Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

by J. M. Kaukola

  He continued, relishing every word and driving the sharpest syllables like a hammer, more performance than conversation. He said, "With enough negative mass, spacetime will crumple. From that collapse, you can draw strand. With a stable borehole, you can touch the base math of the universe. If you feed it power, it will resonate and return manifold. The thinner the fabric - the wider the bore - and the more strand within your grasp? All the more powerful that resonance. This is no free lunch, no impossibility, but a cosmological dine and dash. We dip into a power-store so massive, so incomprehensible that we are as ants before it. We steal heat from the noonday sun and worship it as God." He paused, gave a sly glance towards Firenze, and added, "But we are rational men and no longer given to such superstitions. All of our gods come in chains and are bent to serve our purpose." Something in his tone hinted at an unspoken coda: 'for now'. Firenze felt the ice reforming in his gut.

  Berenson concluded, "It gives us power. It gives us light. Through its awesome lens, all shall obey as we command. Batteries that can power cities. Cities that fly! Ours is a time of miracles."

  Firenze mustered his strength, glanced towards Clausen for backup, and countered, "But we don't use it like that." He ran through his mental catalog, tried to scavenge memory from every random article he'd ever browsed on a late-night info-benders, and said, "No terrestrial drive uses a self-sustaining bore. We don't harvest on-planet."

  Berenson replied, "Only because you are frightened of the god you leashed." He chuckled again, and a perverse twinkle shone in his eyes as he surveyed the room. "You are children, dancing about the well, never daring to look in and tempt the fall. You spin and chant at the edge of the abyss but never confess and beg it to rise. Are you dishonest in your craving, or are you scared?" He turned back to Firenze, and Firenze couldn't turn away. Berenson said, "Because you should be."

  For the moment, his spell hung, and the room stood silent and still. Again, it was Clausen who broke the requiem. The sergeant demanded, "Alright, nice speech. This is your last chance to make it relevant."

  "They have access to a potent tool, sergeant. You must consider what a depraved opponent might do with such a resource. The drive field of the ARC950 is sufficiently powerful to drive through an n-matter bore and harvest strand, given adequate modification."

  For a moment, Firenze thought he saw Clausen flinch. The sergeant demanded, "Are you telling me this isn't about hostages?"

  Berenson nodded, sagely, and with feigned regret, "They did give quite a list of demands, did they not?"

  "They did." Clausen growled.

  "Yes. Those lists were quite well constructed - balanced perfectly on the far-side of acceptability. The Authority will never release those prisoners, sergeant. The men of power will never concede to those political dreams. All the wealth demanded in those manifestos is but a smokescreen, an additional service provided the mercenaries. It is protection through deception, and their client could not care less for their side-show. He wants the strand, not the politics." Berenson stopped, Puck-like, and threw a casual aside to his audience, "Perhaps he wants to build a bomb?"

  The numbers ricocheting through Firenze's head formed into a terrible outline. He spoke as he thought, hazarding, "If strand's probability manipulation multiplies an energy release, then a bomb derived from the ARC950-"

  Clausen finished the statement, "-would be all sorts of bad."

  Berenson held out his hands, open-palmed, in a gesture halfway between a shrug and a congratulation. He offered, "And would that not make far greater leverage than twelve-hundred corpses?"

  "But why?" Firenze demanded.

  "Symmetry. You have heard of the Waste?"

  "Of course we have." Clausen snapped.

  "Think hard, sergeant. Our opponent thinks himself a poet. What ties these two topics?"

  Firenze answered first, "The Waste was made when the Path carrier broke drive containment. They were using a bore-through strand cascade, and when they lost control, it scoured half the continent."

  Clausen summarized, "Two billion dead, the Path decapitated, and our entire Seventh Fleet - gone. Hell of a day, and we're still paying the price."

  Berenson agreed, "That cascade won the war. That fortuitous disaster changed the course of human history. Without it, we would still be wracked in the throes of an unending war on a dying world. That reaping sun gave us the mortal clarity to see our way from the Collapse. We should be grateful to those men and their idiot schemes."

