The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Firenze pulled his mask up, felt the seal form, the wet biomass locking to his mouth, and feeding clean air down his throat. He tugged at his armored sleeve, felt the connection on hardjack hold. Donegan had suggested that mod. For a complete tool, Doggo was an alright guy. Hope you’re watching this, Doggo. He tapped his helmet, made sure the camera was clear and locked.

  At the edge of the sprawling void, Clausen stood silhouetted against the madness beyond. He held up a mannequin’s lower torso, one of the dial-a-yield devices strapped on with a modified crash harness. Clausen held it out, over the void, one hand on the hydraulics to hold himself steady. “Happy trails, buddy.” He said, then shouted, “Fire in the hole!” He slapped the activation switch on the device, and hurled the torso into the storm.

  The roaring winds snapped the dummy away, yanked it to the end of its wire. Its chute popped, on command. The mannequin drifted aimlessly over the base, suspended from the jerking, twirling parachute, pulled by the cyclone towards the eastern span.

  The global TACNET channel chirped as Jennings reported, “Device is clear of MacPhereson silo! We are safe from sympathetic initiation!”

  Lauren added, “Well, at least we don't have to worry about tripping off a Strand-doped warhead. I would really hate to open another bore here. Those effects might be... erratic.”

  You're just a bucket full of good times, aren't you?

  “I am merely providing context.” She replied.

  The base's air defenses came alive.

  Autocannons roared into action. Point defense lasers flashed against the storm. Firenze's goggles darkened at the sudden eruption. A thousand streams of light lanced through the eye, carved a lethal blossom. Clausen stood, stock still, and stared into the rising inferno. He was cut shadow against the light, unflinching, as the base’s automated systems belched death. Here's hoping enough of the stealth systems still work. Two missiles lit, speared from surface launchers to arc towards the mannequin-

  The V-30 slewed to the side, spun its open hatch from the blast. A sudden flash stretched the shadows over the base, carved columns of light and dark over the Dali hellscape, tunneled through girders and towers like a second dawn, the return of a sun long fled. The vertol bucked. It rolled. Firenze fell, into the air, clung to his harness-

  -something skidded over the floor, spun out into the void-

  -the spinning eye became a sideways shear-

  -falling crystals became a solid plane on this new axis-

  -the vertol pitched, like a struck elephant, engines howled in protest as it was hurled backwards-

  -sparks-

  -alarms-

  The world dimmed. The base was silent. Computer eyes, staring at their unknown target, were struck blind, pierced by the rage of the electromagnetic pulse, the sudden light and fury.

  They were falling. One of the engines was silent.

  “Go! Go! Jump! Jump! Jump!” Clausen called out, like a drumbeat.

  The squad flooded, orderly, down their lines, faces cloaked by masks and goggles. There was no time to talk, no time to think. The line pulled him towards the gap.

  The soldiers before him vanished. They dropped, into the twisting inferno. Firenze followed. A piece of his mind was screaming about radiation and crystal winds and nuclear weapons and the terror on the Airship and Striker lurking below, but that terrified little voice was drowned. They needed him. He needed them. First to fight.

  The deck raced by under his feet, until it was no more, and the world fell from beneath him.

  Firenze flung himself into hell.

  #

  The countdown stood at three days until the assult, and Firenze finally had a moment to relax.

  He'd slipped through a channel tunnel on the noon train, and rendezvoused with the team in an abandoned Peckham living ward. He'd spent the first day helping Donegan establish remote links, and then spent the next four hammering triple-hammered code.

  His pieces were in place for Berenson's puzzle. Now he had to wait. He ran Sims, and tried not to stare at the ticking clock. His part was done, for now. It was on the others. Berenson found the vertol black site. Clausen managed assault plans with Rutman and Diaz. Hill and Jennings tended the equipment, and got everyone comfortable with the new kit. Everything was in place, and now it was time for the nerve-fraying delays that Scooch called “hurry up and wait”.

