The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Gadja’s eyes widened, as if she’d never expected such a curt response. It was one thing to hear about dealing with Jon Harper. It was another thing to experience it. She demanded, “Why not?”

  “Security.” He answered.

  “You can scan their prayer rooms from remote, and they’ll never even know. The entry of your men is a provocation, Brigadier! Surely you can see that!”

  Harper raised one eyebrow. It was a gesture he mastered, years ago, as an efficient measure to show both questioning and disbelief. “Security, madam.” He answered. “I was told to keep you alive, and, despite your efforts, I will do my best to succeed.”

  She didn’t take the bait. She was a diplomat, after all. “It’s sacred space, Brigadier. Your men barging in there, with no regard for ritual or ceremony, is a provocation. If we give them this little gesture of respect, it might win us concessions at the negotiating table.”

  “It’s a feint, Ambassador.” He countered. “The actual content of their request is irrelevant. It’s a smoke-screen. Last week was our people’s sanitation, head-coverings the week before that, the orientation of the prayer-room before that. They’re playing games, madam, and if you wish to indulge them, then, by all means, carry on… so long as those games don’t damage our security.”

  She sighed, and asked, “Have you ever considered, sir, that their requests may not always carry ulterior motives? That sometimes, a request for respect may simply be that?”

  He nodded. It was a fair question. “I have. In counterpoint, I must always assume the worst.”

  “That’s what got us here, you know?” She asked, with just the hint of an edge in her voice. So, she does have some fire in her. “I don’t want to make this an order, Brigadier.”

  “You’re going to have to.” He answered.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you fighting me on this? Are you that certain they are up to something.”

  “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe. Pessimism is a job skill.”

  She shook her head. “Consider it an order. No sweeps during their rituals.”

  “Yes, madam.” Harper answered, as professionally as he could.

  Gadja must have heard something in his voice, because she paused, stared at him, long and hard, and then demanded, “Explain yourself, Brigadier. What are you afraid of?”

  “They’re stalling.” He answered. “They have no intention of negotiating. They’re gathering intelligence, delaying, and waiting for the chance to strike.”

  “Or,” she offered, “they’re testing our willingness to commit.”

  Harper scoffed.

  Gadja glared.

  He explained, “You know who you’re dealing with, correct? Ishtan Radek?”

  “I’ve met him.” She answered, again with the edge. “I know him better than most.”

  “Most.” Harper agreed. “You’ve read his files. I fought him.”

  “He’s a politician now.”

  “He’s a warrior. There’s an entire mindset that goes with that. If I could trade any ten Path leaders back from hell, any of them, to put Radek under the glass, I’d do it. He’s a zealot, he’s clever, he’s subtle, and he’s got a grudge. We unmanned him. We made his leaders sign that truce, and he refused to put pen to paper. He’s not negotiating, Ambassador, he’s feeling for your jugular.”

  “The war is over, Brigadier.”

  “A truce is not a treaty.”

  She nodded. “Which is all the more reason to show we’re willing to make amends. A cycle of violence cannot be broken until one side-” Gadja cut herself off as her uplink chirped. “I’m sorry, but I must take this-” Harper’s own uplink chimed.

  He tapped his earpiece, and the soft-jack engaged. He stood in the command center. “Report.” He ordered, the annoyance clear in his voice. Gadja’s people had processed the call, first. That was unacceptable. He made a note to analyze his communications protocols.

  “Sir, the Path just took hostages.” Major Lagauche stated. The Major was a EUROCOM transplant who’d followed Harper over. He knew the drill, and had a tactical report at ready. Harper snatched it, and the data transfered. This explained the delay, then. The Major had prepared an organized statement, as opposed to a scattered bleating. Just the way Harper liked it. He made a mental note to exempt Lagauche from his com protocol review.

  Lagauche stated, “Two dozen Path regulars, disguised as negotiators, seized the primary compound. They’ve locked down three of the wings, including the armory. They have a dozen hostages.”

  “How did they overrun security?” Harper demanded. “That was a locked compound.”