  Clausen looked like he might fire back some response at Berenson's flippant commentary, but Firenze was distracted by a thought-thread, dangling from earlier. He followed it and asked, "Are you claiming that the Path caused the cascade by feeding strand into their drive field? Or that the cascade was caused by using a modified drive field to harvest strand?"

  Berenson pointed at him like he'd won some secret prize. "An excellent question. One option implies negligence, the other arrogance. Whichever caused the disaster would carry implications towards the mental state of the men responsible, as well as define the risks of those now tampering with the Plymouth. Alas, the Hodges Report could not conclude between those options. Four years of investigation and thousands of interviews could not resolve the question, nor what the Path had hoped to achieve."

  Clausen interrupted, "It doesn't matter. It ended the war, we survived, and now we know the risks."

  "How very pragmatic." Berenson deadpanned. "But you are correct. In some ways, it may have been a merciful ending to a war. How many end without the customary rape and pillage? For all its body-count, in time, we may discover that the cascade was the cleanest end we could have hoped for. After all, it did give us the Authority we all know and love." He gave a slight bow and flourish, then stepped for the door. At the threshold, he paused and offered, "Enjoy your training. Learn well from Mister Firenze. There may come a time that all the world will once again hinge on the whispers of Bergman's nightmare."

  Clausen stepped after him and demanded, "And where are you going?"

  "Out to visit the city." Berenson replied, "I heard it is lovely this time of year."

  "And what do you think you're going to do out there?" Lieutenant Poole asked. The lieutenant stood framed in the doorway, at the head of six armed guards. Firenze understood right then why Clausen had been stalling. Poole stepped up beside his sergeant, face stone and unreadable.

  Berenson betrayed neither fear nor anger, just another flash of his half-amused-half-impressed grin. He quipped, "I plan to kidnap some media executives, lieutenant. I want to see myself on the evening news." He paused, his voice lost all humor, and he explained, "What do you think I am doing? I plan on getting a pizza. I heard there were some wonderful local shops." He glanced, irritated, towards the Agency cadre behind the officer, and added, "You need not have bothered, but I thank you for fetching my handlers. I was going to bring them in case I needed some luggage carried." Berenson offered one last mocking bow.

  He vanished under escort, and the room finally breathed. By the looks on people's faces, Firenze wasn't the only one who felt the pressure release. Like an exam hall after the provost fled, the first conversations came as whispers, then laughs.

  Firenze demanded, "Who the hell is he?"

  "Bad news." Clausen said. "You did good."

  "You could have told me we were stalling."

  Poole took the answer, "Not in any way that wouldn't have alerted our guest."

  "Why is he even here?!" Firenze demanded. A moment later, he remembered the requisite, "Sir."

  Poole pursed his lips so tightly they tinged white and gave the slightest hint of a head-shake. Once he'd swallowed down some unspoken comment, he replied only, "Sorry, but I can't tell you."

  Something about the way he said that gave Firenze the chills, which only grew worse when he looked to Clausen. The unflappable sergeant didn't appear worried. No, that would have been an alien expression for such a rock-hewn face. Instead, Clausen's jaw was set, his brow furrowed, and
his eyes locked on the middle distance. Firenze knew that look. He'd seen it in dronetown when the veteran pipe-climbers heard the rumble below. That look was grim resignation - an acknowledgment of exactly what was coming and how unlikely it was to end well.

  At that moment, Firenze came to a horrid realization: he'd believed a lie. The hardest day was yet to come and would be on a scale, unimagined.

  Paths Not Taken

  The clock on the wall of the Halstead's office far outdated even the rusted gears of Kessinwey. White enameled hands wound over stained wood, clicking to a rhythm born from the stacked gears within. A mechanical clock like this was a curiosity from a dead world, a once-beautiful talking-piece made for the departed governor-executive. Now it hung in memorial, ticking away without regard to time. Firenze found himself peeking through the open door at that clock. If he was kept waiting much longer, he might have burst into the office, ripped it from the wall, and opened up its gears to see how it ran.

  Finally, the adjutant spoke. "He'll see you now."