  Firenze sat in the old common room, tinkered with a portable holoprojector. He liked to listen, while Reaper and Scooch played pool. The table they'd chosen was a flat brown lunch bench, but they'd suspended a projector from the lights above, and it conjured up the borders and balls. Rutman balanced an illuminated cue in his hands, made a clean stroke. The virtual balls clacked together with near-perfect mass. The seven ball spun into the corner pocket, and burst into a whorl of light. Hill grumbled, and Rutman moved to set up his next shot.

  As he prepared to strike, Hill screamed, “Razor douche!”

  The cue skipped off the table, cutting through the holographic surface to smack the plastic beneath. Rutman glared at his competitor. He asked, “Really?”

  Hill shrugged. “What? I didn't hear anything.”

  Rutman stepped clear, glanced to Firenze in the corner, as if to look for backup. Firenze just held up his arms. “He's your friend.”

  “I have terrible taste.” Rutman answered.

  “So,” Hill asked as he lined up the shot, “you got any odds on Wonderboy?”

  “Winning, living, or shanking us?” Rutman asked.

  “Any.” Hill replied, as he studied the table.

  “Fuck all.” Rutman answered. “You got a better solution for this bind?”

  “Fuck all.” Hill echoed.

  “Yup.” Rutman said, then turned to Firenze. “You ready for this, Princess?”

  Firenze lowered his projector. He gave the best answer he could, “I have to be.” He took a moment to choose his words. “I faced down the ghost in the system. I cracked the EBS. I just seized the hackers’ Holy Grail. If I'm not ready, I never will be.”

  Rutman leaned against the table, rubbed his finger over the glowing tip of his cue, and asked, “You aren't... seeing things?”

  Lauren. He's worried about me going bonkers. “Not crazy yet.” He answered.

  Rutman countered, “Donegan said-”

  Hill cut him off, as he continued to study the easiest shot in the known universe, “Doggo said Princess was the best cracker he'd ever seen, and his little girlfriend was pretty cool.” Metastable. Donegan said I might have lucked into AI metastability. That I slipped the breaking point of mask evolution, and keyholed into the unknown frontier. I think that scares him more than if I was just nuts.

  Rutman snapped, “Would you just shoot the damn ball?” He returned to Firenze, “I'm worried, Princess. I've heard all sorts of stuff about brains going jelly doing what you're doing.”

  Firenze nodded. It was a legit fear. Problem was, when he weighed it against murder, it was a concern he’d long ago disregarded. “If I'm not nuts yet, I don't think it's gonna be a problem before we go toe to toe with chuckles the genejob and his wacky crew.”

  Hill finally found his angle, and snapped the cue forward, striking the white ball low, sending it flying up, into the air, to splash pixels across Rutman's face. Rutman jerked, whirled back, “caught” the ball, and hurled it back at Hill, who had nearly doubled over with laughter.

  Rutman declared, “Table scratch, jackass.”

  Firenze ignored the game for now, and set about to tuning the projector. Absently, he noted, “You know, it's not fair.”

  “What's not fair?” Rutman asked. He leaned forward, and took his shot, behind his own back. Another pool ball dropped into the virtual pocket. No one bet against Rutman at bar games.

  “I didn't crack the EBS alone.” Firenze answered. “I'm not the best hacker out there. I'm second best. The best is riding shotgun in my brain.”

  “Stand by for batshit.” Hill noted.

  Ru
tman paused from shot. His eyebrows raised, behind his mirrored shades, and he waited.

  Firenze said, “Hear me out. I don't think Lauren-”

  “Batshit on time and on target.” Hill stage-whispered.

  Rutman waved him down.

  “I don't think she's a limited AI, not anymore. I think we crossed the actualization threshold. I think she's real.”

  Rutman said, “Alright, let's say you're right. What does mean?”

  Firenze shrugged. “It means you guys should get to meet the rest of the team.”

  He tapped the projector. With a flicker, Lauren appeared in the center of the room, a silver visage, cut from light. She turned, 'surveyed' the room, established links between the room's scanned dimensions and the orientation of the projector. After a moment, she offered a small bow.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She said, through the speakers. “Rather, I hope it is a pleasure for you to meet me. I've been tapping Grant's ocular feed for some time, and passing silent judgment on you for months. So, that’s that. I just wanted to get it out there.”