  “They smuggled in ceramic guns, sir, and are armed with ceremonial weapons. Ambassador Hassani agreed to remove oversight from the primary compound in order to facilitate ‘open relations’. They killed the MPs, sir. Four dead at the armory.”

  Harper scowled. He washed the distaste from his mouth with a sneer, and demanded, “Is Radek there?”

  “Yes, sir. Ishtan and both sons are in the compound.”

  “Of course they are.” Harper agreed, bitterly. “It’s a matter of honor.”

  “He’s in good shape for his age, sir.” Lagauche offered. “The man brought a sword to the fight.”

  Harper dismissed the statement, and asked, “Any other casualties?”

  “No more fatalities, that we can tell. The guards were killed in the shootout, but the Path aren’t executing hostages. It was very deliberate, well coordinated. I’ve got intel running the files on the faces we captured before we lost video, but I’d place credits most of them are in warrior societies. Radek has requested medics to treat the injured in the compound. He says he’ll let the wounded leave with the medical staff, as soon as he has your word we won’t attempt anything.”

  “He has demands, then?”

  “He wants the ambassadorial staff to come to the compound, and ‘answer for their crimes’. He also requests your presence, and, this is odd, requests that you bring either a pistol or short blade. Sir, if I may… why?”

  “He wants to duel me, Major.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s an honor culture, Major. Familiarize yourself. The old man means to battle me to the death.”

  “That’s insane, sir.”

  “That’s the Path.” Harper agreed. “I’ll forward some good reading on to you. When you get the chance, go through it. There’s a war coming.” He glanced over, to the TACNET data feeds pouring down, and ordered, “Lock down the compound, but don’t move on it, yet. Send in the medics, send Radek our word, and pull out the wounded.”

  “Should we insert a tactical unit?”

  “No. Volunteer medics, unarmed. Get them spun up, though.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’m going to attempt to convince the ambassadorial staff not to do anything stupid, and then I’m going to contact Command.”

  “You’re not going in there, are you, sir?”

  “God, no. We’ll do this tactically, we’ll do it right, and then we’ll clean the place with a hose.”

  Harper cut his connection. He stood in the hallway with Ambassador Gadja. She stood, staring blankly into space, eyes flicking rapidly behind her contacts, locked into her own conference. Harper straightened his already straightened garrison cap, and waited. When she blinked, and her eyes regained focus, he stated bluntly, “Radek seized the compound.”

  “I’m aware.” She snapped. “Please don’t make this worse with violence. We can still talk-”

  “I know, madam. My men will hold the perimeter, and a negotiating team will be dispatched, shortly.”

  “He wants to talk to the diplomatic team-”

  “No.” Harper answered. “That is out of the question. I warned you he was searching for a weakness. This is his strike. The staff there are civilians to him, incidental. He will not harm them. You are part of the Beast. Your killing would be a 'just' deed. The moment you enter that compound, you would be thrown into a show-trial an
d executed.”

  “I don't believe that. He says he has evidence of some conspiracy, and he requests that we hear him out.”

  “He demands, Ambassador, he does not request. What he offers is not be debate, it’s theater. The man was an Inquisitor before he sat on their high court, and he was a warrior before that. He is old, he is in failing health, and this might be his last chance to achieve some measure of vengeance. The man is in 'final judgment' mode. He does not intend to walk out alive, and the only thing he’s looking for is the righteous choir to sing him offstage.”

  “The first move of trust-”

  “He took hostages.”

  “He didn't kill them.”

  “He killed my men.”

  “In battle.” She argued. “This is a diplomatic mission first, military second, and I have made my decision. I will go and listen to him. If that doesn't work, Brigadier, then you can have your violence.”

  “Not my violence, madam, his.”

  Gadja didn’t answer him, but walked away. He ignored the slight, and let her go without protest. The moment she rounded the corner, he tapped his earpiece, and stated, “Major, I believe that Ambassador Gadja has vehicular problems. Can you check on that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lagauche answered, and ended the call. The Major was a good man.