  Firenze didn't need to be told twice, and nearly sprinted from his waiting-room chair. He crossed the frame at a skip and almost crashed into the desk. The office had looked larger from outside, but Firenze shouldn't have been surprised. Halstead had taken over the fab-plant supervisor's office, not the executive tower, so this room was as drab and grease-stained as the rest, from its yellowed plant-floor windows to its cracked faux-wood panels. Books and binders filled every corner, commanded the desk in heaping piles, a barely constrained organized chaos that hinted at a system Firenze couldn't quite discern.

  Behind the binder-stack, Halstead's bushy gray eyebrows rose. With an ease only gained through decades of practice, the colonel greeted, "Good afternoon, Mister Firenze." He closed his current binder, and his mustache twitched as he skimmed the last line. He scanned the young man up and down, then asked, "What can I do for you?"

  "I had questions, sir." Firenze said. He had to work not to trip on his words. The colonel's time was valuable, and it had taken all his nerve to request this visit. Even in a building with an 'open-door' policy, some thresholds were best not crossed through without cause, and he suspected this was one.

  Halstead harumphed, but his expression warmed, and he threw his binder back onto the stack. "Can't be much worse than what I was reading. Sure, I have time for some questions."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Halstead nodded. "You've come a long way since you got here."

  "Long way to go, sir."

  Halstead gave another harrumph. He countered, "You're standing straight, tall, and sure. That's a damn sight better than the half-broken boy they dragged in here."

  "Well, sir, they sold me on enlistment with promises of a workout program."

  "Gym's cheaper." Halstead said. His thin smile was another man's guffaw. He added, "But it's a hell of a lot less thorough." He gave Firenze another once-over. "I've heard good things about you."

  "They didn't tell you about the armor, then." Firenze countered. He could still feel the pinch of the collar, the crush on his chest, the sweat trapped against his skin until he thought he might drown. He remembered crashing to the deck, exhausted, pinned in the carapace like a turtle on its shell. He could still hear the command, 'Somone pick up Princess. He's on his back again.' While it hadn't been the most embarrassing experience in his life, it was undoubtedly in the highlight reel.

  Halstead countered, "You adapted. You overcame. I knew you would."

  "I-" Firenze couldn't quite force the words out. He glanced at the off-time clock, centered his thoughts, and confessed, "I don't know, sir. Sometimes I pretend hard enough that I almost fool myself. We get a couple good runs through the sim, and I start believing, but then I think about how many people are on that airship, and I get sick. I try to act normal, act cool, but I'm not. I'm scared out of my mind. I'm posturing. Faking!" He had to stop and gather himself for the conclusion, "I'm worried, sir. I'm worried that when shit hits the fan, my facade is going to slip, and then I'm gonna fail. And we can't afford to fail."

  Halstead leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his mustache. He said, "Congratulations, Mister Firenze, you've just stumbled on the secret."

  "Sir?"

  "I'll to tell you something, but it's not going to make your life any easier."

  Firenze felt his hopes sink. He' been half-expecting this response. He hazarded, "Let me guess. Everyone's faking? Everyone's scared?"

  "Oh, yes." Halstead agreed. "But worse. The fear you described, the fear of failure? That's a benevolent force in your monkey-brain. The real terror comes up from the lizard. The moment the first bullet cracks past your head, and you measure life and death in centimeters and seconds, there's a screaming voice that's going to rear up, seize your body, and drown all your precious intellect."

  Halstead glanced towards the yellow-stained windows, towards the silent machinery of Kessinwey's echoing halls. His whiskers twitched, and he seemed to focus on something far away. "There's a powerful motive force in the back of your biology that just wants to keep living, and once it thinks you might not, it will assert itself with the full weight of five million years."

  He paused, turned back to Firenze, and asked, "I bet you felt the edges of it, the first time in the sims? A squeeze in your stomach? Icewater in your veins? The urge to run, fight, hide? Your conscious mind knew it was just a game, a fake, but the limbic system said, 'near enough' and started edging in on you. Am I right?"

  Firenze nodded.

