The Campaigner

Act VI

Date: 26 AUG 2020
Operation: Athena's Grace – Phase VI
Location: Seattle, Washington
Function A: Confession by Context 6217A17 of IP-11C-A Supratext to Subset 5601D-QRF.
Function B: Steganographic conferral of IP-11C-B Subtext unto Context 6217A17.

"And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and behold a white horse." ~ Revelations 6 KJV

There's a man going 'round, taking names...

Soon... an end to war in Seattle. All would be made meek and peaceful, as word spread of the coming storm.

Tunnel Day. We're here, folks. The final day of Operation Athena's Grace.

So, during my time in QP, Erving and his seven other guys really did pull their weight, interpreting my crackpot AI theories to the defense line mostly, about who was dying in the war. Don't wanna die? Just don't be a killer prick. Simple. Easy. And with the Pantry ideologically isolating itself, and with their political officers dead, Simmons could do nothing to see this growing realization, let alone slow it down.

Most people liked Team Stirrup, so if they agreed with my theory in that framing, the Cowboy must be making sense. Easy social engineering trick; hard to disagree with the new guy when the poster child thinks he's being sensible. Also, Dresden pushed the party line less and less. Quite interesting. Without Big Brother to watch him at all hours, something was a bit different about Julian. The man was becoming more thoughtful. Less loud, on his scavenging patrols.

Meanwhile, Erving heroically looked for 'the Man.'

Was he doing that? Kinda.

What Stirrup actually did was 'ask around' at the local blackout camps. Very important distinction there. Technically, 'asking around' is a form of looking, but it's also a form of telling. Because imagine this. Imagine you're a blackout, and some friendly neighbors roll up and ask, 'hey, have you seen this guy with a Bluetooth? He killed three of our men and five bandits this month.'

Naturally... wow, if you were a blackout, you'd want to know everything there was to know about that. The implications of that are paradigm shifting. Erving was generally known to these communities to be a man of his word, and his allegiance to Velasquez was well known, so it couldn't possibly be bullshit.

Normally, blackouts who made it this far into the Transition would reject an offer for news regarding Celestia, or anything that involved communications technology, but… man, this was big. A story with eight dead bodies attached to it? If you were a blackout, and cared about protecting your people, you'd need to know. As the world burned, all those people ever wanted to know was what to avoid doing, to not piss off Celestia, so they didn't accidentally go and do it.

The looming threat of a hunter-killer squad was scary, true, but they also knew they weren't the target. Erving let slip to these communities that the Man seemed interested only in resolving some sort of war crime that happened in Brazil. Nothing more.

The soldiers the Man had killed? All from some clique at the Dock. Those guys hired one of the bandits.

Oops.

The city's blackouts, with that much information, now knew the whole equation. Don't be a bandit, or the Man might come; otherwise, you're fine. Brilliant, isn't it?

What were the other Talons doing, then?

Mostly verifying what Erving was saying, so the blackouts would believe it. Letting signs of themselves be found, sometimes even by Dock foot patrols. Things like… well, I'll let the team leaders explain. Fox and Dax, calvary team, you're up.

🦊 ~ We wore paramilitary gear, rode around on quad bikes. Rolling hot down city streets at full throttle, making ourselves noticeable. We were obviously not Dock troops, our gear wasn't Army.

A day of hot rodding around like a PMC. Awesome! Sweet jumps.

Rachel Duvall; Flow State? What did your techies do?

🔌 ~ Sure, I...
☕ ~Techie?! I ain't no techie, Lance!
🗡️ ~ ... Hi, Coffee. Didn't see you come in.
☕ ~ I know! Hi! Can I tell it, Flow?
🔌 ~ [Shrug.] Sure, why not?
☕ ~ Heck yeah. Yeah, I got to do RC drones from Perelandra! Or Valdemar, the bar. Sitting there, tapping away at a tablet. So yeah, we'd fly through the city, moving fast. Hover in line of sight of a Dock scavenge team; too far away to hear, but positioned to be very visible. Then fly away, once seen. Ooh, shoulda seen those guy's faces. I kept pictures!

Very creepy, Coffee. Good of you to show up late too, but welcome! Thank you both.

Paul Garrick – Vineyard. Scout team leader.

🍾 ~ Ah, nothin' worth sayin'. Just left signs of stakeouts. Fresh cigarette butts and empty beer bottles in hidey holes, meant to be found. Implied we were watchin' the base.

Well, I mean... you were, weren't you?

🍾 ~ Occasionally. Mostly, I just hung out with Aegis here.
🔰 ~ Yeh, Vineyard, blame me!
🍾 ~ I just did, ya bird brain.

Heh. Last but not least? Wrangler team. Jennifer DeWinter the Winter Wolf. Tell it, friend.

🐺 ~ Same as we did in Portland. Gunshots in the distance when people got too comfortable in a risky area. Performative threat behavior, to ward them off.

Like wildlife hazing. Like waving your arms around, chasing coyotes. That concept, but for people. By firing a single round of M80 ball at a brick wall, DeWinter could change the ecology of a region, for as far as the ear could hear it. People would avoid that area, worried for snipers, Dresden most of all.

All of that social tinkering was vital in shaping the conceptual landscape of the city, in combination with Erving's testimony to the ever vigilant blackouts. So if you were a blackout who paid attention? Maybe it was time to keep your head down for a bit, while the Arujá stuff got settled. Word had already spread around the city about the uniformed mannequin hanging off a bridge over 4th Avenue, evidence of the Man's vendetta, so… maybe the Man would just… screw off, once done. He wasn't bothering anyone else, was he? Nope. Not a soul.

Arujá, Arujá, Arujá… Echo, echo, echo…

The blackouts would bunker like prairie dogs. They'd keep their noses clean, grateful for the warning. Easy peasy.

So, that was the outdoors.

Indoors?

Back in my episode of this TV show… Meat put me on perimeter patrol around the Pantry for two weeks straight. Boorrrrring, by comparison. I'd rather have been out there drinking with Marcus and Paul, but... the job's gotta get done.

Still, I took my targets of opportunity. When I wasn't eating with Casey's guys, I was in the bailey with Corporal Richard Filben, and his guys. They talked about dodging Meat's ire like everyone else did, since that was the eternal struggle there, for Guardsmen trying to earn their way in. We got chummy over food, compared the good stuff together. I talked about the good ol' days, and I shared food freely from my Iron Gator op bonus, since... well, I was never gonna eat all of it.

We talked about burgers, fries, ice cream... arcades... From a time back before video games were literally trying to eat people.

One night, I sat with 'em around that campfire in the bailey. Low firelight cast up the sides of the conex crates, casting orange-black shadows, much like here at this Fire, tonight. It was silent, but for the crackle of the flame, and the slosh of water at the harbor. As we reheated some canned goods, I reminisced aloud to Rich about Thanksgiving with my parents. I told them all about Grandpa Mateo too, back when he was still alive... I told them about his time in Vietnam, and how that had... hurt him. I told the good stuff as well; turkey, ham, stuffing. Most of them had family memories like that. We had nights of truly human interaction. Some glum; some glee. Life stuff. Simple stuff.

