The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  That was about as much as I could hope for. With naked truth, Harper answered, “Thank you, Patriarch.”

  Radek nodded. “You will remain here. I will investigate your claims of Striker’s hand with those who leaked this data. If you are correct, we will plan our next move. I will see these crimes answered, but not as the tool of an abomination.” He glanced again to his son, and stated simply, “Thomen?” With that, the guards sprung into motion, fell in after father and son, and marched out through the doors.

  The conference room was empty, but for Harper and one other.

  In the back corner, unnoticed in the drama of the trial, a young man leaned against the wall, in a pose that might be mistaken for oblivious leisure. The boy was lanky, with wavy hair and a slight build. He had only the ghost of a beard, and thin glasses perched on his nose. Behind those lenses, Harper saw the same hard eyes as Radek, but blazing green instead of smoldering brown. The boy straightened, descended to the conference table with the same slinking grace as his brother and father.

  “Tellos Radek.” Harper stated. All three of them, in one house. Radek was willing to give up everything for this.

  “Jonathon Harper.” Tellos answered, with a slight bow. His voice was calm, clear, like a frozen lake. He wore a priest’s collar, and carried no weapon. Intel says he’s an academic, but just as radical as his family. “Might I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have read up on us? Our family?”

  “Your dossiers are… large.” Harper agreed.

  “Then you know how much of a gamble you just took? Are taking?” Tellos asked. “Why?”

  “It was necessary.”

  “If you hadn’t, this would be a war. A war we’d lose, and you’d fall apart winning. Expertly played, but you read Striker’s moves, and countered him.”

  “You believe me?”

  “I do.” Tellos answered. “Your story fits better than the lies.” He glanced to the side, to a spot in the air only he could see, and Harper could only imagine the young man putting together an invisible puzzle. “The sudden plague in your streets? Your surprising inability to control your own tempo of operations? The Airship massacre?” He counted his fingers as he listed, his voice growing more distant, “That should have been a giveaway. I am ashamed of myself for not seeing it. You’re better than that.”

  “Really?” Harper asked. “You respect us?”

  “As a whole? No.” Tellos answered, bluntly. “But I make it a point to know my enemies.” He pointed right at Harper. “You, for instance, are worthy of some respect, as was Colonel Halstead. The narrative of the Airship did not fit with the man whose words I’d read.”

  “You read Bill’s book? Wouldn’t that be heresy?”

  “Knowledge cannot be evil, Brigadier. Only the application of knowledge.” The young man smiled, and Harper found himself suddenly unnerved. Radek added, “I have made it a point to study all the masters, and all the theories of our adversaries. We lost two wars. I will not lose a third.”

  “That war doesn't have to happen.” Harper argued.

  “Rain will fall.” Tellos countered. “But perhaps not today.” He glanced to his invisible puzzle, hovering somewhere over the conference table. “Striker was – is – a master of illusion and counterforce. He turned your strengths into your weaknesses. It is impressive. It is only his application of skill that is corrupt.”

  Harper felt a chill at the base of his spine, but he did not reply. Today is not the day.

  Tellos Radek pressed his hands together in minor piety, offered a bow towards the heavens. He stated, “Such corruption cannot win, but the masterstrokes reveal much about their executor. He will bleed you, Brigadier, and I will watch, and learn. When Father commands it, I will end your empire.”

  Harper had had quite enough. “With what? Your cuff links? You aren't armed.”

  Tellos gave a knowing smirk, and said, “I cannot carry sword, Brigadier. My vows forbid it. Do not take that for helplessness.”

  Before Harper could respond, the doors opened, once more, and Radek stormed into the room, flanked by his son and their retainers. The old man marched to the center of the room, his lips peeled in a scowl, and he declared, “You were right, Brigadier. It was a trap.”

  Harper opened his mouth to speak, but Thomen cut him off with an upraised hand. “It was dealt with.” The son stated. “You, and your people, are safe.”

  Radek added, “Your junior ambassador, whose negligence allowed us to bring in our weapons? He was a mole. Thomen determined his guilt. He was assisted by your Agency attache, and several of my own men.” The old man growled in disgust. “You may have their bodies. We have no use for them.”

