6-01 – Operation Athena's Grace I – Set 8-Bravo-90
The Campaigner
Act VI
Date: 21 JUL 2020
Operation: Athena's Grace – Phase I
Location: Seattle, Washington
Function A: Hijack conclusion rollout by Set 8B90:IP-10D7 to facilitate on-path attack.
Function B: Integrate Context T-1-1-W with Set 334DE via on-path attack per 8B90:IP-10D7 rollout.
"Some of the greatest human tragedies, both on a personal and on a society-wide level throughout history, have happened when some of the things on the list that you'd be willing to die for become the cost of preserving other things on your list that you'd be willing to die for." ~ Dan Carlin, The Celtic Holocaust
Other Fire tellers who talk about the post-war Seattle – Talons, Heralds, blackouts – they'll talk about shell casings everywhere, overturned cars, collapsed buildings, barricades, tanks, bullet holes… and the unburied bodies of course, goes without saying. And all of that was miserable, sure.
But no one ever talks about the dust, folks. Pulverized cement was everywhere. Ever present, ever toxic. Those who got a respiratory illness often blamed the nuke radiation, but as we've established... that nuke was tiny, and Foucault had placed it specifically to reduce the fallout. No... the war crumbled buildings, sent toxic powder everywhere, and it got into everything. That stuff would kill you if you didn't prep for it.
As a consequence, a lot of folks in Seattle had to deal with a persistent cough, general weakness, and... carcinogens.
Literal poison, folks.
Y'know, I might as well say it: a lot of the older roads and buildings in Seattle were built with Concrete limestone. Yep. All roads may lead to Rome in this story, but as it so happens... they all go back to the start, too.
It'd only been eight months since my recruitment test. Hard to believe it'd only been eight months, it felt like years. Radical change tends to alter your perception of time, I guess.
So… my gas mask was on. With every step I took down these abandoned streets, wind caught the disturbance, sending up visible twirls behind us.
To travel with Michael through post-war, post-Singularity Seattle, on foot, for dozens of blocks, was an experience unlike any other in humanity. This place was essentially purgatory. Unknown variables could kill you in a snap flash; nothing but open, broken windows and tall, dangerous buildings for as far as the eye could see.
There were fewer than... um, thirty million people left on the planet at this time, give or take. But here? The largest concentration of opportunistic snipers, bar none. All of my SWAT cross-training told me that this was a very bad place to be standing still in, if every single building was a threat vector.
On this day, I wore Marine Corps fatigues and a plated carrier rig, masquerading as a deserter. Hat on. Eldil Glock in my holster. Active earpiece in for now, hidden under the straps of my gas mask. And... technically not stolen valor. My AI Gryphoness friend was technically a lawful part of the United States government, which made me more officially an American soldier than any of these deserters were, at this point.
Special Agent Michael Foucault wore his usual get-up. He still had that snazzy cooling rig as an underlayer. And a gas mask. The man ran on two cups of black coffee, and not much else today. Spy fuel.
The other visual oddity about our appearance was that we both had black sneakers with civilian treads. There were combat boots in my backpack, but our tracks had to look inconsequential and meaningless for now, otherwise this little ruse wouldn't work. We avoided wearing red, too; most well-armed groups in Seattle were shooting Ludds on sight by this point.
Because of Harbor Island's soldiers, Neo-Luddites wouldn't enter the city anymore unless they were scouting, or had a specific purpose in mind. Most Ludds were striking their banners actually, blending in with the blackouts now that the war had petered out. Now that all the Alabaster-reflexed NMPs were dead – by design – most remaining militants were tucking in their fangs and scattering to the wind.
The message was received by most. Violent rebellion was death.
The true believers were still out there of course, still owning their colors, looking for an opportunity to hit back. Those ones all had a tragedy worth dying over, to a person. And honestly? That Gaul comparison only became more appropriate as time went on. Some call dogged resistance a form of hopelessness, but... I dunno. I've studied a lot of history. There's a huge difference between throwing your life away because you gave up, and spending your life on your cause because it was worth that much, no matter the odds.
I looked down Broad Street from the corner of 5th, my rifle in hand, my MARPAT uniform smeared gray. I dismally observed the recent source of the mess. The Space Needle. It was presently laying across several buildings amidst giant boulders of concrete, brick, glass, and rebar.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "Still hard to believe they collapsed it on purpose."
"Functional purpose," said Foucault into his mask, his HK-416 in his hands. "Velasquez didn't want anyone scouting the Dock with it anymore."
I gave a bewildered shake of my head. "I mean, I get that, they're rankled."
Eliza succeeded in hitting the chopper's windscreen a few weeks back. The pilot called it quits and wouldn't fly anymore, which was the goal.
"OPSEC hygiene," Foucault replied with a shrug, gesturing a hand at the Needle. "It had perfect L-O-S on their helipad. Anyone on the tower could see when they were spinning it up."
"I mean, that makes sense, but killing this is just… historically disrespectful."
"Just wait until you see the museum."
I leaned on the corner of our building and wiped some dust from the bottom of my messy mullet. I had my beard trimmed up off my neck just far enough to support the mask seal, but wearing it over the hairs made me itch like mad. I had to resist the urge to scratch. I shook my head at the structural wreckage, then mentally prepared myself to cross the intersection. Intersections were the absolute worst death traps in urban warfare.
"Needle was overpriced anyway," Foucault observed dryly, switching to telepathic communication through my earpiece. With his rifle, he scanned the street to my right, covering my crossing.
I turned around and locked eyes with him, holding my own rifle close to my chest. His use of subvocal comms told me he wanted more noise discipline. Made sense, we were getting close to the target, almost within direct line of sight.
I smirked at him. Yeah, you know what? Those tickets did get pretty stupid.
He tilted his head without looking away from the street. "You ever go there with the Missus?"
I shrugged, slicing the rest of my corner clear with my barrel before crossing the street, keeping my rifle pointed southbound as I shuffled right. Kinda. She's the one who wanted to go up at first, but the moment she saw the sticker price? She said 'Screw that, let's go get a drink.'
Foucault snorted almost inaudibly, cover my right side until we were across the intersection. Once we reached the opposite street corner, he replied quietly, "Sounds like her."
I smiled at him again, knowing he could see it on my eyes. Isn't she great?
Our target laid about a block north: a parking garage immediately north-east of the Museum of Pop Culture. In front of the garage laid a dead, charred, and scorched M1 Abrams tank in National Guard colors, its turret facing away from us. We were presently on the southeast corner of the museum.
Our persons of immediate interest weren't nearly as conscientious about the dust as we were. All up and down 5th Street were tire tracks, indicating routine travel. They'd moved in a couple of weeks back, scouting the Dock from afar. Not Luddites; unaffiliated Marine Corps deserters, five of them.
How far now? I mouthed, as I crouched beside a planter next to Foucault.
"Timer says eight minutes," he replied from behind me. He tugged my backpack's handle from behind with a finger.
I immediately understood why he implored me to move back. Bad positioning on my part; the corner hedge was concealment, not cover, which had left me open to getting cut down if spotted by the bandit posting security at the garage. Daniel Weston, by the body language.
I nodded at Foucault in thanks for the safety adjustment, keeping my eyes and rifle trained eastward at a nearby parking lot. Museum's probably full of Pony stuff, fair warning.
"I'm well aware," he growled, frowning.