I think what really sold them on me was the fact that I could recite entire scenes from Django Unchained, off the cuff. I even did the Schultz accent, saying 'Broomhilde,' for the campfire scene. The setting was perfect for it.

It was good to remember what made us human. This fireside in the bailey wasn't much different than Thanksgiving, in concept, except we did it every other night. Turkey aside, at least we weren't alone. I was a very welcome break from pattern for these guys.

Leverage by inches, folks. I was trying for every ounce of compassion I could wrangle out of these men, in the hopes that at least one of them would lean away from what was coming. I wouldn't know for sure how many lives this would save unless I tried. Maybe I might find the right magic words that would pull one of them clear of the shooting later. But you can't know what works unless you go for it. Sims or not, known outcome or not, if you don't try... you don't win.

Interestingly, having that mentality automatically increased survival rates for most drift operations. Hope is the key. Hope changes predictions, changes modeling. Caring about someone is observer effect on a person's soul. If that sounds like bullshit, consider this. If you bias yourself toward finding opportunities, you see them more. You can grasp it sooner. Beneficial self-bias. You can't see patterns you aren't looking for.

So long as you don't stop preparing for the worst case, you might as well friggin' care about people even if you think they're lost causes. You lose nothing in the hoping, and you in fact stand to gain their loyalty if it pays off. You can't do that if you've given up on them. That's just noospheric matrix math, really. If enough human beings believe something is possible all at once, we can usually band together and make it reality. Hell, Perelandra is a great example of this. Or search-and-rescue in the forest. Or saving a few guys by showing them that there's still life out there, beyond their four prison walls.

Simmons, the Warden of Pantry Prison, wasn't coming outside anymore, though. That definitely said something about him to the Guardsmen. Woah. Shocker. It's almost like this was exactly what Velasquez said would happen, of leaders hiding in bunkers. Was Simmons… scared? Why would he be scared, folks? Maybe he was nervous about snipers recognizing him? Why would he be nervous about snipers?

Andale, andale, Arujá, Arujá.

After a mere two weeks, the word 'Arujá' was all anyone in Seattle could think about, Major Kyle Simmons most of all, the incident looming over his head like a cursed cavalry sword. A raw promise of accountability. Utterly inescapable, circling him like a hungry Gryphoness.

The Colonel though? Velasquez? The opposite. All chill in the breeze.

Carlos didn't hide. Didn't shave, like Simmons did. He grew his beard, folks. He would stand in full view of Seattle, as often as he could be seen doing it, unafraid of snipers, unafraid of drones, of being seen. Some mornings, he'd even be out there on the roof, sipping his morning coffee, waving down at the boys at muster like nothing was wrong… saying, 'keep up the good work, gentlemen.' Smile and salute, boys. Smile and salute.

Why should Carlos have been scared? He did nothing wrong, everything was preordained, and he had no intention of hurting anyone. The proof that he was innocent was the fact he bared his neck, and he still had his head. People talked about that! If Arujá was the problem, and if Carlos was supposedly the culprit, then why wasn't he scared, or dead?

Now… we knew we couldn't keep this pressure cooker going on the Pantry forever. Simmons was spending all of his time in that literal box, wracking his brain, trying to find a way out of this that didn't involve an abdication. We knew we were cornering a rat, and eventually, a rat might do something stupid in desperation.

Or, in his case... he would.

We were gonna offer him an earnest, purely intended olive branch, even though the models said he'd push it away. A form of hope, even though the numbers said it wouldn't work. Believe it or not, this was already a hostage situation, folks. They were willing to die for their right to hold onto that food. Simmons was a Psyops officer, and he understood how to turn people into fanatics. It's why he ideologically segregated his men from the rest of the base. They were more useful as a suit of armor than as human beings.

This should sound familiar. We've seen this method used before, in all prior operations, by twisted souls.

If we were going to purport ourselves to be lawful elements of the United States federal government, we had to hold to a certain threshold of conduct when meting out justice. Lawful ethics. Principal-agent problem. Alabaster, take notes.

As a government, if you adhere to fair and proportional terms consistently, people will ask fewer questions of your ethics once you start swinging your axe. If you are cruel, vague, and indiscriminate… they will fight you, tooth and nail, no matter how much you say that you have the best of intentions. So, for the sake of our legitimacy then, Simmons needed a stern, direct, focused, evidenced warning that he will die if he refuses our commands, even if we're sure he will.

How do we best communicate a fair offer of surrender for Simmons? Well, quite simple, really. Demonstrate our power, and extract a confession. A good demonstration lends us authority. Then, with that authority, we submit our arrest warrant to the Colonel, and give him veto power. Yes. We would let the local Sheriff himself decide whether we were being fair or not. As sovereign ruler of the county, everyone in it was his subject. If he would sign off on our methods… folks, by all accounts of the land, and by the power vested in us by King County, that is a valid arrest warrant.

Better yet? This time, Foucault had a real judge's name on his arrest warrant. Signatory? General M. Lewis, Esquire, Juris Doctorate, graduate of Beakipedia University, The Judge Advocate General of the United States Army, and Secretary of Homeland Security, de facto.

How to best deliver that demonstration? How do we gain the credibility we needed to make our next move?

Tunnel Day.

For me, Tunnel Day began at 5 AM on a Wednesday. A dark blue morning twilight cast itself upon everything, and I heard a call in the distance; a crepuscular yodel in the crisp, cool, smoky air.

"Ramireeeeeez!"

Dresden, at the Pantry gate. That was his second yodel of the morning by my count, but who knows how much yapping he did at HQ earlier that morning.

I thought that was funny. Not to knock him for yelling, it was completely justified in this case – I was a hundred yards away from him, finishing up my first circuit around the Pantry perimeter – but his insistent yelling of 'Ramirez' often made me think of that Call of Duty game. You know, the one where everyone screamed 'Ramirez' in every other sentence?

Anyone here remember the character? James Ramirez? Come on, jog your memory, some of you remember.

Why yes, Mal did pick my cover name. What gave it away?

Dresden was wiggling his flashlight left and right at the ground like a rave as if I somehow wouldn't see him, with only one direction to go, bracketed by the fence as I was. I jogged over to him as ordered, cupping my hand to the stock of my rifle so it wouldn't slide off my shoulder.

One of the Pantry guards on top of the perimeter wall heard my boots stomping by, so he called down from the sandbags. "Yo Ramirez," the guy said, sounding tired, like he'd been napping. He asked the rest in Spanish, so he wouldn't get in trouble. "Do you hear that Coyote howling out there?"

I replied upward, a chuckle on my voice: "Yeah, I think it's howling at the moon!"

Dresden hollered at me again. "Double-time it, Corporal, got some big news!"