  Rutman's stare turned from confusion to horror. Hill didn’t appear to react, at all. After a moment, he said, calmly, “You didn't tell me she was hot, Princess.”

  “So fucked up.” Rutman muttered.

  Lauren replied, “Thank you, Reaper. Scooch, I prefer the phrase, 'paradigm shifting'. So much less vulgar, although lacking the colloquial charm.”

  Hill revised his statement, “Hot and talks shit. I like it-her-you-thing.”

  Firenze let her handle the reply. Lauren said, “I assure you, I am not Grant. We parallel process on some shared hardware, but I am, to the best of my own evaluations, independent. We're cohabitating.”

  Firenze said, “Guys, meet the brains of the operation.”

  “Pleasure to meet you... ma'am?” Rutman offered.

  “Same to you, and the form of address will suffice. I self-gendered early in my evolution, so you needn't worry about offense.” Noting the blank stares, she corrected herself. “My programming is only partly rooted in net code. Much of it is derived from biological computation. I was intended to easily interface with humans, so I molded myself around human conception. I am an ambassador from one world to another.” The stares continued, so she tried again, “Me think-y like you.”

  “Why didn't you say that?” Hill asked. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  She turned, back towards Firenze, and said, “Well, that was fun. Your friends are idiots.” With that, she was gone. The projector powered down.

  “Did she just insult us?” Rutman asked.

  Hill shrugged, and pointed to the pool table. He said, “Look, Scooch, I don't got all day. Take the shot!”

  They returned to their game, and Firenze was left to ponder his thoughts. He needed a walk. It would do him good, help him clear his head.

  As he stepped into the ratted hallway, with its dated posters and ancient graffiti, he nearly tripped over someone, leaned against the outside wall. Berenson. Berenson leaned against the corner, just beyond the door.

  Firenze demanded, “Christ, man. Trying to scare me?”

  “No.” Berenson said. His skin was clammy, sweat streaked over his face. His eyes darted behind closed lids, and his breath was shallow. “I was merely resting.”

  “You were listening.” Firenze guessed.

  “And resting.” Berenson insisted. “Mister Clausen ordered me to fraternize with the unit. This is as close as I have come.”

  “Ordered?” Firenze asked. “You define ‘fraternization’ as lurking in the hallway, spying on people?”

  “It is a similar activity, but far more honest than pretending to socialize, while spying on people.”

  “You're an odd one.” Firenze said.

  “Says the prodigy with the AI 'cohabitating' his wetware.” Berenson countered. His eyes opened, and Firenze knew the man was probing for a response.

  “You have something to say?” Like everyone else?

  “Always, Mister Firenze, but my comments are far more conservative in their scope. I think you are treading interesting and unproven ground. I would never do what you have done, but I would like to witness the results. They have proven far more enlightening than I had expected, when I recruited you.”

  “Recruited? The Agency snagged me-”

  “After you passed my test. A test I designed to net someone, just like you. Just like both of you, if you would allow.” Berenson chose every word carefully, as if plucking flowers from a bouquet.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Firenze asked. What is your angle?

  “Because I respect the truth, Mister Firenze, and because I would not have you walk into your grave without knowing the circumstances of how you arrived, and because I would rather leave the future to men like yourself and Mister Clausen than to men like Niklaus Draco or my brother.” Berenson paused for a moment. His demeanor shifted, and he added, “And I wanted to test my hypothesis. Would you be as irrational as Mister Clausen?”

  “Irrational?” Firenze asked. “Sarge is nothing if not deliberate.”

  “He thanks me for the help you forced me to give him, even when I informed him of the circumstances. He continues to justify my actions, even when I explain that logically, I am using him, emotionally, I am manipulating him, and pop-culturally, I am getting him killed.”

  “Pop-culturally?” Firenze asked.

