benefits of having the insufferable Jonathon Harper to rebuild the damaged units were outweighed by the drawbacks of having an officer who couldn’t be compromised. A few political favors, a few deals over drinks, and Harper and his first stood-up units found themselves back on the line, away from the Agency’s workshop. No one said it, of course. It had been, “Oh, but, Brigadier, you’ve done such a good job, we want to see how the units shake out in the field! You should go there, in person, to build morale, and show our commitment!”

  It was lies. All of it. The ISA had cleaned house, because he hadn’t played ball. Now he was in a frozen hell, stuck at sham negotiations, wedged between a bunch of puffed-up bureaucrats and die-hard Path fanatics, trying to find a way out of this mess that wouldn’t start a third war.

  “... reasonable expectation of understanding of their unique socio-religious experience.” Sabina Gadja, Terran Provisional Authority Special Envoy, was coming to the end of her speech. She’d been protesting for at least five minutes, which was ten minutes faster than her predecessor had managed. Harper had made sure to nod at all the right places. He’d composed his answer by the third sentence, but, out of respect, let her finish, just like he’d let her aide speak, fifteen minutes before.

  He gave her a moment of silence, as if he’d been weighing her words, and then answered, curtly, “No.”