The guy up above laughed, but his laugh stopped short with a groan. When he spoke again, he sounded much more awake. "Awh. Mira, hermano; technical on the Lane, looks like Dagger Five."

I looked across the field at the hesco wall, where one of the four QRF pickups was parked. I sped up my hundred yard dash past QP, where Casey stood in the doorway of his trailer, rubbing his eyes as he watched me go.

"Inconsiderate bastard," Casey muttered for my amusement.

I didn't slow. I made my way straight to Dresden and flashed him a casual salute.

"Sir, did Stirrup find him? Is he dead?"

"Found him yeah, probably," Dresden replied with disappointment, his voice short and sharp. "Dead? Doubtful." Dresden wagged his hand inward at himself like 'come here,' he turned and power walked toward the front gate. I followed.

"Open sesame," he yapped at the bailey guard through the door slat. "Corporal Filben!"

Clank. Slide. Creak. The wheel lowered to the ground, and the plated gate rolled back. We quickly crossed through the bailey. All of the vestibule guards were standing, gawking at Dresden, trying to figure out what his issue was. He ignored them, continuing his panicked strut.

"Sir?" I asked. "What's going on?"

"Corporal, be patient, I won't repeat myself." He pointed at the Private Lakhani through the slat in the inner door with a vicious finger, then flailed his hand upward. "Emergency, Private!" His hand wheeled aggressively, telling him to get a move on. "QRF's burning calories at the bridge, so Goddamn let me in!"

As the outer door guards closed up, the inner door guards lifted up their latches and hauled the heavy inner plates back.

"Majooooor!" Dresden yodeled as he stepped into the Rec, living up to his nickname. He looked up at the second floor balconies of the courtyard for Simmons, where the inner guard residences were. Dresden didn't even slow, and paying no mind to the nine troopers around the fire to our right. They stood up and collected their weapons, preparing themselves, unsure of what was happening.

"Major!"

As we cleared the Rec, we turned left out of the courtyard into Main Street. I saw Simmons come out of a container on the second floor left side, a blue conex box joined with three others. His little greed cave, just thirty yards up Main Street, with a wooden stairwell further up at sixty yards away, which led up to his dorms. Simmons wore nothing but a black tank top and Army trousers, rubbing his neck like he was laying oddly on it. "Lieutenant?! It’s fuckin' five AM in the God damn morning, so this shit had better be good!"

"Sir! Stirrup ran into shit five minutes into their patrol today!" Dresden walked around the scaffolding at the far end, then up the wood stairs. "We were about to go check, but—"

Simmons blinked down at us as we went, squinting like Popeye, his voice inflecting upwards in disbelief. "So you come back here?!"

"It's complicated, sir, need your go-ahead. See, we got a Ballfield blackout at the gate again. Old Jerry, came barreling down the opposite dockyard on his horse. Says they heard a crash at the Tunnel, went to go check; found Stirrup's Humvee abandoned, and flipped over."

Flipped over?! How— Wait, the landmine clown, Jerry?!" Simmons followed us from the catwalk from above, fastening his belt as he made his way to the stairs. "Dammit, did they screw with our truck?"

Dresden hauled himself up to the first landing and flung himself around the railing, and up. "I doubt it, sir! Ballfield knows better than to mess with... That's... Stirrup's gone, sir! According to them!"

Simmons growled at the deck thoughtfully, standing barefoot at the top of the staircase as he tightened his belt up. When his head came back up, he was tight lipped, looking between us with a wary and contemplative eye. He leered at me as I slowed before him.

"Corporal," he grumbled. "Today might be your lucky day." Simmons then pointed at Dresden. "You lead that QRF out, and you be thorough. You look for clues up and down in that tunnel if you have to, Lieutenant, and I mean with a fine tooth comb. And once you're done? Knock on Ballfield's door, and search 'em. Make sure they didn't kidnap those boys."

"Uh, sir? What if Gina—"

Simmons's eyes widened, grabbing Dresden's shoulder. "I don't care. I'm Goddamn serious, Julian. You check that victor, you check it for blood, dust, or whatever. You will find those Boy Scouts, kill any enemy agents you find, and you will bring Spear 2 back in one piece, or I swear to God…"

"Yessir," Dresden breathed, nodding rapidly. "Yessir, we're on it. Just wanted you to know I'm... I'm taking the Corporal here off Perimeter, since he'd be good on point, if it's maybe a... and he's—"

Simmons's eyebrows crawled up his head and his head bolted forward two inches, the mere gesture cutting Dresden off. Simmons then rattled both hands tightly out to his sides, palms out, like he couldn't believe Dresden was still there.

"Okay! Bring him—don’t bring him—don't fuckin' care, jus' go, Lieutenant!"

And there it was. The consequence of micromanaging an operation so tightly. If you always yell at people for having novel thoughts, they stop acting autonomously, and now have to follow the letter of your orders, even to their own detriment.

Principal-agent problem again.

Turning, we made the awkward jog back out of the Pantry to the waiting technical. Behind us, the doors locked and sealed, and Meat started lockdown prep.

As I crossed No Man's Land with Dresden at a run, I clutched my gas mask from my belt and fitted it onto my face. Déjà vu, like fleeing from a courthouse. I swung my bag into the technical bed and hooked it onto a carabiner. I threw myself into the passenger seat, and pressed my hat down on my head. As Dresden drove, I checked the chambers on both of my guns, ensured my mags were packed tight, and sighed, frustrated at having to breathe through this mask again.

Nothing left to do now but wait. Today was gonna suck.

As we rolled out down Hesco Steret, I clambered half-out the passenger side window, grabbing the support handle to sit on the windowsill, looking up to the east sky above the city. Seconds later I saw a glittering pattern of fireworks at the perimeter – yellow, white, yellow – casting their glow between us and the dead city skyline.

S. O. S.; the message would repeat every thirty minutes, to help Erving find his way home in the dark. A hopeful plea, to repeat for the duration of the raid; like wolves howling at the moon, to orient their pack. A woeful hope for rescue.

The moon.

I looked up, wondering how Cynthonia was doing, as I looked up at our lost cosmos. Above us? No light pollution. Clear, dusky blue morning skies over Seattle. Nebulae, stars... galaxies. Old Luna was up there too, at a little over half-glow, being the gentle, warm ideal. It helped me tamp down my performance anxiety. Had to get this perfectly right for Cynthie. Had to validate her trust in me.

Curious eternities were watching me. Countless future minds might know of this, may read about this operation some day. They might share this day with their family and friends. So if I were to go down in history for killing a bunch of people, I wanted to know I did everything I could to shave the number down. Doing this thing with Dresden today... it was step one.

Don’t balk, I thought to myself, as I watched the fireworks fade away.

The blackout camp at the T-Mobile ballpark – now known locally as Ballfield – was not very far.