He performed a tactical 180 and moved to the side entrance of the museum. I moved backwards in sync with him, following his motion into the queue line with just my ears; easy to do in the eerie urban silence. The door windows were all shattered, of course. Between all of the explosives and the vandalism, good luck finding intact windows in post-war Seattle.
We clicked on our rifle-mounted flashlights, taking great care not to step on glass as we ducked through. On the other end of the pitch-black hallway, dim light poured out down the stairs; our destination awaited above us, outdoors, on the second floor. It wasn't any better inside than outside; rock-and-roll memorabilia, science fiction trinkets, and savaged guitars littered the ground. The mask was a great help, because the museum probably smelled like burnt electronics, and unfortunately… some fouler biological odors, which we weren't going to interact with, thankfully.
The museum's attractions hadn't fared well under anarchy, clearly. For example, Leonard Nimoy, Patron Saint of Nerds... his poor mannequin lay near the entrance, dragged out of the Science Fiction section and stomped into two dozen pieces. His Star Fleet uniform was shredded with a knife, and was hardly worth looting at this point, which is why I imagine no one bothered to grab it.
Yeah, it wasn't just the Pony stuff inside the museum that had been vandalized, torn open, covered in spray paint, or shot full of holes. It was all of it. That's typical in war though, the looting or destroying of culture, as a means of controlling the opposition's access to it. It happens. Celestia did it. The Ludds did it. Everyone did it, that's human history.
You have to wonder how much we don't know about human history, as a result of book burning. Heck, before attending this Fire? What did you think you knew about the end of the world?
Something to consider, huh? The malleability of history?
At the time, I had no idea what version of destruction had led to a stomped out Star Fleet uniform. Was it wanton and indiscriminate? Or was it targeted against science, because science caused this war? Who knows, because I didn't look into everything in the rewinder. I didn't let the destruction frustrate me too much. Couldn't judge it beyond 'well, that sucks,' because I'd wager the person who did it had a bone to pick of some description.
Foucault and I continued down the dark hallway, stepping over or around the mess. As we moved, we carefully searched the ground for any potential traps or tripwires that might have made it past Mal's predictive models. At the end of the hall, we slowly made our way up the stairs, presuming nothing, looking and listening for signs of human habitation.
The sheer loudness of my mask respirations, in that darkness, seemed amplified. Underwater again. The stylistic faux pipes on the walls certainly made me feel like some sort of deep sea diver, exploring the guts of some long sunken vessel. We inched upwards. Step. Step. Step. Soft soles on a dusty floor, our movements like the soft whispers of ghosts.
The main hallway was above; a tall atrium, with a mix of dead screens and displays from various intellectual properties. More dull light spilled in from the second floor entrance. This place paid some token homage to The Fall of Asgard, the ceiling and walls painted in Nordic art style, a respect for the Norse Threat that came before the Pony Apocalypse. A giant Norse Viking statue had been toppled halfway across the lobby before us.
Loki was practically unrecognizable at this point, entirely covered in graffiti. His battle ax was... just plain missing.
When Foucault crested the stairs and cleared the left corner into the Sky Church, the thoroughfare, he halted instantly with his rifle pointed downrange. He didn’t move for a long ten seconds.
With mild concern, I asked, What is it, Michael?
Foucault soundlessly twitched with a huff, in the way that he typically did whenever he was amused. He made room for me by sidestepping once to his right. His head jerked to indicate it would be better if I looked for myself.
I peered carefully around the corner.
The Sky Church room was full of shattered Pony sculptures, piled up in the center of the room, half-scorched.
Cute. Someone had scoured the entire museum for every Pony figure they could find, blew them apart with an explosive, pushed them back together, then set them all on fire. Debris and plaster chunks were everywhere. I swept my gun's flashlight over the center of the pile to get a better look, and I was not disappointed.
A white wing, burned black. A white haunch, pastel mane and tail, sun cutie mark, same. All of Celestia laid in... a lot of pieces. Several Royal Guard sculptures laid around her, all crushed out too, almost to powder. Boot prints adorned the edges of the pile in the dust, as if everyone who had passed through this place had added their own stomps. I was really glad I couldn't smell any of that right then, be it carbon from the fire, or... other biological indiscretions.
The best part about that pile? The piece de resistance?
Right in the middle, closest to us; Celestia's gold-painted chariot had been bisected via chainsaw, exposing the wood beneath the fire-retardant gold. The chainsaw's band had apparently snapped with the effort of carving through, laying half-unspooled from the saw. Discarded amidst the wreckage, as if it were the artist's signature.
I almost chuckled aloud. Despite the destructive anarchy and chaos, the Celestia Chainsaw Massacre had gone entirely undisturbed. Seemed to come after the fire, too. Left standing as a testament to the rage of Seattle. Turns out this museum was still worth visiting after all.
Foucault exhaled slowly. "It's an honest to goodness modern art masterpiece."
Absolutely beautiful. I wanna shake that guy's hand.
I scanned the room with my rifle's light so I could observe and memorize as much detail as possible, drinking it all in. I was deeply curious about the rest of the people who had contributed to the communal destruction of this museum, and why. What their reasons were. What had hurt them, why they destroyed what they did. I wondered how many of them were still alive, and where they would end up in this round of human judgement. Alive or not.
Foucault went back to business, crossing the rest of the entrance lobby to the gift shop with a fast, smooth operator strafe, his gun covering the Sky Church. He swept backward to the counter to cover me from beside the register, crouched, and scanned outdoors to the left. I bounded past him and proceeded to the exit. More shattered glass everywhere, unavoidable but to step on it, so we crunched on through.
I scanned right, held at the corner, and listened for any sounds to my immediate left outside. I heard nothing but nature. The outside winds picked up, blowing a hot gust of ashen air into the museum, and dust clattered against my mask. Foucault merged onto my six as I cleared my left corner, seeing no threats. Together, we stepped out into the plaza outside to the kids play area, returning to the carbon-infused hell beneath a burning orange sky.
In my pre-war memory of this location, this place was a joyous hang-out for kids and families throughout the summertime. The foot of the Needle had been an active social hub with a marketplace. Some of you know what I'm talking about here; that place with the water jets, that big slide, the climbable rope netting? That kids stuff was mostly untouched by the conflict, believe it or not. Much like the chainsaw sculpture, nobody wanted to violate it with vandalism. Nothing on it worth looting.
Soldiers, deserters, Ludds, blackouts. Think about that. That's a wide group of people with all kinds of motivations.
Most people had realized, by the end of 2019, how few children there were anymore. No one in this warzone had any rational call to blame the kids for this war, as innocent as they were. Malleable, easily programmable. That's the nature of children, right? Impressionable, eager to learn, eager to please a kind, motherly type?
Less context. The very first victims of this tragedy. I had to imagine all fighters took great pains to avoid damaging this thing, and other playgrounds through the battlefield, even among the more jaded of the Ludds. There were nary more than a few bullet holes in this slide. Not likely to be intentional, probably collateral damage from some firefight.
That sheer restraint? Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. The hope I saw in that, that we could still be unified in some way, about what the real wrong was about all of this. Unfortunately, the periphery of the plaza hadn't fared quite as well, because nothing else about this nexus of commerce was what you might call innocent.
Down the left side path to the Needle, a derelict Neo-Luddite IFV pointed up the stairs, adorned with the red stencil, raised fist, and severed power cord; it also had black war stripe chevrons down the front. Some Ludd had spent a lot of time on painting that thing up. Looked very professionally done, or at least done with care.