  On the side, Thomen nodded, and touched the hilt of his sword.

  This is not the fight for today. Harper nodded.

  “What is your move, Brigadier? I will release your people to you.”

  Harper answered, “I call my team. Your people walk out of here, get on a flitter, and go home before this incident goes public.” Well, there goes my second star and teaching career. He tapped his soft jack, and dropped into the virtual conference center. “Major?” Harper asked.

  “Sir!” Lagauche snapped to shocked attention, and he whirled from a security display in the background. “Sir, are you alright?”

  “Yes, fine. We've settled things here, and we're coming out.”

  “We?”

  “Myself, our people, and Radek and his men. This was all just a big misunderstanding. Keep the cameras back, and no one gets shot today.”

  Lagauche twisted his face up like he was choking on questions. That’s why Harper liked him. The Major was professional. When the band started playing, he kept tune. Lagauche nodded, and answered, “Yes, sir.” Harper cut the feed.

  He never made it back to reality, because another line pinged open. Here comes the fun. Harper toggled it, and found himself staring at a furious Ambassador Gadja. The Ambassador demanded, “Brigadier! What in the hell did you do?”

  Harper put on his most gentlemanly smile, and, in his most officious voice, answered, “I followed your advice, madam. I took a leap.” He cut the link.

  He stood in the conference room, and gave a nod to Radek. “It is done. No blood today. Perhaps we could turn a corner.”

  “We do not want your charity.”

  “Not charity. Reparations. This will become public. As you said, there will be a balance due. Perhaps it doesn't need to be blood?”

  “It will never replace the loss.” Radek countered.

  Harper made another gamble. “It may be enough to prevent another catastrophe, for both of our peoples.”

  “When will this happen, Brigadier?” Radek asked. “I cannot imagine that your leaders will allow Durandal to be known. I, however, will not allow it to remain a secret. I will scream it from the mountain tops, and they will deny me, and there will be blood-”

  Radek was cut off, as the video wall over the conference table suddenly sprang to life. Each panel burst from monolithic black to sudden, radiant blue. Across each, the seal of the Emergency Broadcast System blinked into brilliant white. Harper felt the sudden rush in his gut, the kind he always got, when the shooting started. Across the room, Radek glanced to him. He feels it. As one, both men turned to the screen. The broadcast started.

  “My name is Antonius Berenson…”

  Endgame

  The smartplas slab on Firenze’s chest was a marvel of modern engineering. Its high-impact panels could stop heavy hypersonic rounds. It could heal itself from the packs of reserve polymers. It was lighter than its ceramic predecessor, and it was, in an objective sense, very wearer-friendly. Subjectively, however, it kept punching Firenze in the throat, every time the vertol rocked. And the vertol rocked a lot.

  Another hurricane gust slammed the vertol. The engines pitched, then whined. The vertol fell, crashed into a solid block of air. The whine became a roar, and the vertol rocketed back up. Firenze’s te
eth slammed together, and the hard plate punched him, once more. He gagged, coughed, and glanced up, hoping no one saw his fit. He was in luck. Along both sides of the transport, the soldiers clung, white knuckled, to their webs and hoops. Every one was focused on some internal battle, as they strained to stay upright in the battering storm.

  Amber light washed the cabin, dim and somber from the roof tracks, barely enough to see down the aisle. Beyond the cockpit hatch, it was nearly pitch, with Rutman and Jennings just shadows in the black. The windows were sealed under solid panels, and the pilots wrapped, head-to-toe. Their faces were hidden under bulbous helmets, layered with heavy bands of hardware and strung to their chest with hoses. If no one had seen them put the on the suits, it would have been easy to believe that they weren’t human at all, but bundles of aviation equipment given life.

  Another shudder rocked the vertol, and the wind howled over the wings. The electronic puppetry in the cockpit grew more frantic, and Firenze tried to keep down his meal. The first half an hour hadn’t been this bad. He liked to remind himself of that. He didn’t know why, but that calmed him. They’d punched into the low orbitals at hypersonic, slipped right under the Skyweb. Metamaterials cloaked the bird from sensors, and the night sky hid it from naked view. Once, they’d been spiked. The pilots dropped power, and let the craft fall, but the eyes in the sky hadn’t found them in time, and they’d vanished into the Waste.