Old Jerry rode back with us on horseback, though he didn't need really to. Their camp leader, a military veteran named Gina, met with us there at the front gate. Short brown hair, hazel eyes. Stern, lanky. The headlights of our trucks lit the scene; we breathed the highly expensive smell of precious gasoline as I eavesdropped on Dresden's negotiations with her.

"Didn’t mess with it, Lieutenant, never would. Especially not with Stirrup, I don't loot my neighbors."

"I didn't say you did, Gina," Dresden said placatingly, wincing at her emphasis. "Just asked if anything was moved, that's all."

"Not by us. Because Kevin stopped by every single patrol, checked in before crossing our street, so we'd always know. Right? Safety measure! So we could report back if something happened? Which we did just now."

Dresden nodded. "Right, right."

"He didn't check in this time though!" Gina said with a shrug. "And went into the Ninety-Nine? Not even a honk our way, at the least! So for him to go into our territory without notice? That's fishy!"

"Okay," Dresden said, contemplatively. "Fishy, yeah. And I'm gonna go in after him, and rescue him. So... can you spare us a guide? We'll bring 'em back safe. It's your territory, and you wanna watch us while we're in there, right?"

She shook her head. "Mm-mmh. Uh-uh. That wreck, Lieutenant, it's suspicious. No gunshots, and a Humvee gets flipped? No. Jerry already asked, said no to me already, and he's our bravest scout, so no sir."

"C'mon, Gina." He stared. She didn't reply, so he continued. "We had an agreement, didn't we?"

She pointed in the direction of the tunnel. "Not about this! If your men want to go explore a dark hole in the ground, where some bad guys might jump you, we aren't gonna stand in your way, but… I recommend you don't go, and I'm not sending anyone in, because it is suspicious."

"This is different," Dresden insisted. "It's an emergency. We aren't plotting against you here, you know Erving wouldn't do this to you, we just need Stirrup. They're our boys, Gina. Our boys."

"I trust our scout's appraisal, Julian, and full honesty?" She scoffed. "Don't go! Please! If this isn't a game you're running on us, it's bait for you! Obvious bait!" She looked at the rest of the QRF team and raised her voice. "It ain't us, people! We didn't do this, and it smells bad! So if you all get jumped down there, we are not helpin' you back out, not getting involved at all, so fair warning!"

Wise of Gina to appeal to the men, and it wasn't something Dresden could take back. She had to be imagining a nightmare scenario where Dresden died and couldn't report her statement of innocence back to the Dock. That would suck.

"I don't think you did this," Dresden pleaded quietly. "Please, don’t worry about that. But it's Erving, Gina. You like him, don't you?"

"He's a great guy, and I will miss him," Gina said earnestly, her brow flattening out to demonstrate real concern. "But this ain't our bag of shit to hold, Julian! You guys are the ones who kicked the bear with that Arujá stuff!"

The word 'Arujá' broke Dresden. His lip trembled. "Gina, I... I didn't—"

"Because if Celestia really is sending snipers and assassins after your men? You done screwed up! Don't drag us into your little war, you pissed her off! Not us!"

He looked lost, shaking his head. "Please. Please don't let us go down there alone."

To cut off another plea, Gina whipped her hand up and around to signal her men to go back inside, terminating the conversation. All of the armed blackouts shuffled off through the iron gates of the ballpark. One of the blackouts shook his head at Dresden with his brows up, a non-verbal, hopeful mirroring of the warning Gina had just given him to not go inside.

Dresden sure didn't want to come back later and 'search' this camp. I could tell that just by his tone.

So, with that exchange done… we drove a little closer to the dark mouth of the WA-99, just down the street.

For those of you who never lived in or near Seattle back on Terra, you might not know this, but… the Seattle government saw fit to dig a bore hole tunnel directly under the city, damn near three kilometers long, just so people could drive underneath the city. It was a replacement for their highway over the streets; the highway wasn't doing so hot, architecturally.

When the war started, some Ludds hit a substation nearby, which killed the lights down in the tunnel. Caused a huge collision, and backed it all up, so no one on either end could drive out. That had turned into a panicked rush for the emergency exits, so a lot of cars and resources were just abandoned down there. Through the war, the Luddites would occasionally use this tunnel to run infantry, but more than a few firefights had played out there in the dark until it was considered bad luck to spelunk.

Now that the war had petered out, the Ballfielders had been 'mining' this space for trade goods, components, mechanical parts, fuel, glue, fabric, containers, etcetera. Velasquez didn't want to muscle them out of it; it was more efficient for him to scout a bunch of other points of interest for food, rather than to spend all their time manually mining a controlled resource. No reason to upset the local villagers; better to simply trade food for materials out of the tunnel if he needed it, he had the manpower to loot more food elsewhere.

Our hope today was that we could get Carlos control over his bank account again, so Seattle could keep itself going on trade for at least another year. Life-sustaining trade, a lessening of division, a sharing of goods and services with the locals. And that was something Carlos could not do for as long as Simmons sat on the purse strings.

We peered down the ramp along the cleared section in the middle of the tunnel. It was brighter out now. We could see the Humvee from where we parked the technicals up the ramp. We'd take the rest of the way on foot.

Spear 2, that big beautiful hog of an up-armored scout car… it was presently laying on its side just outside of the tunnel's mouth. True to their word, the Ballfield guys didn't touch the thing; the M240 was still there, its clean ammunition belt still hanging from its box. If the blackouts were gonna try and sneak anything, they might take some of the bullets. None of the dust disturbance on the ground indicated that they'd done that, though.

It looked like the Humvee's tires had skidded sideways before it flipped. The tires then drew big, chattering black streaks in the dusty street, indicating a harsh slide and stop.

"Looks like… somethin' pushed it," I said, wearing something like confused awe in my voice. I looked at Dresden, my rifle pointed downrange at the markings. "See the skitter? Like they tried to ram something and bounced sideways off it."

Dresden just grit his teeth, lips parted as he shook his head. His voice was barely audible. "Definitely wasn't Ballfielders who flipped this thing, then."

"If he killed these guys, sir…" I met his gaze to show him how furious that concept made me.

"Yeah same," Dresden scowled, mirroring me. "Stirrup's been a real pain in my ass, no doubt, but… the chow they've pulled in? It's always been good. Would be a real shame to lose them." Dresden shook his head with a clear anger, brows raising as he looked at me. "Ramirez, if they're dead in there, we're splittin' the kill on the Coat, and that's my final offer."

"Deal," I whispered back. "I'll let you keep the trench coat."

"I'll wear it like a cape," he agreed, gesturing me onward as he stood and got moving too. "Mount it to the inside of my crate like a pelt."

Dresden and I separated and fanned out, and I jogged forward, slightly ahead of him. He went right, moving for the Humvee and using it as cover for his advance.

On went my gun light, casting into the darkness. The sky had turned violet above me, but from my perspective, all I could see was my light cone. I swept my rifle's barrel across the tunnel, bypassing the Humvee entirely as I scanned for threats.