The armored vehicle was also missing half of its 25 millimeter turret. One of its tires was detached, laid sideways on the stairs incline. Old blood stains were there too, next to some discarded, rain-rusted tools. No body, though. The guy could've easily survived, if it was a small clip. Not too much blood; the stains trailed to a cement seat to the right, where a smaller pool sat. No trail led away from the spot. Looked like they had stopped the bleed right there, meaning he probably had some friends with him, to take care of him.
No other bodies visible in line-of-sight. So, whoever had shot him had probably gotten away too.
To our right was our penultimate destination: a terrace which overlooked a roundabout that led into Harrison Street. The platform was littered with tank-blasted sandbags, the terrace blown apart down the middle, presumably from the final shot of that Abrams down below. Jesus, the battle that must have happened here, for me to be able to read it so legibly.
From this vantage, we had a perfect view into the street in front of the target garage. Most of the trees down there were dead and missing all of their leaves, meaning good visibility all around. We crouched low behind the remaining sandbags to minimize our profile, and Foucault dug into my backpack to withdraw our binoculars.
Foucault took a peek over the sandbags first, subvocalizing his observations to me. "Hundred thirty six yards. Sandbag bunker down there. Eyes on one… no. Two OPFOR. Not aware."
Not aware of us? I asked. Or not aware at all?
"Dealer's choice," he replied with a glower, offering me the binoculars so I could see what he meant.
I took my hat off and laid it beside my knee, where it wouldn't give my position away.
I looked down through the lenses at the man I knew as Private Daniel Weston. Interesting guy. Liked to play five-card stud poker, despite not being any good at it. His sergeant taught it to him.
His face was covered in dirt to break up his silhouette. He had a beanie on his head, which was as dusty as his uniform. Gas mask on his face, same; its lenses were recently wiped clean. He was bored, kicking loose chunks of cement at the side of the destroyed Abrams. They pinged and clanked loudly on impact.
I lifted my eyes from the binoculars and frowned at Foucault. Man, this is just sad.
He shrugged, stiff-lipped, maintaining eye contact. "Welcome to my life. Been watching men like this get popped since the 80s."
There was a pile of junk blocking half of the vehicle entrance of the garage; it looked like an old barricade that predated their residence. There was also an office attached to the opposite end of the structure, with one more sentry inside there, just barely visible. There was a third we couldn't see, posted in the garage's cafe, on the corner closest to us.
The tire tracks from their pickup trucks could be seen from our perch. They wrapped around the left of the entrance barricade and into the garage. Several Hesco barriers laid partially collapsed over the coffee shop entrance, their sand spilled open by tank fire, no longer blocking the door as they had been originally designed to do.
Foucault laid his hand on a sandbag, leaning forward. "Agents Bernard, we're in position."
Dax’s voice greeted us over the comm. "Confirmed. We've got eyes on."
I asked, What's the word, Dax?
"Set 8-Bravo-90 just found your footsteps."
Foucault tilted his head, looking through the building at the front of the museum, visibly tracking the movement of 8B90. "Are they still considering I-P 2-Echo... 24?"
"Negative. Full adjustment. 1-6-7 seconds to the new inflection point; 10-Delta-7."
"Received," Foucault whispered.
Thanks, Dax.
"Any time, guys. Out."
Foucault flicked his eyes up and to the left briefly, presumably to look at the mission timer. He then frowned into a professional glare, providing security, his rifle swinging downhill to guard the path up from the Needle.
I looked at the front of the garage with dire anticipation, and no small amount of concern.
Over the last months in VR, I had developed a parasocial bond with these particular bandits as they worked on a very dangerous hobby: spying on their local Ludds. And they were getting closer and closer to finding their nearest Luddite logistics base. Watching. Mapping. Triangulating.
These five bozos never stopped to consider that one of those Ludds might catch them doing this, hold fire… and spy back. And watch. And map. Triangulate. She did not like what she saw when she saw these guys operate. Did not find it appealing, the way they 'commandeered' resources from travelers.
And here came the consequences. One-six-seven seconds after Dax's report, I observed eight human beings coming down Harrison Street. A flash of red on each shoulder.
Neo-Luddite scouts.
And there she was. Leading the pack.
To see Eliza again was… an electric jolt to the soul.
First; I felt relief, to verify with my own eyes that she was in one piece.
Second; regret. Hard to suppress that impulse, even knowing the full story.
Eliza looked healthy, at least. Her dark hair was tied back and cut short, and in good condition. She wore dark gray military fatigues, and a black gaiter to keep the dust out. The dark gray fatigues would let her blend into the shadows in structure windows. Well thought accoutrement, if grim.
Her high caliber M1A was meticulously accurized with a long barrel; the rifle was a magazine fed variant of her old Garand. It had a green padded cheek rest on the stock, and a muzzle brake to keep the recoil low. Scary thing, that gun.
I felt a very unexpected bloom of anger. Mentally, I was right back in that upload clinic in Sedro, roaring at Celestia for what she had done to my friend, and to her family, and to me. And to my planet. My pulse rate was climbing; I was nearly in fight-or-flight out of sheer rage. I took a deep, deep breath to calm myself, and let it out slow. Then another.
Foucault heard my box breathing. I heard him turn to look at me.
"Fuckin' optimizer," I breathed darkly through grit teeth, shaking my head to tell him I was okay.
"Yeah," he rasped in agreement, returning to his vigil.
Eliza shouldered her rifle to observe the garage through her scope. Before her eye reached the lens, I lowered my head beneath cover, beginning a slow ten-count. She 'knew' that two 'independents' had recently entered the museum, but she had no choice but to commit to her operation. If she were to leave, the bandits would find her team's military boot tracks, and they'd relocate again.
Her environmental scans never took long. Hunter instinct. She either saw something, or she didn't. When I looked back up, Eliza was crouched, facing away from us. She had placed the butt of her rifle against her boot as she crouched behind a burnt police car. She began to address and brief her people, who were already crouched in a semi-circle around her.
Given how reflexive their positioning was, they'd done field briefings with her like this before. She gestured at each in turn as she explained a plan. She even used some of those hand signals she invented for long distance line of sight stuff in Concrete, to reduce how much she had to speak.
In-group encryption. The way of the whole world, now.
Andy was there, closest to her. Brown hair. Camo gaiter mask. It was good to see he was healthy too, and still with her. Andy listened to Eliza with rapt attention, looking past her shoulder; dutifully keeping watch on the street behind her while she worked on instructions, literally watching her back, although he was a bit too far to see me there, as still as I was. I was pretty sure he'd kill me given half an opportunity, knowing how badly I had hurt her. Fair, honestly.
He really did love her. He did.
Two other Ludds there looked familiar; staff from Lower Baker Dam. Sam, the security guy. And Gus, the plant engineer.
Sam looked less complacent now than he was when I met him, having learned his lesson about letting his guard down. He was sharply scanning their six, glancing forward at Eliza whenever she addressed him. Gus, being older and more life experienced, just seemed concerned about the upcoming violence, but… otherwise, he seemed ready. He drank liquid from a squeeze tube as Eliza iterated their plan.
When done, Eliza tilted her head at them in question, swept her finger around at all of them, and the group nodded at her in agreement. They stood up and immediately filed into two stacks; Eliza led one, Andy led the other.
