The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Sergeant Clausen had told her there was a line. She'd dismissed him. There were mitigating circumstances. There were concerns of scale. The threat was greater than any personal quibbles. She had a job to do. She’d been very sure of herself. There was a line.

  One name broke that. One word threatened to break her.

  Durandal.

  She'd tried not to look, when the broadcast punched through, during a navigation check, when they’d dropped into low orbit. She'd tried to resist. All she’d had to do was not open the damned file, but she was Investigations at heart. She’d had to know. She'd ripped the lid from Pandora's box, and stared dumbstruck at the horror that followed.

  There was a line.

  The moment she'd seen it, she’d felt something die inside. In that instant, she’d understood what Raschel had meant when he’d spoken of ‘skeletons that should stay buried’. She’d believed him, she’d looked away, but now, staring into the abyss, she'd understood. She’d looked up from her glasses, met his eyes, and they both knew it. This was the proof. This was the body. This was the crime.

  He didn’t swear. He didn’t bluster. He’d sighed, hung his head, and that was it.

  She didn’t demand to know why he’d hidden it. He didn’t demand to know why she’d looked. Justification was neither asked nor given. There was none to spare.

  Now, Raschel waited in the CIC, stared down at the battle below, his knuckles under his jaw, his lips thin. He watched the little lights wind through the warren, watched them blink and turn dark, and he never said a word. Every few moments, he glanced to the side, to a personal feed of the broadcast, and then turned to watch the crew. Between, he would stare into the hollow space in his glasses’ HUD, and his lips would curl and draw tight. What’s the next play?

  “Gunnery has a firing solution.” The officer’s voice broke the trance. Velasquez turned back to the bridge, where Captain Sodineri stood at the ready.

  The Captain stared directly at Raschel, and asked, “Mister Raschel, do you wish to proceed?” Her voice was clipped and precise, just like when they'd boarded. Her hair was pressed under a garrison cap, her uniform straight lines and angles, her chin sharp enough to cut the armor of the hull. She didn't want them aboard, both on principle and for this mission. She’d made it clear. But, she was a professional. She followed orders. But, but, this was her ship, and they were interlopers, and worse, ones who demanded that she cross that line.

  “Chief?” The Captain repeated. “We are ready to fire.”

  If they shot now, it would be disastrous. The broadcast was being carried over the world. Vonner’s last measures showed a terrifyingly large audience. If the Cataphract fired down into the powder keg, the world would witness. The fallout would be catastrophic. One shot into that base, and the Authority would be done. The thoughts didn’t fill her with fear, or anger. What she felt was numbness, and dread. There was a line. From across the room, Raschel glanced to her, and she shook her head, as if to ward off his answer.

  He replied, “Not yet, Captain. Not until we have a solution to the EBS problem.”

  There was a line. Jesus, there was a line.

  “Yes, sir.” The Captain answered, and returned to her screens, to watch the battle below. Is she watching a broadcast feed? How many sailors are compromised? Should they be? Should I be? From her duty station, the Captain stated, “Chief, they won't last very long against the forces down there.” Her tone was cool, but there was a razor under the words.

  Raschel ignored the barb, and flicked another glance to Velasquez. She knew what it meant. Watch the door. Make sure the number of marines on this bridge stays low. The Chief toggled his earpiece, called up Agent Vonner. She saw it in the upper corner of her glasses. Raschel had patched her in on the call, but left her invisible to Vonner. I can see, but not be seen. I'm his reserve card, his eyes on the bridge. She killed the video and listened, so she could track the balance in the room.

  In her earpiece, the Chief demanded, “Agent, what is your status?” Inside the call, where the crew couldn't hear his fury, he let his voice rise.

  “Sir, it keeps jumping!” Vonner nearly screamed. She'd met Vonner once, found him smooth, unflappable, a real up-and-comer, the kind of political officer that would soon run in the upper tiers of the Agency. She'd hated him, but respected his professionalism. Now, he was nearly broken. She could picture him, his suit ragged, his neatly-trimmed hair in disarray. She could see him, thrashing about in his monitoring station, while the whole world burned. He blurted out, in one breath, “Sir, every time we take down the signal, the damned thing bounces! I've sent the army, I've cut the power, I even blew up the damn towers, but it just keeps adapting!”