More S-O-S fireworks deployed from the Dock's northern gantry crane. Yellow-white-yellow. The entire culvert illuminated, giving me a clear view into the tunnel by about thirty yards.

Twelve Guardsmen privates took up our six o'clock, moving forward as we did. I bounded into the tunnel, crouching behind the engine block of a mangled, lime-green Corolla. Time to follow point man procedure.

I dropped my backpack at my feet for a moment. I planted my boot on the front bumper of the sedan, then flung myself up, my light sweeping the tunnel for a split second to quickly scan. I let myself fall gracefully back into cover, coiling my leg, then I went down to a knee to scoop my bag back up.

No threats spotted.

I leaned out of cover slowly with my rifle pointed down range, then took a longer look with my light, trying to bait fire or exposure. Light off. Cautiously, I bounded four cars into the tunnel, then did another jump peek. Turning, I signed 'all clear' by flicking back two fingers up from my rifle, then covered forward so Dresden could check out Spear 2.

Behind me, the Lieutenant moved up, climbed up the Humvee's side, sprawled out on top, and stuck his head all the way into the cabin, flicking his light about. Then he pulled out, looked at the ground, and tried to track footsteps in the dust.

"Put your light flat on the ground," I called back softly, glancing at him so he could hear me through my mask. "Saw a cop do it, to find a shell casing. The shadows cast further."

He hopped down off the truck and did that.

"Huh," I heard him say from behind me. "Yeah, no shit, that works."

"They run away from the tunnel, or toward it?"

"No shell casings, lots of glass… Footsteps, three pairs." He followed the footprints up along the right side of the tunnel road with his light, stepping up to me as he watched them trail in. "N... no. Four. One pair, in pursuit of…" he trailed off as he spotted an M16 abandoned in the road, just inside the mouth of the tunnel.

Dresden cocked his head. "Huh?"

An abandoned rifle made no sense.

Private Kim said, "Evac doors in the tunnel, there are stairs in there. Maybe they took those?"

"Running deeper in isn't the issue," Dresden muttered. "Wondering why they ditched their guns without firing so much as a shot. No shell casings."

Dresden looked again at the ground where the skid marks chafed the road. In the dust, Dresden saw two giant bootprints, with massive cracks in the pavement beneath them. His flashlight flicked left. Flicked right. He looked for alternate tire tracks, or something other than the bootprints. Something big that could've flipped the Humvee, other than a single man with giant feet. He saw… nothing else.

Nothing. Just the bootprints, and the cracks.

"What the hell," the nearest soldier commented with a breath, Private Shane McKinsey. He approached and peered down at the spot next to the Lieutenant, visibly panting.

"Lock it down, McKinsey," Dresden mumbled, though I could hear the trembling in his own voice, ever so softly transferring his dread. I glanced back and saw the Lieutenant's posture was locked up, frozen; his eyes were cast down the tunnel. I couldn't see his whole face, but I knew him well enough by now. He was doing that thing with his lips where he was curling both of them inward over his tongue, psyching himself up to do what he'd been ordered to do. Because not doing his job, exactly as prescribed, even against good sense, even once, had certain, very serious consequences.

He lifted a hand, then snapped twice to get everyone's attention. He issued the hand-signals: 'Quiet,' 'Listen,' 'Enemy Forward,' 'Staggered Column.' He pointed at three men specifically, ordering them to hold position with the vehicles. They nodded back at him, returning to the trucks. Danger or not, trap or not, we were going in for Erving, because that was the job, stupid or not. Dresden ordered me forward with a nod, telling me to take point again.

Me, knowing all of those hand signals from SWAT cross-training… I just nodded and hopped to, back on point. Dresden had given no orders about light discipline, so I kept my flashlight on while the soldiers followed along, blending into the dark.

To their eyes, I was a man on a very different mission than the rest of them. For the moment, Dresden tolerated that because, given the evidence… and the threat… losing their point man to a vendetta would be a good trade if it meant they could still win, or at least get away safe. I was the bravest psycho of the bunch, to put it mildly. And if my heroic tales from the One-Star were to be believed? It's right where I should be, the point man, walking his talk. I couldn't be anything less than me.

Together, we delved into the guts of Seattle. Mangled cars cast shadows forward and throughout, for as far as the eye could see. Before us laid a veritable graveyard of stifled productivity. Trash, old shell casings from old firefights, old spattered stains of blood from a year ago, and old broken glass. No bodies anymore, thank goodness; Ballfield had been burying them whenever they found them.

My boots crunched with every step.

My breathing echoed.

The curved walls made every shadow twist.

We submerged ourselves in the world Celestia made for us. Like being underwater, like exploring Atlantis, like looking at a lost civilization. And I'll just say, with hindsight: every single time I do a historical dive in the rewinder, it feels like that tunnel, no matter the moment I'm observing. It feels like that every time.

Before long, the black-and-white cast gave way to color as everyone's eyes adjusted. The dust was dense enough in the air to limit the flashlight. The air had gone quite stale as well, though the masks helped with that.

As I forged onward, I followed the four sets of footprints; three pairs of combat boots, one pair of… something else entirely, which no one wanted to label aloud. We all knew. But… bullets are bullets, right? We had nine men with thirty round magazines, plus me and Dresden, for a 330 round mag dump of full metal. Six spare magazines apiece for reloads.

With that kind of math, you might think you can handle anything on two legs. Right?

Every so often, I would stop. I would look at the tracks, or examine bent car doors in the path of the steps, crushed inward by some massive object. The two columns of men lingered behind me by about sixty yards. They would stop when I did, and they would watch me investigate. They could only see me and my cowboy hat, with my gas mask on, my gloved hand sweeping dust off of things, comparing local settle. Like Walker, Texas Ranger, tracking a killer cat.

At every 200 meter mark, there would be a disaster refuge door with an emergency call box and a staircase up. I passed next to one such emergency door on my right, sweeping the door's edges for traps. The footsteps didn't go in there, but I gently tried the handle anyway. No dice. Jammed. And they all would be, until they needed not to be.

Rachel was behind this one, along with a few other augs I didn't know.

I kept on. So far, so good, everything to plan. These guys behind me were shitting themselves, but I looked confident, which fed them some bravery. If anyone died first, it was gonna be psycho Marine, a guy who would want nothing more than to give his life to protect them.

We made it about… oh, six hundred yards, before some distant metal object clanged further down the tunnel. Classic move, Dax. I immediately whipped my fist up in a 'Halt' gesture and sidestepped behind another engine block. Rifle pointed forward. Eye on my holo sight. Finger juuuust outside of the trigger guard.

I waited.

Listened.

Couldn't hear anything else in the dark.

Again, I whipped myself up onto the bumper of a car, flicked my flashlight on, and parsed the area ahead in a flashing blink before I let myself fall, like sending a sonar pulse of light. Nothing dangerous to be seen. Not yet.