  After that, it had all gone to hell.

  They’d dropped from hypersonic, and plunged into the maelstrom. It was like punching through the top of a pool, a solid crash against the storm winds. The shaking hadn’t stopped, nor had the constant scream of the crystal rain over the hull. Be glad there’s no sensors watching the Waste, because the metamaterials are just about worthless, now. Another jolt, another stutter from the engines, and the cockpit became a blur of motion. When it calmed, Firenze had to remember to breathe, again. He could feel the glass hammer against the skin of the cabin.

  An alarm hummed. The cabin lit, from rows of red-on-red buttons. Rutman flipped a switch, and the window-shields parted. The pilots’ masks opened, and the rows of displays sprang to life, green and blue over twinkling yellows. All eyes went to the cockpit, as the pilots seized control of physical sticks and haptic interfaces. Jennings called back, in a professionally neutral voice, “No worries, we’re flying on visuals, now.”

  Everyone heard Rutman add, under his breath, “Cause the fucking mast ripped off.”

  Firenze closed his eyes, and dreamed he was anywhere but here.

  Even through his eyelids, he saw the world go green. It was like being underwater, staring up at searchlights. He opened his eyes, and saw the maelstrom beyond, and wished he hadn’t. The sky was alight, orange and emerald in liquid-crystal waves, a great swirling vortex that speared beams of unnatural light piercing through the cabin. Black chunks spun on the gales, and the eerie light never focused or faded. How many ghosts are out there? How many lives ended when the sky burst open, and the anti-sun ripped out all the light?

  Rutman reached back, and flipped another toggle. The cockpit hatch rolled closed. Once more, the cabin was plunged into amber. Firenze did not object.

  The hold was silent, as the banshee screams whipped over the hull. Pale faces lined the walls, not meeting each other’s eyes.

  Two billion dead, all around us. We did this.

  Firenze turned to Hill, seated beside him, to try and distract himself with stupid conversation. Instead, Hill’s head hung limp on the straps, and a light snore slipped through the soldier’s lips. Mother fucker. Firenze turned to Diaz, seated on his other side, and said, “Two billion.” He had to say something, and the first words were the numbers of the dead.

  His vision flickered. Lauren stood in the center of the cabin. She clung to the straps above, as if to steady herself. She was tapped into his TACNET feed, projected from the laser-HUD on his helmet. She replied, “Recorded. Two billion recorded dead. With a catastrophe this far beyond expected calculations, the numbers that fell through the cracks would be staggering. Then again, at a certain point, the discreet values of the numbers become less important than their broad severity.”

  Diaz must have answered him, but he couldn’t remember hearing it. All he could hear were Lauren’s words. The broad severity of it. Another howl washed over the vertol. It rolled, fishtailed in the storm. They hung like marionettes from their harnesses, clung to the supports as the aircraft shook.

  This was insane. This was suicidal. They were all going to die.

  In another life, he’d thought himself a coward, the only one shaking as he boarded the Airship. He’d never told anyone how close he’d been to fleeing, at the terminal screening. He’d almost broken from the fear, then. This was so much worse, and he wasn’t shaking. He glanced around, to the grease-painted faces packed into the suicide-sled, the men and women cocooned in their armor and weapons, just white eyes and teeth gleaming in the dark. He was not alone with the fear. He knew it, now. Acknowledge it. It is real. It is valid. Acknowledge it, and then move on.

  The light in the ceiling turned green. Not the sickly green of the Waste, but the deep emerald of the jump lights. Clausen stood, in the center. He moved hand-over-hand along the ceiling rail. The team stood, one by one. Clausen counted them off, checked their chutes, one last time. When he saw Firenze’s stare, he flashed an easy thumbs-up, like it was nothing. Firenze grinned right back, and stood in line.

  Hill started awake. He blinked twice, yawned, and snatched up his Rolling Thunder from between his knees. “We there yet?” He asked, as he flipped open the hopper. He gave a once-over the static charges on the AM traps, ran his hand over the links of the belt. Satisfied, he stood, and asked Firenze, “Sup, Princess? You ready for the thunder?”