  Harper walked with a purpose, straight back to his office. There, he grabbed his coat, slipped it on, and then snatched up his thermos. It was going to be a long day. As he reached the door, his earpiece chimed, yet again. He tapped it, prepared for another update from Lagauche, but instead found himself sitting in an empty cafe.

  Interestingly, he’d never taken a call here, but he knew this place. He often ate brunch here, just down the road from EUROCOM headquarters in Brussels. Whoever had called him knew who he was, and he did not know who they were. He grabbed for the disconnect-

  “Please, don't, sir. We need to talk.” The man sat across from him, a broad-shouldered bear of a man. He wore an ASOC uniform, NORCOM patch. Halstead recognized him, from the news.

  “Mister Clausen.” Harper stated, coolly. The tallest man standing on the totem pole, when Bill’s unit burned down. He didn’t envy Mister Clausen, but this was neither the time, nor the place. “You do understand that I cannot speak to you? That I don’t have the time, or inclination?”

  Clausen nodded, his blue eyes cold, “You have a hostage situation, right? I can help.”

  Harper paused. He could feel the adrenaline start to trickle in his veins. Interesting. “And what would your involvement be, Mister Clausen? I’d hoped the Airship would be the bottom of your trajectory, not the peak.”

  The probe worked. The giant man’s eyes flashed, and he grabbed the edge of the table, like an adult might snatch up a child’s tea-set. “You know it's a lie.” Clausen growled.

  “Quite. But Bill let the snakes in, it's little surprise they bit him.”

  “We're still going after the bad guys, sir.”

  Harper turned away, and said, “I'm sorry, I can't help you. I should report you for hacking into my systems, but I'm rather preoccupied right now.”

  “I can help you, sir, not the other way. We were – are – going after the Faction. Striker's alive, he's rebuilt it-”

  “Sergeant, I don't want to hear-”

  “Sir, he's going to bomb your talks.”

  Harper stopped cold. “How confident are you?”

  “Certain. He’s trying to black flag a powder-keg. He’ll draw the players together, and then frame a bombing to start a war.”

  “A war we can't afford.” Harper agreed.

  “Yes, sir. He has men inside both camps. He's going to pull everyone into the target area. He fed the Path intel to provoke them, and now he’s trying to lure the ambassador on site.”

  The ice in his gut told him he was hearing the truth. Of course, counter-operations relied on this sort of misdirection, and “Clausen” could very easily be the actual agent maneuvering him into a bad move. There were two narratives being presented, and he had to make his call.

  “I'll take that into consideration, Mister Clausen.”

  “Sir, you should know, the information he gave to Radek's men...” Clausen paused, to give his words room to breathe. “It's why we were burned, sir, but it's critical to your mission. I can send it to you.”

  Harper knew he stood on the precipice. He'd always kept clean of the politics that greased the wheels of the Authority. He'd always walked away from these sorts of sordid affairs. He did his job, he kept his honor, and he let his actions speak for themselves. If he touched this data, he’d lose that. His cushy retirement would be gone. He should simply walk away.

  Harper had been sitting in Brussels, at this very cafe, when he'd heard about Bill Halstead's awful end. He'd swooped in and cleaned up the mess, and every night reminded himself that this was why he never looked too deeply into dark waters. In a sick way, he’d been proud of himself, for never getting caught in Halstead’s vice. He’d felt superior, secure. He’d done his job, like he always did, and then he’d gone home.

  Until he’d been exiled to the ends of the earth.

  Sent away because he wouldn’t lend his men, Bill’s men, to “civil protection” and the Agency’s overreach. Sent away, where he could watch the world pluck itself apart in burst transmissions and packet updates from Command. Sent away, to dance a morbid farce with the Path while counting down towards a final collision. Sent away, because of Bill Halstead, and the contents of that dossier.

  “How bad is it?” Harper asked.

  “Bad.” Clausen answered. The man’s face had turned pale, and he looked sick, as he answered, “Real bad.”

  “Christ.” Harper stated. “Do I need to know it?”

  “Yeah.” Clausen answered, just as solemnly as before.