We kept on.

At about 800 meters, at emergency exit number four, I went to walk past the door…

And then the emergency phone rang.

I bolted my light ninety degrees to the right. The call box was all anyone could see.

Yup. Yup. We were doing that creepy shit. The call was coming... from inside the tunnel.

Private McKinsey yelped in terror. "Aw man, fuck no, man, fuck this!"

Ring.

I heard scuffles and steps behind me as some of the soldiers tried to stop McKinsey from fleeing, but… nah. He twisted free and ran south, sprinting and cursing, turning his light on, no longer giving a damn. The poor kid had the right idea, honestly.

Ring.

Everyone clamored.

Dresden cursed with fear. "Everyone, stay on task!"

By his terrified tone alone, it was a small wonder we didn't rout right there. Private McKinsey's terrified steps became more distant by the second, almost louder than the phone was. I looked back and saw everyone else's silhouettes, backlit by McKinsey's light, and the men looked like statues in freeze frame. Dresden's shape gave a 'Forward' order at me, telling me to ignore the phone.

Ring.

I lowered my light to the ground so Dresden could see my face from the reflection, and then I nodded my head toward the phone. Dresden jerked his head forward at me like Simmons had done to him earlier, his hand bowed out like 'what?!'

I shook my head, then stepped toward the phone.

"Corporal, IED!" Dresden hissed, his tone holding a genuine air of desperate concern for me. "IED!"

"If he took Erving," I replied calmly, "he wants to negotiate. If he wanted to blow us away, he'd've done it by now." I reached out, opened the phone box, grabbed the receiver, and started yelling into it. "Where the hell are you, you asshole?! Stop playing these friggin' mind games and just tell us!"

"Goddamn it!" the Lieutenant yelled, sprinting up past me to replace me on point, covering me as I had my vendetta conversation.

"Great work, Rivas," Foucault said into my ear. "Do me a favor? Put Lieutenant Loudass on, please? Let's see if we can get away with doing this the easy way. Four-Six-One is on standby, pending."

I looked over at Dresden with a dead furious look in my eye. "It's like I thought. He says he wants to negotiate with you, sir."

Dresden jabbed his finger down at the ground several times, his voice a harsh grating whisper. "Put it down, damn it! Down, now, that's an order!"

Foucault said into my ear… "Well, okay. The hard way, then."

Click. I looked at the receiver.

"He hung up," I reported, looking at Dresden again, disappointed in him.

For Dresden, that tore it. That was his tolerance limit for me. "You crazy-ass fuckin' jarhead!"

He stomped over to me, grabbed the receiver out of my hand, and slammed it repeatedly onto the hook just to make a statement. Wheeling, he gave me a shove toward the point position again and jabbed his finger at me. "We do not talk to the enemy!"

“He kidnapped our guys, sir,” I said darkly. "Like him or not, if we want them back, we have to negotiate with him."

As soon as the words had left my mouth, we heard a series of snappy clicks from down the tunnel. Most of those Guardsmen kids were too young to remember that sound, but Dresden and I were in the age group to immediately grasp what that was. Folks… remember that old tape recorder from Foucault's desk, back at Valdemar? It was hidden in that tunnel now, in the bed of an old gray Ford, because of course… that's the truck that most captured the attention of an old fogey spy.

Michael Foucault's voice poured out of it. The shape of the truck bed amplified the echo.

Hit play, Mal.

🛡️ ~ [Click]

"You, Mister Julian Dresden… need a lesson in manners. As you can see, I've been trying to reach you the polite way, about what happened back in Brazil, but… you haven't been returning my calls. I'm feeling somewhat snubbed and disrespected. I didn't have to spare you, when we last crossed paths. Nevertheless… I'm sending a friend down to come speak with you. I recommend, for the sake of your men, that you show him the same politeness I have shown you. Don't let his size intimidate you. So long as you behave yourself around him, you… should be fine.

"See you soon."

[Click] ~🛡️

You could have heard a mouse fart in that tunnel.

Private Kim broke the silence at a half-whisper. "He's bonkers, L-T, let's just get the hell—"

My flashlight died. A directed energy EMP. Invisible. Not a sound.

"Ramirez!" snapped Dresden. "What are you doing?!"

"My light just died," I hissed back through grit teeth, performatively clicking the button as fast as I could.

"Mine's dead too!" another Guardsman wavered.

"Me too!"

The rest of the squad all tested their lights and reported back no dice. We were now in pitch darkness, after having just received a terrifying threat.

"Oh shhhhit," Dresden hissed through his teeth. "Shit, shit, shit, shit… Shit!"

"Sir?" one Private asked, terrified. "Glowsticks?"

But Dresden wasn't hearing anything over the sound of his own thoughts. A couple of guys cracked glowsticks, not waiting for orders, they all knew Dresden was cracking. They'd seen it too, wasn't just me.

"Get back now!" Dresden hollered. "Back out of the tunnel!" He turned toward the exit and started yelling, moving in that direction at a walk, waving his hands at the others to get them moving. "McKinseeeyyyy! If you can hear me up there, we need your flashlight! Turn it on! Turn on your light, guide us out!"

A veritable soldier's chorus of "turn on your light" began, cancelling each other out. The men began to retreat as fast as they possibly could in the dark. That's about the moment I heard the slow clomping of heavy boots from the emergency stairs.

We all stopped running, wheeled, and pointed our weapons at the door.

I shuffled back toward Dresden, staying between him and the incoming threat as if I'd die to protect him. My boot touched his. The mere physical contact with him made Dresden turn to run again, and he stumbled over something, landing elbow-first into auto glass pebbles. His long combat sleeve caught most of the damage.

"A—agh!"

He scrambled up.

I said, "Sir! Something's...! Run, I'll cover y—!"

With an explosive clang, light flooded the space. The green emergency exit door flew off its hinges, bouncing off of the hood of a service van. A mechanized boot could be seen lingering in the middle of the doorway.

The Guardsmen leveled rifles toward the door. The tall shadow cast on the opposite wall revealed a man in full exoskeletal armor, with a tall, massive shield in his hand. A medieval knight. The leviathan's suit emitted a repetitive, mechanical hiss, click, and whine, its actuators and servos buzzing. It brought its boot back into the stairwell. We heard it breathing.

"How're yeh doin', little fledglings?"

Heavy, and slow. He paused in the doorframe, ducking down to squeeze through it, already pointing its shield our way with its left arm.

Dresden hyperventilated. I grabbed his chest rig strap and yanked him down into cover as fast as I could.

"IS THIS REAL?!" Dresden squealed pathetically, high pitch.

Yeah, if I had been in Julian's boots… I'd be questioning reality, too. Sorry bud.

The lumbering shadow made its way out of the doorway. At step one, the entire squad opened fire at it, myself included, without orders. Hundreds of bullets flung themselves in its direction, deflecting off of it in a matter of seconds, aimed directly at center mass. The dark mass did not fall, did not waver. The monster huddled behind its plate shield, a bent sheet of literal tank armor. When the rounds stopped coming, his suit made a robotic squeal as he lifted himself up from a crouch, his shield falling partway aside as he stood.