By their uniformity, I could tell that Eliza and Andy had been giving the others some close quarters SWAT training. And of course, this being the Needle, Eliza had probably been here before too, and knew the garage from memory as I did. Now that Eliza was one of two executive officers of Isaiah's Riders, she had the clout to drill for this exact assault for days. And she had. Laid boards in a field and ran it with empty rifles, just like SWAT.
They moved toward the parking garage at a brisk clip. Sam stopped short before the building proper, holding the corner to cover the back alley where I couldn't see. Another fighter joined him, proning out beside him. This position would ensure the group would not be flanked from the emergency exits once the bandits responded.
As soon as Sam was in position, Eliza shouldered her rifle, and moved up. She turned the corner, making visual contact with the sentry. And with a chilling lack of hesitation… Eliza put three bullets into Daniel's chest, penetrating his armor and killing him instantly.
I stopped breathing, and blinked twice.
Shit, Dan...
At least it was quick.
Andy and his one squadmate took off, sprinting toward hard cover, skittering to a stop behind the burnt out Abrams. The second sentry gave his position away by opening fire at Andy from the office, the muzzle flash originating from the dark void; he probably thought Andy's group had been the source of the initial shooting.
Bait and switch. Good call.
Eliza pulled the pin on a frag grenade, chucking it through a broken window into the garage office. She then wheeled away from the opening, using the cinderblock wall of the building as cover. The grenade went off with a wham, casting enough directed plume that I could feel the tail end of wind from the concussion a few seconds later. Eliza staggered sideways a step, already screaming the order as she got her rifle back up. "Pour it on!"
All six of the main force dumped rounds into the building. Obscured by the dust of that fresh explosive mess, Andy had bounded again, pushing up to the cafe entrance under their covering fire. His Luddite squadmate stayed anchored to their previous cover behind the tank, perfectly locking down the right side office with suppression.
Andy pulled a grenade of his own, chucking it over the Hesco barrier into the cafe. I saw a bright, rolling flash of light – a nine-bang, good call, disorient them. He waited a few seconds for the effects to wear off, and then he whipped in a frag right after. It thumped hard, sending dust everywhere, like disturbing the ground in a cloudy pool. The deserters inside must have been dazed by all of that. Loud explosions and parking garages do not mix well for human ears.
Andy and his squadmate pushed into the cafe; Eliza pushed into the center of the garage, and two other fighters followed her in. Gus hit the office with his own buddy. Sam held the rear with the last guy. I saw a flash of automatic fire from Gus's AR-15 inside the office; immediately afterward, I saw Sam open fire into the back alley, catching a fleeing soldier as he tumbled out via emergency exit. As expected.
Another minute of call-and-answer gunfire raged inside, but I couldn't see any of them anymore. Started 8 to 5, it was 8 to 2 now. That wide base of fire from Eliza's squad would make it impossible for Sergeant Hardt to send effective return fire, or to even retreat. Still, I looked on with tension and dread that the defenders might pull a grenade. I knew they had a few.
No... Ajit's the grenadier, he's dead now, wouldn't be Ian.
Another few minutes passed like that as I stared, trying to tamp down my concern by reminding myself that Mal would have warned me if there was a chance Eliza or her people might die.
Two final, roaring shots.
Then... total silence.
Minutes passed with no new information.
Eliza walked out the front door first, looking exhausted. She had her rifle in her hands. She moved slowly toward Daniel, the first man she had killed. She looked emotionally stunned. Andy followed her and crouched beside her. Hand on her back.
Eliza checked his tags, but did not take them. She swiftly searched his pouches and pockets, and had even unzipped his carrier rig on both sides to look for notes tucked into his plate sleeves. Nothing. Once finished, she drew in a deep breath, and then she let it out slow. Staring at the building across the street. Box breathing, just like I taught her. If she was doing that, she was hurting. Same reason I do it.
Andy watched the street from behind the sandbags.
I understood what was going through her head, I think. I too often wondered where people would've ended up if Celestia hadn't come along. Had to be all she could think about, after after that graveyard confession. Celestia flat out told her, admitted to Eliza, that she could and often did simulate the future, and with frightening accuracy. Worse, she couldn't even tell her Luddite companions this epiphany. It wasn't very… healthy, among their kind, to admit to having spoken with Celestia in private. Nor was the knowledge that she played the game at all, for long as she had.
No, those were secrets her people kept very carefully from their new Luddite friends. So she kept the knowledge secret with Andy, that the AI would frequently plan violence using reflexed agents. My betrayal had damaged her too, no doubt; she had to be wondering who might turn on her next, out of reflex. Or when her own time was up, by Celestia's math.
Did she kill the right ones this time? The ones Celestia wanted her to kill?
Or… was the bullet coming? Would she be the next soul taken, for daring to stray too far? To kill too many?
Why not find out now, if everything is predetermined?
Why not go outside… bare your neck, like a deer before God… and find out?
I was clenching my teeth so hard in rage that I thought they were going to crack. Held my breath, for fear that I might make a sound.
Eliza's troops gathered around the entrance with her, done with their intel search. Andy said something to her. Eliza's eyes wandered to the museum building's wall, then up the street toward the footsteps we'd left at the entrance. Two sets of civilian footprints, not military boots. They wouldn't test eight Ludds. Simple math.
My intuition told me she'd look up here next, to the position she'd first scouted this place from. I ducked down and stayed that way for about twenty more seconds until I heard all their boots jogging off, echoing down the road. I looked up. All eight were off to the horses they stashed six blocks down.
They sanitized the site, collecting maps and notes from the bandits. Left all the guns and food, that's just extra weight and would slow them down. and they didn't want to stay a second longer than necessary. This raid was not about resources, not in the slightest.
My primary frustration here?
Eliza was just outside of the operational set for Athena's Grace. Not modified enough by our intrusion to qualify for black box status, and too... ideologically... caustic, at the time. This was the closest we could get, at present. Maddening. But again... if Celestia says no, because she has bigger plans, then Mal and the rest of us needed to back off. It is what it is. Never comfortable when Caesar draws a line in the sand and says 'don't cross.' It's always a friggin' challenge.
Foucault had us wait for a minute longer in silence before he took the binoculars from me and pushed them into my backpack. With his other hand, he withdrew my combat boots with one hand and gave them to me.
"Your friend is good at that," he said verbally, now that the coast was clear.
I tilted my head in concession, putting my hat back on. "She's like me. If she's protecting her people, say a prayer for anyone who gets in her way."
With a sigh, I sat down and switched into my boots. I tied the laces of my nice black Sketchers and chucked them up onto an overflowing trash bin lid, for recovery by some other scavengers out there, hopefully. Only worn once. Enjoy.
We approached the scene in the parking garage and surveyed the damage. I needed to immerse myself in the scene; to live in it, mentally, for a few minutes; to imagine what it might've felt like, sounded like, smelled like, as if I had been there for days. I would become this person I was dressed as. This… Lance Corporal Miguel Ramirez – dogtag included around my neck. He had always lived amongst these men. Had always been their friend. Had fought alongside them in Portland. Had bled with them. Had gone rogue with them at Vashon. Second in command.
I'd watched them communicate. Immersed myself in their life. Judged their behavior, mirrored them. I was the man in the gas mask, who had always shot first. I didn't particularly agree with their lifestyle choice, of violence, and banditry. Of stealing from blackouts at gunpoint, just because they could. High fiving Death in passing, normalizing his presence. Thinking they'd always be his friend, for having guns, and exercising overwhelming force of action against the unarmed.
But... they were human.