  Raschel’s voice was ice. There was no panic, there. He said, “I saw Dick Walden, still on the air, Agent. I thought you said he was done?” His words were calm. Precise. She’d worked with him long enough to hear the boiling rage under the sounds. The impotence will hammer his calm like a jackhammer.

  Vonner must have known the warning signs, too, because he cried out in protest, “I did! I did! I sent in the goddamn marines, sir! They put it back on the air!”

  Raschel fell deathly quiet. After a long pause, his breath came slow and regular, and he politely asked, “Explain?”

  “The unit became non-responsive, sir, and their target returned to broadcasting.” Vonner said. He paused, and she could hear him work up to his next sentence. Vonner admitted, “Sir, we have very few active units left. We’ve lost contact with several, and others are… openly non-compliant.” He let out a whimper with that last admission, and then added, “Sir, a lot of these soldiers had immense respect for ASOC-”

  “Understood, Agent.” Raschel cut him off.

  “No, sir.” Vonner continued, “It’s not just that. Many of them had a personal admiration for Colonel Hal-”

  “I said, ‘understood’!” Raschel thundered. He took another deep breath, and then continued, quieter, “Taking that signal down won't be enough. That's the lay of the ground, now. We need a better solution. Your slicers' progress?”

  Vonner answered, “A couple more hours, sir, and we might be able to interdict the signal, but with the source still running, and the way the EBS is jumping, it's near impossible-”

  “Fine.” Raschel cut him off. “I have another solution.” Velasquez felt her pulse quicken. That would be my cue. I use my override access to NODA, bypass the EBS through Persephone. Raschel ordered Vonner, “Agent, I want your teams to be ready to catch the EBS signal once we cut it, and get on the air with an alternative newscast. We're changing the narrative.”

  “Sir?” Vonner asked. Sir? Velasquez wanted to demand. What the hell are you planning?

  “There's no way to stop this now, Agent, but we can alter it. Get with Perez down in PsyOps – I'll forward contact data – and tell him to match a second broadcast to this one, one that frames this entire thing as a Faction plot. I want to make it look like Berenson doubled back on the team, and got them all killed. I want this to hammer home State loyalty, I want flags, I want kids singing, I want fucking fireworks and summer games. Make Berenson a standalone villain, buy us some fucking wiggle room. Once you've got this rolling, and I don't care what it takes, you call me, and we'll cut the source. Get it done in ten minutes, or we're all fucked.” Raschel cut the link.

  There was a line. She was Investigations. Her job was to unearth the truth, punish the guilty. She served and protected. She upheld the Charter. Not... this. We’ll twist the world, make another lie. Bury the dead down in the Waste. Again. All of this, again. There was a line, God damn it!

  There was a battle below.

  I should be down there. Generations of her family had served the State. Men and women just like the ones dying below. Clausen had warned her. He’d fucking warned her. There was a line. What would grandpa think, if he saw her standing here? Would he salute her, or turn his back?

  She'd always considered herself the hero, not the villain. Someti
mes, life doesn't give you that choice. Disregard the leverage.

  There was a line.

  Captain Sodineri stared at Raschel. There was a Chief Petty Officer by her side, his gray hair poked out from under his cap, his eyes hard and expression grim. This is getting ugly. That CPO is naval infantry, not bridge crew. She checked his weapon, used her glasses to hide her eyes. Still powered down in the holster. For now. They needed to make a call, and fast.

  Maybe Raschel saw it. He had to see it. He said to the Captain, “When my man contacts me, we will be ready for bombardment. We’ll do our jobs. After that, we can go home.”

  For a moment, Velasquez wondered if the Captain would protest, but Sodineri gave a curt nod, and returned to her position between the banks of monitors and crew. The CPO followed, and stood ready. Velasquez noted this, and took a deep breath. She had to be ready. For now, all she could do was watch, and wait, and hope the water didn't boil before she reached shore.