The deep, bassy British accent flowed through the helmet vocoder, electronically amplified. Accusation on his tone.

"I'm not here for you, Guardsmen. Why did you shoot at me?"

All of the men screamed.

Everyone reloaded as fast as we could. Dresden shouted wordlessly, scrabbling backwards behind me until his back hit a tire. He had completely lost his nerve, and he didn't even think to reload. "No, no, no!"

With a fresh magazine inserted, I snapped up my rifle, aiming for the monster's shield. It lifted the plate high, bullrushing me in response to the threat, the creature bellowing an ascending roar. I dumped the entire magazine at it in full auto. Every bullet ablated, rounds bounced and skittered everywhere. Every muzzle flash illuminated the creature's shape until its bipedal silhouette was just about on top of me.

I stood my ground defending Dresden, standing between him and the enemy until the very last possible second. When my gun's bolt clacked open to signify it was empty, the shield lifted, poised to come crashing down onto my head.

"Sir, move!" I dove backwards, rolling and scampering to cover as I dragged Dresden back. He followed passively, then scampered sideways until his back hit the next car up. I reloaded and pointed the weapon toward the threat, but the cyborg was faster. His shield swatted my HK-416 out of my right hand, mid-reload, sending it flying, shattering the rail handguard like it was a piece of balsa wood. I dove aside, landing on my backpack with a painful wince, pulled my Glock… and again, the darkness stole my gun away as a gauntlet closed over top of it, like Death had clawed it straight into the shadows.

The gauntlet came down again, grabbed me by my carrier strap, and it literally threw me at Dresden with a terrifying chuckle. I slid sideways into Dresden's feet through dust, with another groan of pain. Scampering once more, I grabbed Dresden's shoulder and hauled him out of his stunned shock as the silhouette barreled toward us.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

"Start running!" I barked. "What are you still doing here, Lieutenant, do you wanna friggin' die?!"

No. In fact, he did not. I was the only one standing by him; the rest had fled. That impetus completed the man's mental reboot. Awake again. Alive again. Wanting to live again.

For a moment, Dresden desperately tried to slot a new magazine into his gun, but in his stumble to a stand, I took the gun from him. He gave it up to me freely. I think he realized I was better equipped to handle it, and… merely having possession of it would make the holder a more appealing target to the monster.

One less gun in play.

I turned and ran with Dresden, chasing the soldiers far ahead of us, their glowsticks barely visible. The monster chased us in turn. The rest of the men had reloaded ahead of me, but weren't returning fire yet, since they knew we were in the way. So I poured another row of bullets up the tunnel wall. The men saw my muzzle flash, and two did turn and consider helping us. They jumped up on cars, plinking semi-auto shots at the cyborg whenever they had a clear line. One of them chucked a glowstick my way to help them get some definition on the target. Smart guy, but ultimately pointless.

"Go," I roared at Dresden, shoving him along. "Faster! Open lane on the left, serpentine, he's bulky!"

Dresden went.

We sprinted along, chasing McKinsey’s light; he had apparently heard us and came back just far enough to help us find our way out. That worked for about three hundred yards. Then, just like ours, his flashlight got hit with another directed EMP, and suddenly died.

I yelled desperately, "They're using EMP! Pop flares, flares! Everyone, flares!"

But of course, it'd be too late for that to make a difference.

In the dark, the moment I gave the order, the augs were upon us. Various Talons stole themselves into our escape lanes, charging into the glowstick light from cover all at once. They stripped us of our remaining weapons, clashing against us with a flurry of martial arts blows. For the few men who had the good sense to maintain good control over their weapons, they were rapidly discombobulated, stunned, and thrown to the ground before they knew what was happening.

Rachel grabbed the carry handle of Dresden's rifle out of my hands and gave me a light shove to stagger me.

Once disarmed, everyone pulled their flares, and some pulled their knives, me included. The flares gave us enough context by which we could dodge wrecked cars during our flight out of Hell, but they weren't going to be useful in fighting. The augs were gone already, receding back to cover with our guns, shuffling up and out through an emergency stairway to an armored Stryker up on street level.

The two-legged machine stayed hot on our tails, just barely keeping pace with Dresden and me. It attenuated its speed to keep us hopeful that we might be able to get away… if only we could go just a little bit faster.

Heavy breathing. Tremendous footfalls that cracked the ground.

Occasional roars. Like an enraged, red-lining Gryphon on a battle high.

"Why you runnin', love? I jus' wanna chat, Lieutenant!"

Folks... I knew Haynes, and I knew he would never actually hurt a soul in here... and yes, the goal was a chat, ultimately. But in that tone? Nuh uh. No. Never in a million years, no chat was happening with that thing.

I thought, Jesus Christ, Marcus; laying it on a little thick today, are we?!

That made Haynes chuckle. He sounded downright sinister.

"Faster," I called to Dresden, feeling actually scared for the man that he might have a cardiac. "Faster!"

"Shoot him!" Dresden yowled, his voice breaking. "Someone please fuckin' shoot him!"

"They took all our guns, sir!" I yelled back.

"God damn it!"

By the halfway point, Dresden and I were almost completely exhausted. McKinsey had ditched his rifle when he saw us getting disarmed, knowing how useless shooting would be, and now he just wanted to get away. One of the other Guardsmen collected his gun when he got to it. He wheeled into cover, aimed for a clear shot at the silhouette, and fired. Haynes guarded his helmet with his wrist, and the shield came back up. Haynes held the plate in place with his lifted forearm until the soldier's magazine ran dry, and then Haynes roared with vicious agitation. Haynes switched targets from Dresden. He pointed directly at the man who had shot him.

"That was very rude!"

The mechanical monster doubled its speed as it charged like a bull, not even stopping to step around open car doors, pushing them clean off their hinges as he built up momentum.

Stomp stomp stomp stompstompstomp—

The Guardsman screamed, dropped McKinsey's gun, and started running again.

Haynes slowed, letting us get a little bit further with every passing second. We could see dawnlight at the end of the tunnel by now, so we hauled ass. Now devoid of weapons, we looked ahead… and… and...

And we saw nearly two dozen red tactical lasers flick on, pointing down the tunnel over our heads.

Not at us. Over us.

That gave us hope, that they might shoot the monster; that they might be our saviors, and not our enemy. And if they were the enemy, at least their cautious, cold guns would be a known quantity to whatever this thing was behind us.

The monster slowed in the darkness, the heavy slamming footfalls reducing tempo. Even Haynes was panting by the time he stopped, probably from adrenaline more than exhaustion. His mighty shield's edge slammed down on the road, hard, breaking the ground and clearly denoting his distance from us.

The earth shook with that.

