"Sending in soldiers is hard. It's painful. It brings protests and soul searching, rallies and demonstrations. The Senate will convene and convulse, and the media will pounce. It becomes a three-ring circus, it's embarrassing, and, sometimes, it stops us from doing our jobs. But it also keeps the State honest. If you send in the army, you're sending in someone's son or daughter, someone's lover, someone's caretaker. You send over people, and suddenly, you've got yourself a crisis. Citizens start asking, 'Is it worth it? What are we here for?' Drones don't beg those questions, they're cheap and easy. War should never be either of those things. That's we don't build an army of drones: so that we're not tempted to fight battles of convenience."
Firenze didn't have an answer. Of all the counters he'd imagined, that had not been one of them. He spoke to fill the silent office, "Sir, no offense, but you sound like Suze."
"Who's that?"
"Friend of mine. She's real big on Article Two. Real big on getting out of the war business."
"Smart girl." Halstead replied. "It's a terrible job."
"Then why do you do it?"
Halstead's thin smile returned. He said, "Because I'm skilled at it, and it needs done."
"Sergeant Clausen told me that."
"Good man." Halstead replied. "Mister Firenze, I think you'll find there are some inherent and irresolvable contradictions that make up the human condition. The best hunters love the wild. The best statesmen are wary of power. If we left war to those who craved it, we'd leave this world a ruin."
The colonel fixed him with a stare, one without compromise or waver. He said, "We go to that airship with the army we have and free those people. We do this, make this sacrifice, so that those counting on us get to live long enough to see Article Two. We do it in this way so that what happened to you doesn't become the norm. We hold ourselves to a standard and demand that others rise. We go in there, and we do this right, because we're ASOC, and that's who we are."
For just a moment, Firenze almost believed him.
Fire in the Sky II
Another explosion rocked the control room.
Glass shattered. Metal shrieked. A jackhammer blow slammed against Firenze's chest and ripped the air from his throat like barbed wire.
He huddled against the ruins of a console as the debris rained around him, his assist box clutched to his chest like a totem. He choked on acrid smoke and begged the universe to make it stop.
Training hadn't prepared him for this. Nothing could have. Every breath was paramount, every second pendulous, every action compelled by a primordial drive to survive just one moment longer. His goggles fogged, a mix of sweat and dust that turned his HUD to digital noise. Gunfire ripped the air, hot and howling. With every burst, he pressed against the solid steel of his cover.
Light punched through a freestanding terminal, two meters to his left. Life and death hung on chance, just like the colonel had warned.
Firenze raised his hand, glass speared through his blood-soaked gloves, and he watched the warm streams flow over his wrist. He couldn't feel it, even when he pulled the shards free. At least the auto-injectors were working.
The dead lay piled in the hallway, blood pooling amid the carnage. The corpse-pile jerked to a machinegun beat, bits ripped free with each staccato kiss. Firenze closed his eyes and wished away the world.
Hill's voice broke through his stupor, screaming, "Move! Princess! They're flanking!"
Firenze opened his eyes.
The gray-clad soldier crouched beside him, ankle-deep in shattered glass and burnt plastic. He stared at Firenze from beneath a battered helmet and demanded, "You with us?!"
Firenze nodded.
"Fuckin A." Hill clapped Firenze on the shoulder, then hoisted up his machinegun. He torqued the gun's cam lever and commanded, "There's a door, ten meters back! Move when I shoot, got it?!"
"Stick and move." Firenze whispered.
"Damn skippy." Hill answered. He swung the gun over the top of the terminal and pulled the trigger.
The machinegun roared, boiling dust spewing from the vents. Hill propped the weapon against the console and aimed through his eyepiece, walking fire over targets only he could see. After the second burst, he rose and pulled the gun into his shoulder. The volleys tightened, and he gave Firenze a kick.
Firenze ran.
Ten meters was an impossible distance. The doorframe pulled away with every step, every scream, and the roar of Hill's machinegun faded behind. Time slowed until every moment hung like a slide-show.
Firenze broke through the doorway at a stagger-sprint.
Gloved hands yanked him into cover. Kawalski screamed, "Down, Princess!" Gunfire rang. Firenze pulled his arms over his ears and tried to wall out the blasts.
Kawalski was screaming, her rifle jumping against her shoulder. Caustic, burning dust rained down upon him.
Hill crashed through the door and flung himself to the opposite wall. His face was caked in soot and streams of dried blood. He thumbed towards the room he'd fled and yelled, "Three of them!"
Firenze felt Kawalski grab his shoulder. He looked up, and she ordered, "Stay." She flashed a barrage of sign-language commands, and Hill swung his machinegun through the gap to let rip a long burst. Kawalski followed with a grenade.
Smoke vomited through the door, thick and flooded with razor debris.
Goggles up and rifles blazing, the team pushed past Firenze's corner, charging two-by-two into the haze. Gunfire cracked. For the third time today, Delta Four stormed the control room.
Firenze peered around the corner after them, one eye and a hair-strand past the
