Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Zero Hour
Iteration 0010
Campus Green
Curiosity
Crashout
Bootload Basic
Dead Men
The Hardest Day
Cohesion
Fearful Symmetry
Paths Not Taken
Fire in the Sky II


THE SWORD, PART 2: BASE METAL
J.M. Kaukola


Copyright © 2020 J.M. Kaukola
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798634120652


To my poor beta-readers. You deserve a medal.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Zero Hour
Karl Vonner hadn't slept in a week.
His eyes burned. The drops had stopped working days ago. When he blinked, it was like dragging canvas over sand. His head pounded, and the pills just made it worse. His breath tasted like stale coffee and cheap mint. He couldn't stop belching. His suit had turned two days back, and he didn't have a spare. He stank, ached, and looked a ghoulish mess. Dunks in the brain tank weren't cutting it, and the go-go pills just made him vomit.
And for what? So he could watch the world burn?
Eight months ago, he'd been a made man. He'd known the right people. He'd gone to the right parties. He'd worn the proper goddamn tie. Field Commander by thirty. They called him brilliant, charismatic, the 'Agency's best'. When Section Chief Raschel came to him and personally asked him to 'look to media', Vonner had put on his best award-winning smile, thanked the man, and started planning for his newer, bigger house. That felt like a lifetime ago.
Now, his tie hung loose. His shirt was stained yellow at the pits and collar. His once-coiffed hair was matted to his head. He had a beard - a beard! - and a patchy one, at that. His face glistened, and he stank of sweat. This was madness. He'd always wanted to be well dressed at the end of the world.
Eight months ago, that damned city crashed in the gulf. He'd been given eight months of warning, but he'd missed the signs. He'd watched the news and checked the feeds. He'd seen the bodies rain from the sky, just like everyone else. The images seared into his memory: a city in flames, a comet that boiled the sea, flash-frozen palm trees and hissing crimson waters. He should have listened when the street-preachers took to their corners. He should have realized when the riots started. He should have known when the lockdown came. This was the end, and he had a front-row seat.
The control-room screens rose around him, a semicircle of light. He bathed in the blue glare, the thousand-window menagerie of infotainment A hundred anchors bantered with a thousand reporters, on scripts his teams had approved. He heard the metatext, the narrative framing he'd so carefully assembled, regurgitated in a million voices. 'Nothing was broken. Everything was under control. Remain in your home. Let's talk about local sports. How about a feel-good story.'
Everything moved in lockstep. Every critical voice was circling the same drain - feeding on the same trough. One mention of riots, one call for an investigation, one break in the drumbeat, and he'd pick up his phone and change the story. Such was the power of the Internal Security Agency.
It wasn't enough.
He was papering over holes, not fixing them. He was impotent, and he knew it. He'd tried to send his resignation. He'd tried to request a transfer. He'd gotten far enough to make, but when he'd looked his boss in the eyes, he'd choked. Before he could speak, Raschel would say, "We need you on that switch, Karl. I need you. If something, anything, gets out of line, I need a man trust to shut it down."
Vonner had asked what to look for, but got no answers beyond, "Keep them on the script."
So he sat under blue-gray screens, stinking, sweating, and staring. He caressed the phone that changed the news but never altered the facts. His team had gone home. Some had asked "to be with their families". That was a code that meant they'd read the signs, knew how dire it was, and they weren't coming back.
He wouldn't do that.
He couldn't abandon his post. He was too honest. He'd never kept a family during his rise, so he would not cling to one for the fall. He would hold his station and document every step of the end. In hindsight, it was all was so very clear.
First came insurrection. Protesters flooded the squares, demanding government reform and clashing with police. Terrorists struck law enforcement and ralliers alike, and the streets were washed in blood. That cycle peaked in Monterrey, and the world had reeled.
If they'd been wiser, they would have paused there. A few concessions to the protests, a few ministers fired, and hoist the colors. It would have bought peace. Instead, they'd bet on passing fancies and the ancient creeds of security and duty. 'The storm would pass,' they'd said, 'if we just held course a little longer.' They'd been wrong.
Vonner had thought Monterrey was the worst of it, but compared to the Plymouth, it was just a prelude. Show trials weren't enough by then. It didn't matter that the unit was rogue, the flag had been stained. The State should have hanged the traitors, that might have been enough, but probably not.
The airship was a catalyst. Vonner could see that now. When it plunged into the sea, it took the Authority with it. Before the wreck was settled, before the dead had been tallied, the cities were burning.
War followed. The Path seized upon the unrest, threatened to breach the DMZ and dared the Authority to assault them, knowing that the people would never support another war. Ishtan Radek seized power from the moderates, struck back for his long-lost cause. Radek had grown old, but never timid, and he waltzed across the demarcation line. The Authority had no choice but to respond, and mobilization required a draft. The draft fed the riots.
Then came plague. With nowhere to turn for escape, the dronetowns plunged into the cheapest new high. Mind Blade ran through the veins of every slum, snatching its users from hell, at least for a