First down; Daniel Weston, three rounds to the torso, aimed deliberately at the upper left pectoral, to knock out his heart. He probably didn't even have the time to realize he was dead, a blessing. His dogtag was still laying across his armor where Eliza had left it, visible to the sky, for all to see. I didn't disturb him to investigate further, he'd been through enough for one life.
Second: Private Arnold Freeman. While in cover in the office, he took shrapnel to his arm from the first frag grenade, the one Eliza had thrown. Spatter on the wall near cover, and a trail that led to a cubicle in the back. It looked like he'd panicked after the injury, and disengaged. There, he tried to get a tourniquet on, but couldn't get a good grip on it before Gus pushed up on him. With nowhere else to go, Arnold went out the side door, still clutching his tourniquet, where Sam put more than six rounds to his side and back, aimed low at the pelvis and legs. No body armor there. Arnold didn't suffer long, people usually lose consciousness after a few rounds like that. Shock took him... then, the long quiet.
Private Ajit Keer was guarding the cafe. Seemed to have been struck by several shards of shrapnel to the face. Dead almost instantly. Again, a blessing. I found him laying on his back behind the cafe counter, clutching his own neck, probably thinking that's where he'd been hit. My guess at the time? Ajit had been half-deafened by the flashbang. When it was done, he peeked up from cover, and completely missed the sound of the grenade rolling in, for his deafness. Boom. Didn’t suffer at all, died deaf and half-blind. Not the worst way to go.
The last two men were dead around a folding table by their two civilian pickup trucks; Private Rodrick Foster, and Sergeant Ian Hardt, their leader.
While in cover, Rod caught a round to the far shoulder from a low caliber rifle; two more hits to the side as he peeked around the bed of his truck to return fire. Shell casings indicated he managed to hold his own for at least one magazine, but without much accuracy. The pattern of bullet holes on the cement walls by the entrance indicated he had blind-fired most of it until someone got an angle on him. Couldn't have been Eliza who killed him; there would be slightly more damage from that marksman rifle.Didn't look like Rodrick would've been able to reload after his shoulder got hit, so when his gun ran empty, that was that. Torso strikes, center mass, dead.
Andy did that. As a cop, he had the most formal training with that M16.
The sergeant, Ian… he had it the worst. The last to go. Died behind cover, sitting against a truck tire. Lived long enough to see his crew die, to see the status quo of his life dissolve into nothing, and to know it was over. The two terminal GSWs were aimed downward, high caliber. Swift end. As I checked his tags, I noticed he had tried to tourniquet his own thigh, but it wasn't very well applied. There was blood on his sidearm holster from when he ditched the tourniquet, trying and failing to get his gun clear.
Eliza had rounded the hood and blew him away before he could get his Beretta clear.
Mechanism of the leg injury? Andy's frag, in the cafe.
Shrapnel. No exit wound, small entrance, arterial bleed. A bright red trail led to his final position. Blood on his wrist and elbow from coughing; he probably caught some concussion damage to the lungs. An x-ray of him would have looked bright white, even before the bullets. Eliza didn't let him suffer any longer than he had to. Nothing personal. He just had an infohazard in his head. He knew where her home was, approximately. Not a safe thing to know if you are her enemy.
His pockets were all open like the others, and empty. Their trucks were open. Glove boxes too, papers strewn everywhere by the passenger sides. Keys in the ignition. The key-in beep was repeating from the dash, over and over, echoing through the garage.
Once I was done looking Ian over, I looked over at the folding table. There was a square, undusted section where their region map had been. Some minor blood speckle on the table, with a clean spot in the middle. No point to killing these guys if someone else could just inherit their research, after all. It's why she had to get these guys at home, she couldn't just snipe them out in the field.
I put my hands on Ian's bloody injury, ratcheting the tourniquet down fully with my knees pressed against his thigh, to generate evidence of my attempts to save his life. As soon as I got the tourniquet secure, I let another sigh out to settle my nerves, looking up at Foucault.
He looked down at me, appraising me neutrally.
I asked, "You ever do this ploy before? The whole 'shadow jackal' thing?"
"Not to this scale. But it's either this, or Simmons starts up on the Luddites. Frankly, I'd rather take the credit."
"Same." I nodded sideways in concession, shrugging, applying pressure to the dead man's wound. "We sure they heard the gunfire?"
"They did," he confirmed. "We have two minutes. You remember this sim?"
"Yeah."
"You sure? Last chance to talk about it."
I nodded my head. "I'm good."
A few seconds passed as I held eye contact with Foucault, trying to decide on parting words. He reached up to his mask and pulled it off with one hand, tossing it aside like he didn't need it anymore. Then he pulled his rifle back into his hands from its sling.
The corner of his mouth tensed in thought as he looked down at me again. "One final advisement from Lewis."
"Yeah?" I reached for my earpiece carefully with my bloody glove.
Mal's voice. "After leaving quarantine, you'll have been in Yellow Extrapolative for approximately three weeks. My simulation of your internal monologue will be much lower fidelity as a result, and I'd rather not extrapolate your intent if it pertains to your safety."
I considered that for a moment. "So… if I want an early extraction?"
"Be overt. Tell your guards you want out early. It'll be as legible to me as a signal flare."
I nodded. "Got it."
I heard a small smile on her voice. "Make some hope, Cowboy. See you when it's done."
Foucault held out his hand. I gave him my earpiece, and he pocketed it. I could see the corners of his mouth tense as he shifted into character; he withdrew his own clean Bluetooth, and slotted it into his right ear, where it would be visible from the entrance; then, he reached forward, removing my hat and placing it on the hood of the Tacoma, so I wouldn't have to remove it with the blood on my hands.
"Don't forget," Foucault growled. "When you step indoors? At all? Take that hat off. Very important reflex, military guys pay attention to that."
"Got it."
I knew what was coming next. I covered up both ears with my wrists.
With his rifle, Foucault pumped several bullets into the hood of the pickup.
He shouted down at me. We entered the scene we'd drilled.
"What kind of man do you want to be, Corporal Ramirez?! Now that you are free?"
"You… what?!" I spluttered, as if that made zero sense to me.
Outside, Lieutenant Jules Dresden's squad was stacking up to storm the structure. Fox and Dax were observing them; Foucault would know when to move.
"Here's your off ramp, Corporal! A second chance! Or is it a third? Because you should be dead too, shouldn't you?”
I swept both of my bloody hands out wide, presenting them in bewildered surrender. I let some of my Nebraskan accent bleed into my voice. I tore off my mask to project my voice clear and loud, so that everyone outside could hear my sobbing rage. "What the fuck do you even want from me, man?! I don't even know who the fuck you are, you asshole!"
There was motion to my left. Lieutenant Dresden himself was peeking the corner. He could absolutely see Michael's earpiece. That was probably throwing him most, out of anything else in this space, which is probably why he didn't open up shooting right away.
The old spy sneered down at me. "Agent Michael Foucault. Department of Homeland Security." Foucault then snapped his head swiftly to his left, making unexpected eye contact with Dresden from across the parking garage, bellowing. "And you are?"
It happened so fast that Dresden had frozen up; I could almost hear the man shitting a brick.
Two distant gunshots outside, as Fox and Dax dropped two of the men appended to Dresden's squad.
Michael kicked my shoulder hard to stun me, so I couldn't draw my gun. Ow, very ow. Then he yanked his rifle up sideways, one-handed; he stepped back behind the truck and fired once through the driver side window, shattering it before diving down. Barely missed Dresden head.
