Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

grew thicker. There was something in the colonel's voice, something close to absolute dread, that scared him more than the silver trap that dragged him here. Firenze tried to push it away and asked, "How bad could he be?"
Halstead's hollow glare gave all the answers Firenze could want, but the colonel replied, "He is the possibly the vilest actor I have ever encountered. He has the blood of uncounted innocents on his hands. He is no soldier, but a killer, without remorse or scruples. Once this is over, he will answer for his crimes, and he knows this. He will play angles to escape it. He will use you, hurt you, hurt those near you, just to gain leverage. You cannot anticipate the depravity he will stoop to. If you see him, you run - don't walk, run - away."
Firenze wanted to brush the speech away, dismiss it as the rant against an enemy, but the colonel's words rang true. The old man had been honest about the loyalty worm, so why would he lie about this?
Firenze asked, "Then why are we working with him?"
"Because soldiers don't get that choice. If we're going to save lives, he's a necessary risk."
"What's his name?"
"He calls himself 'Berenson' now. His name changes, but he's always the same." Halstead spoke as though naming the devil.
Firenze tried to sound tougher than he felt, and quipped, "Okay, so: don't go outside, don't talk to strangers, and stay away from this dude. Got it. Easy."
The colonel smiled, patted Firenze's shoulder. He said, "Good. Your spirit's back. That mean's the fire's still burning. Get your fluids up, eat solid food, and get some rest. Tomorrow, you'll start with Mister Donegan. He's our chief EWO, best in his field. Learn from him.
"This will not be easy, but I've seen your file, and it says you thrive on a challenge. You will adapt, you will overcome, and you will triumph. Prove the Agency wrong, and become the man they think you can't. And remember: today is always the hardest day."

Dead Men
The acrid stench of gunfire clawed at Firenze's nostrils. The echoes of the final shots resounded from the stone and glass-box walls of the Kessinwey assembly plant, long after the 'cease-fire' calls had ended. Firenze toppled to his knees, hands pressed against the cold cement floor. His sweat plunged like a rainstorm and shattered on the gray slab-tile. He gasped for breath, gulped down acrid air between racking coughs, and he desperately wished to be anywhere else.
Sergeant Clausen's voice shattered the post-gunfire rining. "You're dead! You are all dead!" The giant man held his timer up for all to see, giant red zeros frozen on its face. He called down from his observation post, "Too slow! Mission failed! Can someone tell me what just happened?!"
Firenze stared, head turned to the side, still doubled over on the floor. The sergeant stood flanked by two smaller men - Lieutenant Poole and Chief Donegan - both of them intently swapping notes and muttering with lowered heads. Clausen, though, had climbed atop a shipping crate to command a view of the training ground. Below him, the rat-maze Firenze now ran, lay a labyrinth of boxes, old plant machinery, plasterboard, and holographic projection mashed into a makeshift airship. From his crate-top perch, Clausen glared down at the 'dead men', his expression halfway between glower and puzzlement, and he waited for his answer.
"I'll tell you what happened, Sarn't." That was Rutman's voice. Firenze couldn't turn to look, couldn't even raise his head. He heard Rutman say, in his slow-easy-slur, "FNG's too slow."
FNG. 'Fucking New Guy'. Firenze knew that meant him. He tried to rise, tried to stand, but his arms gave out, and he crashed to the concrete. His muscles shook from exhaustion. His core ached from exertion and the battery of concussion grenades.
He couldn't see. Sweat stained his glasses, blinded him like a snowstorm, and dissolved his laser-HUD into color-washed chaos. His heart thundered against his chest like Foundation Day fireworks, and a distant ringing sounded deep in his ears. All of this, from training blanks and a VR augsim. Tension, exertion, and the remains of anxiety bled into dread as he considered the impossible: if this was training, what would the real thing bring?
For the dozenth time today, he wished he'd had the good sense to tell Kendrix to fuck off when he'd had the chance. He wasn't a soldier; he was a grad student. And he was going to die.
Worse, he was going to get everyone killed.
They were dead because he couldn't crack the netsec while sprinting down a hallway. If they could stop, let him work for just a minute... he didn't finish the thought. There was no point protesting the impossible. They all knew he wasn't good enough. Rutman was just the one who'd said it.
Firenze heard heavy boots thump into the concrete, caught the 'whoof' of air forced from lungs. Clausen had jumped down. Firenze choked on his nerves as the shadow fell over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to will away to the world.
Clausen asked, "Alright. Why?"
Silence answered.
Dread came upon Firenze with the dawning realization that that question hadn't been aimed at the team. It was asked only to him. He opened his eyes, turned, and found Clausen standing over him. Worse, the sergeant didn't look angry or disgusted. He looked worried.
Firenze wanted to curl up and die.
He didn't have an answer, only excuses. He pleaded, "Sir, I'm not- we're going too fast. I need- it's a delicate system and all the shooting and running-"
Clausen didn't answer. Donegan took that honor. The chief called down from his platform, "This isn't school, princess! You don't have time to sanitize your code! Set your box, prep for ICE, and hammer down! Good enough is good enough because perfect gets you dead!" The words cut all the deeper for their truth. Firenze had hoped for an ally in the 'netboss', but he'd found a nemesis, instead.
Donegan was