  “Forcing out his deep seated issues with communication and relationships, helping stabilize his ties to his former partner? As any citizen of this era can tell you, going home to attempt to pick up a relationship-slash-start-a-family is destined to end in sudden death.”

  Was that a joke? “Right. You put a giant target on him.”

  “And he thanked me for it.” Berenson declared with mock indignation.

  Firenze shook his head, and said, “You know, I would love to get into your head sometime, see how that juggling works.”

  Berenson said, “No. You would not.”

  “Oh, come on!” Firenze exclaimed. “You've got the most integrated wetware on this rock, and you're... you. We both know you've got some crazy awesome stuff up there.”

  Deathly serious now, Berenson asked, “Do you want to know, Mister Firenze? I was ordered to fraternize.”

  “Sure, hit me.”

  “There are two ways to create a creature such as myself. You can take a man and break him, until he becomes a machine, or you can take a machine and dress it up to act like a man. I will allow you one guess, to pick the route the Faction chose.”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  “I am being honest, Mister Firenze. You wish to know how I think? I think in layers and noise. The wetware in my head? The chemical cocktail in my brain? Those never let me rest. Every thing I see, every sound I hear, every sensation I feel - I feel them, fully. I see the patterns, the causes, the probabilities - my mind never slows. Nothing ever is. Everything must be analyzed. Every thing is linked, and my thoughts spin out, in a thousand directions, pull on every thread -” he paused, drew a deep breath, and said, “and I never forget. I can feel every fiber in every shirt I’ve ever worn. I remember being ripped from the exogenesis tube. I remember what it felt like, when they spliced my cybernetics.”

  He smiled - his wan smile. Berenson said, “My mind is a weapon, and a curse. I cannot shut it down, and I cannot make it slow. It seeks reason, for all things, and screams against the tide of data. I drown in experience, and my thrashings appear as insight.”

  “I have no filters, Mister Firenze. As a child, they subjected me to the Inducer - to the imprinters - not just to indoctrinate me, but to burn the survival techniques into my brain. I have to stop, to focus, to consciously prune away the junk data, and file or dispose of it. I have to triage the world down to a useful pattern, every moment I am aware. Do you know why only two of the Titan Fives survived?”

  “The noise killed them?” Firenze hypothesized.

  “Yes, Mister Firenze.
It broke them, before they learned to focus through the pain, before they learned to separate the mind from the brain. The patterns are crushing, if I allow them to be. Even now, I can see every line on your face, every pock. If I were to let myself, I could stare at you for hours, discovering millions of facts and suppositions, only to find them changed by the time I finished. And then, the loop would begin, again.”

  “I- I don't know if I could deal with that.” Firenze admitted.

  “Most could not. Even Tiberius, even I, the lucky survivors, will break down, in time. The noise gets too high, the pattern too complex, and I have to lash out, to simplify.”

  “You mean destroy?”

  “Yes.” Berenson closed his eyes again. Firenze noted the way the man held his fingers apart, not letting them brush each other. “It reduces the stimuli, simplifies the pattern. The psychotic breaks that Striker was known for during the Faction's rise were not madness, they were a balm. Kill a man, and his turbulence stops. Destroy a building, and its complexity is reduced. Simplify. Destroy. It is always pounding, right behind the meditation and focus I claim as my bulwark. I feel compelled to just let myself go, take it all down as low as possible, reduce to lowest common denominator, in one calamitous release.”

  “How do you stop it?” Firenze asked.

  Berenson answered, “I go into a darkened room, I sit in silence for hours, until the bad timing in the fan stops bothering me, until I can not feel the press of the seams of my shirt. I go into a silent place, and I do math, simple and pure.”

  “I- I didn’t know.” Firenze admitted. How did he respond to something like this? Like an exhalation of held breath, he said, simply, “That sucks.”

  “Very much.” Berenson agreed, with a shadow of his grin. “That is why Tiberius killed any attempts to launch the Titan Six project. It was not mercy for you, or for the world. It was mercy for its creations. His own birth is the one transgression he cannot forgive.”