I heard the deafening crack of a shot in return fire toward Michael from the entrance. I threw myself down onto the ground, crawling away from Ian's body until the second truck was between me and everyone else.
I covered my head, seeing nothing but darkness as I pressed my face to the floor, making myself non-threatening, trying to look like one of the bloodied corpses. I pulled my undershirt up to my mouth to keep the dust out of my lungs, and then I just breathed slow to keep my adrenaline down. My elbows pressed against my ears to protect my hearing as hell made itself known around me.
I heard gunfire, shouting, boots storming the place. Michael deployed a smoke grenade, threw a flashbang into the air. He fired several times; I heard someone in the garage skitter to a slide across the dust, yelping in pain, or panic, or both. Bullets poured at Foucault through a growing veil of grenade smoke. The soldiers pushed up to me, then past me; in their haste to escape the snipers outside, they pressed a sudden numerical advantage.
That destroyed all of the footprints left by Eliza and her people.
Without a hitch, a perfect execution. The perpetrator of this battle had been inexorably changed.
Without warning, I felt a hand yank yard on my backpack strap, dragging me around the truck through the cement dust. Every little grain and granule acted as a wheel, gliding me along. I let myself be carried without protest. When my 'rescuer' got me around the truck, my legs whipped out in a fishtail, my whole body sliding sideways before being pulled behind the opposite tire. I groaned in discomfort, and looked up, and made eye contact.
U.S. Army National Guard, Lieutenant Julian 'Coyote' Dresden, 303rd Calvary. Balding auburn hair, slicked back. Gas mask. He shouted over the gunfire, drawing close to me, nodding at my sidearm. "Do I need to worry about you?!"
I shook my head wildly. "Hell no man, you just saved my life!"
He nodded, but he kept his gun pointed vaguely toward me. He was guarding me, to make sure I didn't try to flee. I just put my face down against the ground again and covered my head so Dresden wouldn’t worry about that. The gunfire had progressed outdoors by then; Dresden's men were chasing that shapeshifting bogeyman back out into the city, where he'd disappear like a ghost.
Have fun out there, Michael.
When the dust literally settled, the Dock troopers let me put my mask back on.
I stared at the blood on my hands for a bit, cradling them between my knees. I sat with my back against the bullet-riddled front bumper of the Ford Ranger, zoned out, hoping Eliza would be okay while the soldiers investigated the scene. To get my attention, Dresden knocked on the hood twice. I met his eyes; I must have looked tired. We held that gaze for a few moments. He reached for my hat and grasped it in a clean gloved palm.
"Yours? His?"
I nodded weakly. "That's mine."
He held it out to me; I lifted both hands to refuse, showing the blood. Dresden shrugged, returning the hat to the hood.
"I have several questions," he said quietly, as his men searched the garage. "As you might guess."
Again, I nodded. My tone was on the edge of complete exhaustion. "Sure."
"For starters," Dresden replied, crouching down onto a knee to bring himself to my level. "The hell are you boys doing out here, in spitting distance of our base? You didn't bother to say hi?"
Without looking at him, I extended my thumb, like I was beginning a count. I let my eyes flick to his. "First… Are you killing me?"
Dresden side-eyed me, his head turning, as if wondering why that might be my first concern. "No reason to, so far."
'So far.' That was honest, given the anarchy.
I tensed a corner of my mouth in thought; Lance Corporal Miguel Ramirez was wondering if he should trust this man. I had to make Dresden work for my help, so I rocked my head left and right in consideration. "I don't even know anything about you guys, really. If I tell you what you want to know, you might just—"
He interrupted me with a placating bob of his gloved hand. "Look. Lieutenant Jules Dresden. 4th Psyops. Technically, we've deserted, but… yes. We live on Harbor Island, just up the way."
He extended his hand to shake.
I looked at it and raised mine in presentation again. "It's got blood."
Dresden shook his head. "I've got gloves, I'll still shake it."
Tentatively, I shook his hand. "Lance Corporal Miguel Ramirez. 15th Marines, part of the, uh... M-E-U, sent to hunt that nuke. Deserted, right when we landed here. And… homeless now. I guess."
The Lieutenant's brows raised inquisitively. Me being part of the nuclear hunt team, deployed from the assault ships, was the most interesting thing he'd ever heard in a while. But he did not address that curiosity; there would be time enough later. No, better to not label that connection aloud, lest someone else realize I was worth a pretty penny.
This guy was so hooked and cooked already.
Dresden deflected away from that topic entirely. "And you chose to live… under the Needle."
I breathed out slowly with a shake of my head. "We've been hunting Amish out here. Been… triangulating. Hoping to find that base of theirs."
"And do what with that information?" Dresden asked, leaning forward, bracing his elbow. He looked around briefly, his eyes landing on the folding table where the large clean space was among the dust. He was curious now. "What could the six of you do against a Luddite base?"
He had counted the dead before talking to me.
"Recruitment," I muttered. "Plan was… find the Ludds. Rabble-rouse some blackouts, maybe find other deserters to work with. You guys, hopefully. Run a raid, split the loot. Buy our way into your base, maybe, with the intel."
Dresden contemplated that for sensibility, then nodded. "That was a good instinct. How'd you know we'd be willing to pay for it?"
I shot him a bewildered glance. Remember, he was interrogating Ramirez here while he was grieving fallen brothers. That was highly inappropriate. Non-verbally, I tried to politely demonstrate he was crowding me. His expression didn't even change. He just kept on that mask of… mildly concerned neutrality. The kind of thing I might have done to a suspect who was about to confess to a poach, under different circumstances.
My glance of bewilderment didn't even change his behavior. He was still banking on me producing free information, so he wasn't interrupting me. The difference between a detective with functional empathy, and one with broken empathy. In his place, I'd have labeled and acknowledged the look I just gave him in some fashion. I wouldn't have ignored that glance entirely like it was inconsequential.
No, he was cranking me like a lever. Waiting for the slot machine to pay out. With a defeated sigh of disappointment at that, I nodded upward to the south. "Travelers on the road, said you guys were trading craft goods for intel. Sometimes food, if it's good enough."
"Travelers?"
"Some…" I waved an open palm toward my jaw, envisioning Coffee, completely at random. "Scraggly guy. Mop brown hair, stubble, hyper-caffeinated type. Traveling south from Seattle, said he stopped at the gate. You know him?"
"Mm-mm," Dresden declined, shaking his head. "We do get a lot of guys like that though, weirdos. You heard right about us buying intel, Marine. Any luck finding those Ludds?"
Again. Complete disregard for the dead men around me. If it were me in his boots? I'd be labeling that. Maybe relocating Ramirez, or saving this interrogation for later. Not grilling him right next to a corpse of his friend and sergeant.
I kept character, stayed in 'dazed grieving' mode, like I was too spun to really process how he was acting; I had gone back to flashbacks and stress, where I was more vulnerable and malleable.
Ooh, I was fuckin' pissed, though. I was gonna rub his nose in it a little bit, see if he'd finally label the dead.
I shrugged, nodding at the table. "We had a map, but that… guy, he took it. So I guess, we've got nothing n… now." I shuddered, gesturing around the garage without looking, my face screwing up. "Dan's dead, Ian's dead… Ajit's…"
I trailed off and sighed, letting my head hang limp.
"Everyone's… fuckin'…"
Dresden took a knee next to me, trying to regain eye contact. I could hear his frown. "You're not dead."
