by Erik Hanberg
A cheer erupted from the lines of soldiers.
“You know your orders,” Shaw said. “You know what we have to do. Get to your places.”
Chapter 8
Byron Shaw was in a jump.
Not until Aquinas had dangled the promise of the raw feed of the Lattice in front of him did he realize just how… slow it was to use an Altair ring. He was in each jump for many seconds. He could take in all the information he needed in an instant, but it took several seconds more to use a voice command to switch to a new jump. An eternity filled the time between each new jump.
Colonel Fassino was just now leading his army of Northern Italians into Rome.
…
The buildings on either side of the main street that approached Saint Peter’s Square exploded, sending a cloud of dust and a shower of bricks into the street that Fassino’s army would eventually have to pick their way through.
…
Ellie was trying to fight off sleep, Jane weightless against her breast.
…
Galway was watching the proceedings on a tablet. When she was alerted to Shaw’s jump, she laughed and waved to the air.
…
Florian was in conversation with a small team of researchers and monks in the Vatican lab.
…
…
…
Even though he was staring down an army three times the size of his own, Shaw found himself feeling restless. Many times he wanted to direct Aquinas to allow him to view the raw feed, but he held off.
Shaw jumped through a cycle again. Fassino. His troops. Ellie. Galway. Florian. Almost nothing had changed. But the itch to jump again was still there. Shaw imagined Peter Mayfield watching him—judging him and calling him an addict for wanting the feed so strongly.
And so Shaw jumped to find out. It was morning in Mexico City. Peter was at a small table in front of a café with a woman Shaw didn’t recognize. Between them was a cribbage board, and two small clay pots that held milky coffee.
Shaw tried to remember the last time he and Ellie had sat like this. Christmas dinner. But there was already an emerging tension between them. Before that… there had been the dinner in the pizzeria in St. Louis after he’d stopped that first raid on the Lattice. He’d been distracted then—the mystery of who the raiders were had been occupying his mind. He tried to remember the last time he and Ellie had had a carefree morning. He remembered a vacation to the beaches of Somalia about a year before. There, they had had several mornings like the one Peter seemed to have the luxury to enjoy every day.
That Shaw had grown accustomed to being the center of everyone’s attention was not lost on him either. Here he had been worried about Peter’s judgment after he’d been called an addict… and yet Peter wasn’t following his every move. He—
Shaw’s ring squeezed him.
He left the jump with one last lingering glance at the happy couple. When he re-emerged in the real world, behind the protective embankment the drones had created through Saint Peter’s Square, Alberto was beside him.
“Are they here?” Shaw asked, meaning Fassino and the approaching army.
“No, sir. But I thought you should know that since we destroyed the cartel’s missiles, they’ve been rebuilding and shipping new missiles within range. They should have them here within an hour. Their intent is to use them immediately. To drain our resources. Today.”
“Do we have any missiles of our own yet?”
“After the AIs fired them all at Sardinia, production started up immediately. We have twenty.”
Shaw grimaced. “And when the cartel’s missiles are within range, what target will they aim for? Us?”
“Brother Florian’s lab.”
“Does that mean they believe he’s close to finding a way to destroy this new Lattice?”
“The cartel’s AI estimates he has a one percent chance of success at finding a way to destroy the Lattice within the next forty-eight hours. But Galway felt even a one percent chance was too much. She wants him and his whole team assassinated.”
“When will Fassino’s army arrive here?”
“Less than twenty minutes,” Alberto answered.
Shaw was silent as he thought.
“Why is the army still coming,” Alberto asked, “if they will be able to kill us all in an hour anyway?”
“Same as before. They don’t want a massacre. Not when there are jump boxes to sell.”
“I always thought the point of war was to kill your enemies,” Alberto said. “All this talk of ‘public relations victories’… I’m not sure I understand it.”
“A new phrase for the same old thing. Even back in Roman times—” at this Shaw looked around him and allowed a wry laugh. “—Ancient Rome, I mean. Even then Caesar was careful with how he engaged the tribes in Gaul. He wanted to defeat his enemy, but not in such a way that would cause the local peasants to rise up against him. How people feel about a battle is often as important as what actually happens.”
Shaw noticed the shimmering forms of the saints hovering nearby. He hadn’t realized they were so close. “Go ask her,” he said, nodding toward the holographic form of Joan of Arc. “She can tell you better than anyone the risk of turning your enemy into a martyr.”
Alberto nodded, but Shaw stopped him.
“Actually, hold off on that. It looks like they want to talk to me.” Shaw patted Alberto’s arm to dismiss him and turned to face the saints.
They were in a perfect triangle, each exactly equidistant from him and from each other. Shaw had never been so cognizant that they were each a computer-based consciousness. Although a moment after that thought, he noticed Aquinas and Joan of Arc each shift slightly in response to his thought. The perfect shape was broken.
“Will you be able to help during this battle?” Shaw asked.