  #

  Sergeant Francis Chen died when Charlie Team breached into the laboratory basement. His fireteam had drawn the VIPER and AISAS counter-assault away from Rutman's primary force, and suppressed the powered armor units with precise k-gun fire, but once the VIPERs got a plasma caster into play, his supporting position was rendered untenable via ionized gas.

  Rutman saw the lights go out on TACNET, and tried to keep the dark urges in check. His gut told him to charge down the hall, and bombard with k-gun fire, and look those bastards in the eyes as he killed them, but his brain knew that that plan was insufficient. It wasn't just that that plan was suicide. He'd known coming in that this mission was his last. The problem was that that plan inflicted an insufficient amount of harm before he’d die.

  He had to think cleanly. Cold, rational plans would let them get better exchange rates on their blood.

  Rutman ordered his forces to fall back, and draw across the next spoke of the base, force the enemy to come down more hallways. Every junction they crossed let the Bizon poke holes in the walls and give surprise sodomy. It was firing slower than before, which meant one of the team was dead, but he couldn't let himself to check who. He needed to focus.

  His team performed a fighting retreat-to-the-front, pushed deeper into the heart of Striker's madness, through the Strand cyclers and purification labs, through the test chambers and halls of horrors. As they went, they burned. They sent the data to the stream, but the part he loved was wrecking this hellhole. He'd even smashed the offices, took some small pleasure in breaking Striker's most expensive toys. It was petty. It was stupid. The damage to the labs was mission essential, but the petty vandalism was a waste. He still did it. When died, he'd leave behind nothing but ashes, every lost trinket another reminder that Charlie Rutman was here, another finger in Striker’s eye. It wasn’t enough. The wrongful dead demanded more. He’d give them as much vengeance as he could carry, until he spat his last onto MacPhereson’s cold deck.

  They crossed the open field, cut through the enemy fire as they were forced from the spoke, out into a hydroponics bays. Gunfire and laser blasts carved through the greenhouse, shattered water tanks, sent the plants up in flames, and butchered soldiers all alike. Fuentes, Margot, and Lassiter died holding that position, but they gave better than they got. Not enough. He had to do more. Hit more. Hit harder. Make Striker bleed.

  Alpha had a missile to defuse. Bravo had a broadcast to secure. Charlie was here for payback, and to draw the eyes. In that light, they burned, blasted, and battered a path, ever deeper into the Faction’s guts.

  The enemy pursued. AISAS units had forced their way through the spoke, and the Bizon had stopped firing. Perhaps its operator was busy. Perhaps its operator was dead. Rutman couldn't check, but he wasn't ready to die. His team team had to keep moving. They had to keep Striker’s minions chasing them in circles while the clock ran down. Another sacrifice was required, to buy a bloody minute, and another burned out lab.

  Technical Sergeant Bruce Devallo was chosen to secure the rear.

  Devallo watched on TACNET as the armored units closed on his position. It took them a long time. Firenze had control of the doors, kept closing them in the enemy’s path, making them stop to burn through their own airlocks. Still they came, but they came at a trudge, not a charge, and they came in a line, instead of a flank. They couldn't be stopped, but they could be funneled.

  Devallo watched his screens as the enemy massed in the hydro bay. By the dozen, they poured in, drawn by Rutman's charge and corralled by their own malfunctioning systems. Mercenaries, soldiers, and killbots alike, they gathered along the walls, stacked up to close the noose on Charlie Team. As the enemy prepared to breach into his position, Devallo readied his weapon.

  The M77 Multi-purpose Assault Weapon was the latest in a long chain of man-portable rocket weapons, used for decades across all branches of the Authority military. This particular model was an M77CS-T, designed for deployment from inside one structure and against another, with a soft-launch to reduce back-blast, and a payload straight from hell.

  He watched in his goggles, as the lead mercenary set the charges, and signaled back to his team. The timer in the corner ran down, and Devallo flipped the arming switch, pressed the optics to his goggles-

  The door flung itself open before the Faction could blast it. Firenze’s hand was on the digital button.

  Devallo pulled the trigger.

  The M77 rocked against his shoulder. The water charge coughed from the back of the tube, soaked his back. The rocket punted clear of the front. It hung for a fraction of a second, then lit. The motor spat fire, and it screamed down the hallway, bent on self-immolation. The moment it engaged thrust, TACNET took guidance, and adjusted to exit the doorway with maximum clearance-

  The rocket flashed over the threshold. The door slammed shut.