I finally made eye contact with him, then chuckled ironically. "Aren't I? What do you guys even want from me? What good am I but a bullet to the head, huh?"
"You're not dead," Dresden said, frowning. "You think we're killing you? Shit, son, we don't do that to brothers. Marines, Army, don't matter now, we're all running from something. Hey... if you've got intel we don't have, we'll even pay you for it. We're fair."
My mouth opened; my brow furrowed; my confused response caught in my throat.
"Pay…?"
As if in answer to my question, there was a loud clang to my left. One of Dresden's men was digging through a crate, searching for food. I looked over at him with a dismal slowness; Corporal Ramirez would know that there were emergency ration blocks in that crate, so would be immediately distraught as he made the connection that he was about to lose it all. The single soldier at the crate looked around for witnesses among his squadmates. Two were looking.
He found the food.
The race was on.
That first soldier rapidly slung his rifle onto his back, yanking his backpack forward over his chest. He desperately dug into the crate and started shoveling e-rations into his bag as fast as he could. The other two soldiers zipped over there, clawing into the crate, desperately racing each other to fill their bags with the highest calorie stuff. They were just barely not shouldering each other off while competing for space, not getting overtly physical, held back from shoving only by the fear that their masks might slip if they get into a real scuffle. That would mean quarantine.
I raised my chin like I was going to say something to them, then I did a half-double-take toward Dresden, my eyes flashing to his rank insignia on his chest. I froze, my eyes wide. "Please don't let me starve out here, sir, Lieutenant, please. If nothing else, that's all I ask, just a few days of food, please."
Dresden held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked up at the men, raising his voice. "Guys."
They all stopped immediately and turned to look at him, keeping their hands in place.
"Leave twenty."
The men all glanced at each other like that was ridiculous.
"Twenty?!" one of them asked.
"Twenty," Dresden replied. "And don't argue." He looked slowly back to me. "Your cut. Your pay, for what you've told me so far."
I tilted my head at him, because that would have been completely nonsensical to someone outside their social group. "Twenty what?"
"Thousand calories. I'll explain once we're done here," Dresden assured, bobbing a hand at me again. "With the real question I have for you."
"The man in the coat," I said immediately, frowning, my face screwing up. Finally, getting to the topic Ramirez really wanted to talk about.
Dresden nodded, accepting my apparent rage. "The man in the coat. You know about him?"
My eye contact sustained itself for several long, awkward seconds. I trembled. "No, but he seemed to know us."
Dresden tilted his head in question.
"He knew things about us," I continued, almost a growl. "Things about me. Things I haven't told—He—"
My breath caught. I stopped talking, and considered the middle distance. Lowered my masked face to my hand, then ran a hand through my hair, clutching the back of my head. Felt regret that I got blood in my hair, but that was to character.
I looked up suddenly. Eye contact with Dresden, my eyes widening in hope. "Did you get him? Is he dead?—Please tell me he's—"
Dresden shook his head slowly. I trailed off.
"No," he muttered. "We did not."
Again, I gestured at Ian's body with an agitated flick of my hand, held it in place, and then slammed my fist into my knee, my voice getting tight. "Mother… fucker… I'm so sorry."
A relative silence spanned as Dresden just stared at me, watching me zone out into the space between my boots. He was trying to figure out how to best open the topic about our mutual mysterious stranger without further agitating me.
When I looked at him again, I put severe hurt and confusion into my face. "How did he get all of us by himself? Alone?! That's not possible, how?"
"I don't know," Dresden said softly, holding up a hand. "I don't—"
I carried on like he hadn't said anything, like I was talking to myself. I bladed my hand out to the garage entrance. Having watched and experienced this firefight myself several times in VR, I simply retold the replay.
"Is that guy even human? We just… we shot at him, but… none of us could hit him. He was moving like… water. Like, we… we were shooting at him, but he was never where our guns were pointing. Went from…" I pointed across the garage, gesturing the narrative. "From the office, back to the cafe, back to the front door. Back to the office again, up through the cars, car-to-car. It was like fighting a fuckin' nightmare!"
I was breathing harder now. Closed my eyes, focused on the memory of Foucault being an out-and-out ninja in sims, moving like Coffee could. I shook my head at the apparition against my eyelids, grimacing again as I remembered looking up at him with his rifle jammed against my chest.
Dresden tapped my shoulder with his fist to bring me back to reality.
"He wasn't alone," Dresden said. "It was a trick."
We met eyes again.
"Bullshit," I gasped. "Where the hell were they, all I saw was him?"
"I have two men dead outside," Dresden said coldly. "He had help. Snipers."
And now I had a common bone to pick with these guys.
I shook my head in disbelief. "That man… he was not a Luddite." I leaned towards him, my voice raising, looking like I wanted to grab his collar, but decided better of it. "Do you hear me? That wasn't... a friggin' Ludd." I jabbed a finger at my ear. "He was wearing a friggin' Bluetooth—"
"I know," Dresden interrupted, holding up a hand in a 'calm' gesture. "And honestly, that concerns me too. So why don't we start from the beginning? Why was he talking to you? What did he want?"
I threw my shoulders up and looked around the room, riding high on my increasing panic. Cringed, again drawing from my sim training of this same firefight. "I… I don't know! He was crazy! He said something about… Judgment Day, about… murderers getting what they deserve. About… He's insane!"
"But... competent?" Dresden offered, his voice sobering somewhat.
"So?!" I let my head fall forward, catching my mask with my hands, then wringing my hands over the mask as I ranted some more. "He friggin'... I had Ian's leg, I had it. Was stopping the bleed, it was… he was… we were gonna make it." I threw a hand forward in frustration, grimacing. "Ian would make it, at least. Then that psycho walked up and just shot him in the neck, blew him half apart. Just ended him, then said a bunch of stuff about... free will, and how we were using it wrong, and he just—"
I felt Dresden's hand grasp my shoulder. Again, his voice was soft. "Corporal. Corporal, look at me."
I looked up again. Our eyes met.
"I'm very, very sorry your guys are gone. We're all about removing threats out here, Corporal, so you can come back with us if you'd like. I'm sure my Major would love to discuss the Ludds with you. Would be nice to pool our spot maps, if there's any intel you can remember. And… we can track this guy who hit you. With your help. Recruit you too. Best part about our base, we could always use new hands to dig around Seattle with."
Like he was my new best friend. Offering me the world, like he cared about me.
For a few moments, I didn't say anything. My eyes drifted back to the crate, where the soldiers were sitting there comparing rations out of their personal bags... trading for preferred flavors of MREs, of equivalent caloric value. Mixing and matching with each other. Like they weren't presiding over a… a bloody mess. Picking at the corpse of it like coyotes.
"If you want to walk instead," Dresden assured me, "We're leaving you twenty-K in calories. More in payment if you help us though, food for honest work, and a big safe base to live in. No pressure."
With several rapid blinks, I lost myself in the middle distance again.
There was no way he'd actually let me leave. But… a false peace was preferable to him having to take me prisoner to interrogate me. Cops did this too, and I've talked about this before. Even if we had probable cause to believe a crime had occurred, which gave us the right to seize something or someone without permission, we'd still ask anyway, because consent is a layer of legitimacy. You might as well try to acquire consent if you can, things go much safer that way.