  “Christ.” Harper repeated. He sighed, heavily, and then held out his hand. “Send it over.”

  That was that. The file touched his hand, and flowed over the net. In a digital flash, it had loaded into his soft-jack’s drive. He thumbed the first page open.

  It was like waking up, drowning. He scanned the first page, and then the second. As the words blurred together, and he began to see the horror take shape, he slowed. He slowed, as if to ward off the awful end, but also, to soak in every bit of it. Every bite of data, every flash-seared image. Every audio clip stricken from record. Every video sealed under Hecate encryption. His blood was ice. His skin was covered in slime.

  He understood. For the first time, he truly understood why Agency did what it did. All his life, he'd held himself above the mess. He’d thought himself clean. He'd held himself over other men, secure on a moral pedestal. He'd done his duty, he'd served the State.

  Now, he understood he'd always been buried in the mire. He’d wallowed in the filth from the moment he took his Rifleman’s Oath. He’d preached a medicine of precision, drill, and discipline, while his own hands fed the sloughing beasts in the stables. His hands were covered, not just in blood, but in rot and waste. In one word, he’d been undone. In one word, he’d been made a liar.

  Durandal.

  No wonder Radek had snapped.

  Would he have been so controlled, in his enemy’s shoes? Would he have spared those civilians after the armory? Four dead soldiers, cut down in battle, and the slaughter stopped before it could begin? Could Harper have done the same, or would the cliffside be bathed in blood?

  “Christ.” Harper stated, one last time, and broke the call.

  His hands were shaking.

  He turned, to his window, and glanced over the sea-side cliff, to the squat and ugly prefab compound perched against the crashing gray surf. The Path flags flew high above. Radek, you were right. You old bastard, you were right. Harper felt ill. He needed a moment, but he didn’t have one. He had a mission, a duty.

  He touched his earpiece, and asked, “Major?”

  “Sir?” Lagauche answered.

  “Make sure not a single member of the
diplomatic staff gets into that compound. Put them in custody if you have to, use all means necessary.”

  “Sir! What-”

  “Need to know, Major.” There was no need to ruin a good man's career.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Major?”

  “Sir?”

  Harper opened into his wardrobe, and carefully pulled out his dress jacket. He held the silver-threaded uniform between himself and the mirror, and stared at his reflection. He was sick to his stomach, sure, but there was something else. He felt the sort of freedom and clarity he hadn’t had since he’d been a boy on the Citadel steps, in cadet blues. He had found himself in the slime, but he would stand over it. He had found himself guilty, but with this guilt came purpose. For the first time in his life, Brigadier Jonathon Harper was going to something radical.

  Harper gave Lagauche his final orders. “Contact Radek’s men. Tell them I’d prefer pistols.”

  Inversion 0010

  It was two minutes to midnight, and Teddy Mullens could barely stay awake. As night security supervisor for Fulstrom Airstrip, he hadn't had any excitement since the janitor went home, two hours earlier. It was the same routine every night. Go to work, do radio checks, browse the net, play some games, debate whether to buy a new flashlight or magazine holders. Most nights, the highlight came when he picked a fight with the vending machine.

  For all the shit in the cities, it rarely carried this far out of town. The rioters were more than happy to burn down their own homes, the druggies fine with shooting each other. Idiots, all of them, and not particularly creative ones. So Mullens watched an empty airstrip outside the city line with six to eight other bored urban refugees, guarding a pile of old planes and boxes that didn't even rate the use of Transit Security Officers, just a bunch of rent-a-cops with a bonus stipend and a TSO “Contractor” badge. The best part of the job was the stinger. This was an armed contract, which meant he got to strap iron, which also meant that when the city did boil over, he’d have a fair to fighting chance to run away.

  He shouldn’t have even gotten this gig. His last job was guarding chips at an all-night diner called the “Beef-A-Loo” - a singularly awful piece of branding. After the latest muster, all the TSO guards got federalized into civil protection, or rolled into the army, which meant that the low end jobs got opened for contract. Mullens saw the bidding go open within the hour, and now he had the pay, station, and firearms license to show for it.