  The lead mercenary recoiled, as the flames licked over him. He never had a chance to put them out.

  Inside the core of the eighty-three millimeter rocket, dozens of rubberized fuel balls were strung like pearls. Upon each, there was a vented hole and a fuse, laid out in pristine chains. The rocket reached the center of the room, and the smart-fuse ignited, and blasted away the outer casing.

  In an instant, dozens of submunitions flashed from the the open rocket, zoomed out on split angles . Each ball rode a trail of fire, blazing at over six hundred degrees Celsius. Each was both munition and engine, bleeding burning fuel out the back as they ricocheted through the room. The jellied balls bounced from walls, ceilings, and floors. They criss-crossed, collided, bounded, and flashed.

  Within seconds, the room was an oven, flash-heated to five times water’s boiling point.

  Hydroponic tanks burst. Plants burned. Air combusted.

  Soldiers melted.

  Muscles boiled. Bones charred. Armor slagged. Ammunition cooked.

  VIPER suits liquefied and took their screaming operators with them.

  AISAS armor became a furnace, a gleaming metal frame that bled a grisly, oily smoke.

  The fire only stopped when the air ran out.

  The next wave of Faction soldiers were stuck outside the greenhouse, staring dumbly at closed doors. Firenze willed it, and the doors opened into the oven.

  The flash-over killed dozens more, but Devallo was already running.

  He nearly made the stairs when the killbots cut him down.

  The list of the dead grew longer.

  #

  As Karl Vonner chased the signal across the hubs, it bounced from relay to relay, station to station. It bobbed and weaved - it rushed and retreated. It danced like a prima ballerina, twirled playfully, insultingly, away from the Agency's security teams. It jumped, again and again, rerouted from the sweepers and contact units at every turn, both on the net and in the flesh.

  Lieutenant Tully had learned that lesson when he'd turned off a transmitter, dammed the river, and watched the waterspout jump hundreds of kilometers and restart. He was not alone in this discovery. The pattern repeated across t
he globe. Over Mozambique, at the edge of the Maputo Tether, an orbital defense officer identified satellite CRS 771 as the local source for the feed and deployed a charged particle beam from ORBAT Platform Onager. In an instant, CRS 771 was a rapidly de-orbiting wreck, and the command crew of the Onager shared a moment of grim satisfaction. Before the first handshake, however, the signal bounced into the tether’s own counterweight station, and not one officer on the Onager could be brought to request permission to drop the elevator onto the twenty-fifth parallel.

  The signal came from MacPhereson, flooded from the heart of the wastelands, along channels carved by Grant Firenze and his mask, but the routes it used were far too complex, far too micromanaged, to be run from inside a combat zone, not with TACNET to manage, and network supremacy to maintain. A second set of eyes, a second conductor, was needed to direct the torrent of data, the drumbeat of revolution, which poured from the eye of the storm.

  At first, Donegan had been angry when Clausen had told him what needed done.

  I missed the Airship because they needed someone on the outside.

  He'd almost protested. He'd almost, stupidly, tried to pull rank on a man who didn't have one. Just for a moment, he'd wanted nothing more than to argue that the goddamn kid with the unregistered AI in his brain-pan should sit this one out and let the professional jump into hell with his unit.

  Almost.

  He knew better.

  Mission objectives were clear. An outside man was needed, to keep the signal flowing. He was the best man for it.

  He'd still rather have been there.

  He sat, in the lobby of a university library, with a professor's hacked research login, tied directly to the NODA backbone. His softjack covered the world with hyper-reality, layers of data, in increasing abstraction, laid over the mundane like dross. Unlike Firenze, he kept his mask clean. It managed the information flow, pulled up his arsenal of programs, managed his attacks, like a million ping-pong balls bounced from thousands of paddles. With his eyes, he caught them, with flicks of his fingertips, he tapped into pre-built routines and hacks, secured new channels in every moment, re-routed, re-prioritized, and added just the right element of taunting to the signal.