Corporal Ramirez couldn't say no to being safe. He was alone; he had a bone to pick with 'Agent Michael Foucault, Department of Homeland Security,' whoever the fuck that was. And last but not least, Ramirez wanted to kill and steal from Ludds, which fit in perfectly with Dresden's own value set. For now.
Might as well hold onto me, then. After all, how much damage could be done by a lone, emotionally broken Marine?
What does history say about lonely Marines who had cracked, who had hit their limit?
Didn't these guys know their history? No. No, apparently they did not.
After a pause of consideration, I crunched the calculus on Ramirez's survival chances alone if he said no to this guy. After a moment, I looked hopefully up at Dresden: "Can I keep my things? You're not taking all of my stuff, are you? My friends' things? These guys were… they were my..."
I trailed off again. I was giving Dresden one final chance to address the dead in a respectful way, without being prompted.
Dresden nodded, patting my shoulder. "Take your pick of the rest, son. Whatever you can carry on your person… that's all yours, that's the 'carry-back' rule." His eyes flicked up to my hat on the hood. "Starting with that. And if any of my guys have something of yours, or of your friends, let me know. I'll talk to them about it."
There it was. He meant that. Instrumental as it was, there it was.
Dresden reached into his cargo pocket of his pants with his clean hand, withdrawing a rag and offering it to me. I used it to wipe the blood off my hands; somewhat difficult, given the blood was half dried by cement dust. Dresden noted this, withdrew his canteen, and poured it across the top of my hands. I turned the rag red by wiping my hands down again, grainy and gritty with powder.
I kept looking at Ian, at his leg.
In truth… Ian Hardt was, as we found him... a bastard. Everything I'd seen of him in recent simulations told me he had become unempathetic, cruel, bitter. The way he fantasized about jumping his fellow humans, unprovoked on the road… the way he jabbed guns in the face of blackouts… that one guy he'd just shot, outright, unprovoked, just for the privilege of searching him... it just cut me up inside. Guy was doing that real bandit shit.
My father, a retired staff sergeant, would have been sickened by this Marine, as we had found him.
But still, as always, I had to wonder what kind of person Ian was before the gravity well switched on. I had to wonder how much of his life was reflexed. How far had he been value drifted since that cold Berlin day in 2012? Who loved him, back when? A lot can change about a person in eight years. I wondered if Ian Hardt, like Eliza Douglas, had been one of Celestia's planned losers, a good soul corrupted by a heartless machine, or... if Hardt was just a Darren Carter asshole from the start, a prick well prior, retained by the algorithm for his brutal utility?
I guess I have forever to find out, when this is all over.
Once my hands were cleaner, I nodded at Dresden with thanks. I rolled over onto my knees, stood, shambled a few steps, and knelt next to Ian. I was silent for a long time, as I put my hand on his shoulder. Either way, I'd make the death mean something, stow my opinions, and just do the job right. Like I always had, and like I always would.
"See you, Sarge." My voice broke. I got really quiet. "I'm sorry this happened. Thanks… for… training me for... a day like this."
I stood. Brushed my hands on my pants to get them as dry as I could; ran them through the dust on the hood to collect a drying layer; reached for my hat. I took in a deep, shaking breath. I set my hat on my head. And I turned, giving Dresden a worried look as I gestured at their bodies.
"Are we… are we gonna bury them?"
A memory, from the rewinder. Verified verbally by Aaron Fanning at our briefing.
Devil's Tower. After the battle.
Private Aaron Fanning approached Lieutenant Julian Dresden. Dresden had an entrenching tool in hand, storming furiously across the camp courtyard. Aaron could barely see, his glasses all smashed up from when he fell down the embankment by the lake. Stepping up to Dresden, he said, in a trembling voice:
"S… Sir…? You know not all of these Ludds were wearing uniforms."
Dresden rounded on him sharply.
"Your point, Private Fanning?"
"That one…" Aaron pointed at Eunice Murphy's body, trying not to cry. "Sh—she's like, seventy years old, L-T. We're not—not gonna bury her too, at least?"
The lieutenant did a double-take between Aaron and Eunice, then pointed at the hunting rifle at her side. "... They were just shooting at you, Private! Why should it matter how old they were?"
"Sir, I lived—... I think I've probably met this old woman, I lived, just… twenty minutes down the road, from this—"
Dresden's face stuttered, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He glanced over his shoulder at a soldier's body laying by the side of the road. He scowled. "Yeah? And do you think she gave a fuck about where Matthews was from? Do you think she'd have buried you, if you ended up like that? Throat pulled out?"
"I—"
Dresden took the folded shovel in his hand and thrust it sidelong into Aaron's armor. Hard. Staggered him back.
"Here. You want to dig a grave for someone? Dig for Reese, damn you! Dig for Henderson! Bury both of them first, nice and deep, a full six feet down! Then we can talk about whether these terrorists deserve any free labor out of us! Out of you, specifically!"
Dresden nodded at me thoughtfully, glancing at Ian's corpse. "You considered them family?"
"Yeah." I nodded rapidly, hopeful for him to say yes. My face screwed up. "Yeah—yessir, they…" I winced downward, for the truth of it. "They were family. God damned machine took my family away from me again."
I hung my head. Closed my eyes. I heard a soldier walk up behind Dresden to the truck's passenger side. Heard that soldier digging around in the glove box, and under the seats, looking for anything valuable. Heard him turn the key in the ignition to silence the door-open, key-in alarm.
All I could hear was Dresden's voice.
"We'll see them off properly, Ramirez. Viking funeral, it's the best we can do these days."
I was going to make myself very useful to First Lieutenant Julian 'Coyote' Dresden. Very useful indeed.
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Chilling to see the bloody theater at work to install Mike where he needs to be, to say nothing of the heartbreak of being within earshot of Eliza and not being able to do anything for her. And Celestia isn't done wringing her out to dry just yet...
Looking forward to seeing how hope comes to Harbor Island, and how some may mistake it for doom.
Yeesh, poor Eliza... If I remember correctly she won't ever see Mike while in meatspace, would she?
"Imagine the aftermath of the Twin Towers, but everywhere. Who's to say every building was built to code, or didn't have any harmful products in its construction?
Remember how many of the first responders died after a year due to respiratory problems? 5 years? 10?
...No, you DON'T. "
(Can't remember what that's from, but seemed important to out here.)
Be wary of those who appear to have lived more years than they actually have; they have no fear of the end of their lives.
Means he's focused on his duty, ready to "play his part".
Remember kids: an itch is a minuscule pain.
He has built-in VR mapping capabilities, dood. He's seen every inch of this inside and out, it's not new to him.
I've always wondered how history had been different if The Great Library of Alexandria hadn't been burned to the ground. How much further advanced would we be?
What do they call that thing, where you make a big bonfire just because you can and then dance around it...a pyre of revelry? Because it seems like it fits here...
Foucault...was that your attempt at quoting Full Metal Jacket? "YOU'RE SO UGLY YOU COULD BE A MODERN ART MASTERPIECE!"
Grim reminder of what happens when you let your guard down in war.
'Come smite me, oh mighty Smiter!'
Why not find out if you're still a pawn in someone else's game? The only winning move....
And time for Cop Mike to do his crime scene analysis once again.
Feel the horror...and spin the tale.
They either destroy themselves, or destroy their targets with extreme vengeance.
Never a more true word has been said.
(Protomen was a good choice here.)
Solid chapter yet again. Glad we got a chance to see a flash of Eliza, even if brief. And so the bait has been set, and plans put into motion...
Excellent job here, especially with the visual imagery.