“Holograms can’t wield swords, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ignatius said.
Shaw nodded. He had expected that. “What can you do?”
“What would you like?”
“Monitor me. And my thoughts. I don’t want to get caught flat-footed the same way the cartel did when their AI had to ask for permission. So if you see an opportunity, or if I think about an opportunity that you believe will be successful… I want you to take it.”
“That’s a lot of trust you’re placing in us,” Aquinas answered. “You’re not worried about your machines running amok?”
“Since you pulled that phrase from my head just now, I guess you can tell that I am. I saw how Tranq wielded the spheres in Buenos Aires. I’m aware of how an algorithm can unleash catastrophe.”
“But?” Aquinas prodded when Shaw went silent.
“But you’re more than an algorithm. You know me, you know how I think. You know the ethics I believe in—probably better than I do myself. And you have your own ethics. So I’m going to trust that we’re on the same page. Or close to it, at least.”
Aquinas inclined his head slightly. “Yes, Grand Master. Is there anything else you’d like to ask before the battle?”
Shaw hesitated. He knew what he wanted. Aquinas knew it too. They looked at each other expectantly. Shaw finally shook his head. “Nothing.”
He turned away and went to wait for Fassino’s army to arrive.
Shaw stood in the center of Saint Peter’s Square. To his left and right, stretching to the blockaded colonnades, was a line of soldiers. Behind him were several lines of soldiers, ready to rush forward—though not nearly as many lines deep as Shaw would have preferred. In front of him, down the earthen slope carved out of the square by the drones, was Via della Conciliazione, the large arterial that fed directly into the square. Along the wide boulevard, obelisks and lampposts had been toppled, and several buildings destroyed, strewing brick and rubble into the street.
Shaw didn’t need to jump to see that, at the end of Via della Conciliazione, there was suddenly activity—a few dark figures moving into the street. After a few moments, the few dark figures
were surrounded by many more and Shaw could no longer make out any individual. A small dark mass of people began moving forward through the street. Colonel Fassino and his army of Northerners and cartel-paid mercenaries had arrived.
Shaw put his ring to his temple, and his jump plunged him forward along Via della Conciliazione, right into the face of the oncoming army. He watched the soldiers march into the street. They were dressed in black, with the tri-colored Italian flag embroidered on their shoulders. That was a laugh—they could just as easily have had the logos of Dvorak, T-6, and the rest of the companies in the cartel.
Each of them showed the telltale signs that they had been artificially enhanced—to a soldier, they were taller, wider, and (Shaw thought) simply angrier-looking than the Catholic troops the Vatican had drafted. Judging by the size of the weapons they carried with ease, they were stronger too.
Despite their physical advantages, he was heartened to see that as they came farther into the street, the lead soldiers were forced to break formation. They started picking their way through the rubble that the exploded buildings had strewn about the street. Shaw hoped that his planning—this and the rest of the ground work they’d laid—would be enough to offset the Northerners’ clear advantages.
With the soldiers struggling for even footing, the pace of the army’s advance slowed considerably. And, after three men tripped, the column stopped entirely. Shaw hadn’t heard any signal given, so it was clear that they all had implants—something close to top-down telepathy where Colonel Fassino could relay his orders. Too many of Shaw’s troops lacked implants to make the Lattice an effective communications option for him. But if Brother Florian and his men could sever the Lattice connection, there was a chance the cartel’s army would be left without any means of coordination, leaving them at Shaw’s mercy.
After a few seconds of standing motionless—listening to orders in their ears, Shaw realized—the Northerners that had entered the street turned and retreated. Shaw barely had time to wonder where they had gone before his stomach turned to dread as he realized what was coming. The retreating soldiers parted to make way for two troop transport vehicles, very similar to the one that had shuttled him from the Colosseum to the Vatican. On the front of each, drones were busily flying back and forth. Some sort of nanofiber filament was being constructed as the transports drove, converting the monstrous vehicles into plows. The drones worked fast enough that the plows were already half-complete as the vehicles entered the street.
They were in position next to each other in less than a minute, and the busy work of the drones was already complete. The plow blades lowered to the level of the cobblestones; the vehicles moved forward; and the rubble congesting the street began to clear, shoved to the side as easily as if it was made of foam.
The oncoming army filled the street again. Their pace was half that of their previous advance. But the two plows would preserve the ankles of the soldiers. And Fassino had all the time in the world—it was Shaw who was fighting for time.
Shaw’s ring squeezed his finger and he left the jump. He was back on the front lines of Saint Peter’s Square, where the plows were suddenly far enough away that they looked like short black rectangles at the end of the street.
The ring was alerting him to a call. Normally he would glance at his wrap or ask the air who was calling, but this time he simply cocked his head toward the nearest saint.
“Zella Galway calling,” Aquinas said. “I believe she wants to… rattle you.”
Shaw flipped his wrist and declined the call. Even in the recent past, he almost certainly would have accepted it. Maybe even felt like he had to accept it. As if he were obligated to participate in a tête-à-tête with his adversary.