  "I've been in combat more times than I care to count. If you think that terror ever subsides, you'd be wrong. You learn to manage it better, train in better reflexes for when you can't hold it down, but that voice is powerful. It's why jumpers try to fly before they hit pavement. No matter how ready you think you are, that mortal urge is going to howl its protest, and it is loud."

  The colonel continued, "We look for the right kind of people, give them the motivation and tools to overcome. Fear of failing can be part of that. When your limbic system is screaming 'live', maybe its the desire to win that pulls you through. Perhaps, it's the need to save your team. Possibly, its the understanding of stakes that gives your higher mind the leverage it needs to turn the screaming terror into something useful. So, Mister Firenze, turn that fear into strength when the real terror comes. When it comes to failure, I have no need of men so afraid that they won't try, but I have every need for the ones who get back up because they refuse to accept defeat."

  Halstead's piercing blue eyes softened. At that moment, he looked almost grandfatherly, tucked into his study full of books and broken things. His wan smile returned, and he asked, "So, Mister Firenze, I hope you can take comfort in my anti-consolation."

  Firenze tried to pretend it was helpful. He replied, "At least you didn't lie to me."

  "That's the Agency's job." Halstead replied.

  Firenze laughed despite himself.

  "Was there anything else I could do for you?" The colonel asked.

  "No, s-" Firenze cut himself off. Weeks of training and the alien thoughts jammed into his head commanded that he dismiss himself courteously and allow senior officers to do their work. He refused. He wasn't a soldier, and he had the right to ask. "Why are we doing this?"

  Halstead's eyes narrowed. "Lives, Mister Firenze. Twelve hundred of them, at a minimum."

  "But why like this? Why Berenson?"

  A storm passed the colonel's brow, darkened his scowl. Halstead said, "Be careful about him."

  Firenze nodded. "I was warned. I understand. But why work with him?"

  Halstead sighed. "I told you. Because we're soldiers and we don't get that choice. This is his mission."

  "Is he Agency?" Firenze asked.

  Halstead gave a slight shake of his head. "I can't give you that answer, but he is the Agency's asset. We'll handle Berenson, you just keep the network on lock."

  "At least tell me why we're doing this." Firenze demanded. "Why not just hit the ship in po
rt? Bring overwhelming force - the Authority is good at that!"

  Halstead leaned back, looking for all the world like a professor in his office, about to 'educate' a particularly ornery student. He said, "Very well, Mister Firenze. We can go through the how and why. First, we have to consider victory conditions: what do we want, and what does the enemy want? We want to free the hostages and prevent the enemy from using the ship as a weapon. The enemy wishes to blackmail the Authority into a series of impossible concessions. To do this, they need to retain their hostages and to continue to threaten potential victims with the ship. We can sum this up as, 'whoever controls the airship, wins'. We know this, they know this. The enemy commander, Sakharov, has a history and a profile. Whenever he brings the ship into port - when he's at his most vulnerable - he will spin up his drive unit as a potential bomb. He will take additional hostages by proximity. If we attack him in a dock, he will detonate the ship."

  "Will he?" Firenze asked.

  "Absolutely." Halstead replied. "That's why he was hired."

  Firenze hypothesized, "Hence, why he's only docking in large ports. It's an implied threat."

  "Correct. And only visible to those who know the ship is compromised. Sakharov's taunting us into acting rashly."

  Firenze said, "Okay, what about a virus? It's a dynamic space, controllable with electronic warfare. We could hit it with a limited AI worm, have it lock the ship down, cut the controls to the drive, and spin it down for a soft landing somewhere safe. Then, after it's landed and cooled, ground forces move in and clear it. The mercenaries are locked in their rooms and casualties minimal."

  Halstead nodded approvingly, but then held up a finger and said, "Interesting theory. Here's the counter: Perimeter Group, upon losing control of the ship, use their internal, non-integrated radios to coordinate a massive response. They use torches and explosives to cut free of their rooms and reassert manual control. Authority regulations forbid any vessel from being AI-driven without an override, so they'll have options. Now they know we're coming, and they start hitting hostages."