  Firenze laughed. He slapped Hill’s helmet, and answered, “Just remember which way to point it.”

  “Wilco.” Hill said.

  Clausen moved down the line, until he’d reached Firenze’s position. The sergeant had once told him the team was a reinforcing chain. Every link shored up every other. Protected each other. Trusted each other. Carried each other, through the jaws of hell. Firenze understood, now. The bravado wasn’t for himself, it was theater, and everyone was the audience.

  Firenze asked, “It occurs to me, this might not be the safest vacation spot. Mind if I sit this one out?”

  Clausen punched him in the trauma plate. He answered, “Too late for that, Princess. Looks like you got caught up in the fire.”

  “Only cause I ran the wrong way, Sarge.”

  “First to fight.” Clausen declared.

  “Last to quit!” The cabin thundered.

  Only one man stayed seated. Only one man stayed silent.

  In the corner, cloaked in shadow, Berenson waited. He sat in his webbing, leaned forward, and hands steepled. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth formed words no one could hear. Firenze had to wonder, what thoughts tumbled through Berenson’s skull.

  As if he’d heard the thoughts, Berenson raised his head. He met Firenze’s stare, and smiled. There was something bittersweet in that grin, something forlorn. It was the smile of a stranger, at Christmas dinner: grateful for being invited, sad that this was fleeting.

  Firenze gave a nod, back. Maybe he understood?

  Berenson mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Then he turned his head back down, lost in his thoughts.

  Firenze had a thousand questions, but they were left unasked.

  Jennings called back, “One minute!”

  Clausen tugged on his pack, hard, and asked him, “You ready for this?” It wasn't a question.

  Firenze gave the only answer he could. “Damn well better be.” Let's see how well sim time pays off.

  In his ear, Lauren whispered, “Zero points for splatter.” Thank you, as always, oh bringer of joy.

  Behind him, Hill spoke up, “Hey, Princess, don’t get too nervous. You’re getting an easy drop!”

  “Easy!?” Fir
enze demanded. “We’re jumping into a fucking razor storm!”

  “Yeah, and you’re on a guide-wire! But Sarge says you’re ‘important’, so you don’t have to chump jump!”

  “What the fuck is a chump jump?” Firenze demanded.

  Clausen answered, “Normally, the new guy has to jump with everyone else’s bullshit. Pots, water purifiers, all sorts of crap no one actually wants in the combat zone. Hence, the chump jump.” He gave Firenze’s pack a sharp tug, then nodded approvingly. Clausen added, “I had to jump with the Captain Wilson’s entire home kitchen tied to my leg.”

  “I had to jump with three sledgehammers!” Hill protested. “Three! I mean, I could understand two fucking hammers, but what the fuck was the third one for?”

  Clausen clapped him on the shoulder. He said, “Good hunting down there, Princess. Keep that feed up.”

  “Roger that, Sarge. Stop the doom rocket, will ya?”

  “Wilco.” Clausen turned to Hill's pack, checked it in turn.

  Hill asked, “Hey, you're not loosening anything, right Sarge?”

  “Nope.” Clausen replied, then clapped the soldier's shoulder. “I need you to keep Princess alive.”

  “I love being needed. I ever tell you that?” Hill responded. He chatters when he's nervous.

  “Thirty seconds!” Rutman called over the intercom. “Good news! Radiation in the eye is survivable! We get to die of gunshot wounds, instead!”

  The unit cheered, because any other response was unacceptable.

  They broke the eye-wall, and the air became still. Like a ship breaking onto stagnant waters, the end of the storm was as shocking as its start. Only the hum of the engines gave proof they were still moving. There was a moan of hydraulics, and a roar of wind. The back hatch dropped away, yawed open into the storm’s core.

  Far below, MacPhereson glimmered in the sands. The buildings stood like toys in a sandbox, lit by dozens of white dots strung through in the demonic kaleidoscope. The base’s sprawling arms cut through the crystal sands like an octopus, half buried in the shifting tumult. Blazing lights swept over the automated scrubbers, a horde of robot slaves that pushed back the Waste, held back the tides that would bury it like Iram of the Pillars.