But not today.
A few seconds later, another call came in.
“Colonel Fassino,” Aquinas said. “I believe he also wants to rattle you.”
“Now that one I’ll take,” Shaw said. “Maybe I can do a little rattling of my own.” Putting his ring to his temple, his jump took him down the street. He was an avatar marching alongside Fassino—the same way that Ellie had floated next to him hours earlier.
“Good afternoon, Grand Master,” Fassino said, his tone making it clear that he thought the title was as much of a joke as Shaw did.
“You must be feeling pretty good about the plows if you called for me,” Shaw said.
“I do feel pretty good about them!” Fassino exclaimed. He laughed. “I find it interesting that you declined Galway’s call, but took mine. Are you afraid of being intimidated by a woman?” Fassino laughed again, a glint in his eye.
“There is nothing to be gained by verbally sparring with Galway when she’s hundreds of miles away,” Shaw answered. “Needling you seemed more productive.”
“You must be feeling particularly honest right now,” Fassino laughed.
“No reason not to be,” Shaw said. He waved his hand to indicate the Lattice that surrounded them—more omnipresent than the air.
“Of course,” Fassino nodded. “Your thoughts are likely the most scrutinized of any man on the planet right now. In fact, my scribes are reporting that you are afraid. They tell me you dreaded the sight of the plows, you think you will lose, and that you are all show. In short, that you are full of bluster.”
“Then they are not reporting accurately.”
“Ha! You think you can somehow fool the Lattice from reading your thoughts correctly?”
“Of course not. But the scribes may not know what to look for. Reporting only my fear means they aren’t reporting my resolve.”
Fassino shrugged. “You see these plows slice right through your clever schemes and you are worried for your own men, your own skin, and whether you will ever see your wife and daughter. That’s what I hear reported. You sound like the kind of enemy I’d choose to fight any day.”
Shaw turned his attention from Fassino to the plows, and the way their blades were pushing a clear path through the rubble. Behind them was the army, without a pebble under the soldiers’ feet. In the distance, though it was too far away to make out any individual figure, he could see a bit of his own troops assembled in Saint Peter’s Square, atop the new slope they had created and behind a thick embankment of piled paving stones uprooted from the square. Seen from this side, there was no reason for Fassino to halt the plows when they got to the square, really. The embankment the drones had built would protect his troops from laser fire and bullets. But for the plows… They could scale the slope and push through the earthen embankment in no time, mowing down his troops in the process, Shaw thought. He couldn’t fight plows with just soldiers. That was clear.
Why not just use a couple missiles to—
From somewhere behind the Basilica, two missiles launched and rushed down the Via della Conciliazione toward the army of Northerners, their scream filling all of Rome. Around Shaw the men and women in the army threw themselves toward the ground. As they did, the two missiles buried themselves in the plows, creating two immense fireballs at the front of the column.
—take out the tanks?
Shaw’s conscious thought had been slower than the attack itself. The AIs had effectively heard his thought before it was fully formed, weighed it, and acted accordingly.
Great black billows of smoke poured into the sky. Fassino was clambering to his feet after having been blown down from the force of the blast.
“Murderer!” Fassino shouted. “You just killed four soldiers with your missiles! What happened to your supposed ideals?”
Shaw turned to Fassino impassively. That the saints had agreed with the attack removed a level of guilt he might have otherwise felt. “I’d like your men to walk from here.”
Fassino took a swing—an old instinct. His right fist punched through the air of Shaw’s avatar.
Shaw laughed bitterly. “Next time, think twice about what your scribes are telling you about my bluster.”
Shaw left the jump.
As his head cleared, he
was in Saint Peter’s Square again. The troops around him were cheering. Far in the distance down Via della Conciliazione he saw the plumes of black smoke emanating from the tanks. He hadn’t enjoyed giving that order, knowing that the soldiers inside would be killed instantly. Although, of course, he hadn’t truly given any orders. He’d had a thought, and the AIs had made the thought real.
He’d ordered it, and yet he hadn’t. They had carried out his order, and yet they hadn’t. If there was credit or blame, who would get it? The man or the machine? What a strange place to be.
Ignatius hovered near him. “Now that they have to pick through the rubble again, they won’t be expected within firing range for fifteen minutes.”
“Are the men in position in the Tower of Saint John?” Shaw asked, meaning the defensive tower in the gardens on the other side of the Basilica.
“Yes, Grand Master. They are anxious; they don’t want to miss the battle.”
“You keep an eye out in the Lattice for something happening there. And they should too.”
“Attacking through the gardens right now is not a rational tactic,” Ignatius said.
“It’s after a surprise like that one that people stop acting rationally,” Shaw said, jutting his chin toward the column of smoke.
“They’re slowing again,” Ignatius reported.
“Why?”
“They have deployed their molecular machines to create discs. One for everyone in the army.”