That was him reducing pressure. He wanted us to slow up by the time we got to the firing line, because we wouldn't take the cordon seriously if he was right behind us, compelling us to push on through.

A line of Talon operators stood there before three Stryker IAVs, each dressed as the known stereotype of a CIA wetworker. Gaiters, beanies, jeans, combat trousers, kneepads, patterned shirts, all their equipment in gray or black. Active protection communications headsets, tactical gear, helmets in various designs and configurations. Expensive carrier rigs, expensive guns. Every kit personalized.

But they weren't firing. This was a policing action, to arrest deserters.

Gary stepped forward with his team of New York cops, his Manhattan accent shining clear on through. "Federal Police, DHS, show us your hands!" he bellowed, as he stepped ahead of the rest of the unit, holding his laser on the chest of the nearest Private. "Hands now! Hands, hands, hands!"

Private McKinsey got there first, skittering to a halt and threw his hands up, lowering his whole body down. "I'm d—I'm doing it! Please, don't shoot me, please!"

Beside the technicals sat our three rear guards, handcuffed. Erving, Bannon, and Aaron were also cuffed beside them, looking in our direction with concern. The fact that they were alive helped set the tone that this was merely a detention, and not an execution.

As we caught up with McKinsey, the nearest Stryker's floodlight winked on. Every soldier hesitated as we fully cogitated the power imbalance. A wave of surrender hit everyone at that point, our hands going up in sequence as we lined up beside Privates Kim and McKinsey. Dresden and me, the final two.

All gunless. All speechless. Praying for a miracle.

Some of us looked back at Haynes, now that running from him wasn't the primary objective, and he lingered in the shadows, barely visible. In this mythical tale, the Monster would remain a creature that could not leave the underworld.

That massive suit of armor was not unlike his Spartan gear, but bigger, purpose-built for this specific mission. The shield in his claw was covered in dings, pocks, and gouges from the wall of bullets we had launched at it. Some of us had used specialized rounds designed to penetrate armor, but even they failed to do more than scratch something so dense. Reinforced cabling ran up his limbs, glinting with the reflection of the Stryker light. Smooth metal plating adorned his every other surface.

The message was clear. No escape. The only way out was forward, through negotiation.

But... no one had died. The AI wants us alive, doesn't it? So if they work for Celestia, they might spare us.

Might.

We heard a man hum thoughtfully from the tunnel exit, hailing from behind all of the Talons. That drew our eyes away from Haynes back to the front. And there he was. The Man in the Coat, strolling out from behind one of the Strykers. Bluetooth in his ear, its blue light on. Grinning.

He spread his hands wide out to his sides, self-aggrandizing. It was the exact same body language Simmons typically wore when he was posturing around base. A clever mirror of the other man that these men all feared.

"Mister… Dresden," Foucault called, with a smile on his face, his white teeth gleaming. His gloved palms came together with a single clap. "Good! You've received my invitation! Friend, I know you've been busy lately, but we have a very important matter to discuss."

Of Michael Foucault, if nothing else… Jim Carrenton was right about this one thing: When this man smiles, your world is a terrifying place to be. When he smiles like that, it means that all things within your reach… now belong to him.

The Talons had lined us up in a single row, then patted us down for hidden weapons. One at a time, Gary took our knives, directed us to interlock our hands behind our heads, and told us each to kneel. The Stryker turrets pointed directly at us, their barrels switching from man to man, reminding each of us of our own mortality… and its barrel movement seemed to coincide with thoughts of violent rebelliousness.

They pointed at Ramirez the most. The man I was pretending to be was always cogitating violence against the Man.

The mere timing of that threat was, in itself, a reprogramming algorithm for the others. They no doubt noticed the pattern. It left no doubt that the gunners could at least read faces. By the time the guns were only pointing at me, everyone else had taken the message to heart. 'Don't even think about it.'

The road flares back in the tunnel began to die down, the sound of them slowly sputtering into nothing.

Haynes loomed, an ominous threat against retreat. His vocoder amplified his breathing, making it just loud enough that no one could forget he was there, as if anyone ever could. Left with no other options, the only choice remaining was to cooperate with the Man.

"Mister Dresden," Foucault repeated, folding his hands behind his back. "Now that you are all safely disarmed… Please. Stand. Step up into my office, I will ask only once."

Wordlessly, the Lieutenant staggered to his feet and trembled forward, his hands tightly clasped on his head. Still awestruck, his mouth was wide under his mask, taking in deep, audible breaths of air, probably not believing in the firmness of reality anymore, maybe even thinking he might startle awake at any moment. He was clearly surprised that he was even still alive, all things considered, but... there he was. Despite past sins.

"Now's the time, Mister Dresden," said Foucault, labeling the guilt playing on the man's mind. "Do you have anything to confess? Or do you want to waste my time with denials?"

"Testify?" Dresden asked, trembling. "That's what you want, right?"

Foucault's neutral expression fell into a cold frown. "Arujá."

"I didn't fuckin' fire at those people," Dresden whimpered pathetically, shaking his head with a wince, tears in his eyes. "I swear—I swear it, I didn't shoot into that crowd, sir. Please sir, it wasn't me, I shot above 'em, I didn't actually—"

Foucault stepped close, jabbing a finger at Dresden's chest. The man jumped with a yipe.

"Wrong crime. We'll try again in a moment. Stay here, and don't move, or my fireteam will delete you, and I will move on to the next witness I can get my hands on."

Foucault walked past Dresden, leaving him to stare at the Talons before him and breathe rapidly in horror at the sentiment that had just been injected into his head.

Foucault appraised the captives like a general before a formation, his hands clasped behind his back. Maskless, he made eye contact with each of us. You should've seen it, folks. His mere observation of each man had blasted them all back an inch as they reflexively shied away from him. It was like a wave of energy followed from his eyes, applying push force to whatever he looked at. Force dispensed by his very soul.

When Michael looked at me in my mask, I didn't budge. I wasn't scared of him at all. I just shook my head at him, vocalizing something like a growl, thinking at him good-naturedly:

You really are a scary son of a bitch, you know that?

Foucault snorted in amusement, and then turned, rounding to the front of Dresden again. He stood tall and lifted both palms aside and forward, addressing us through the Lieutenant as he paced, as if Dresden wasn't there.

"My name is Michael C. Foucault, and yes… I do see all. You've all no doubt wondered about my identity, so… there it is. I am, at present, the commander of field operations for the Department of Homeland Security. I operate under the direct command of the U.S. Executive Branch, and I am here on behalf of The Judge Advocate General of the Army. In my young life, I was a spy for the Central Intelligence Agency, and throughout my career, I have summarily executed very many men… proudly doing so on Uncle Sam's dime.

"Today, I am here to execute… several arrest warrants." He stopped pacing, spreading his hands out wide again in a presentational way. "And these are my… operatives. Go on, say hello, they don't bite."

Not one of us said a word.

"Well?"

I growled into my mask. "You ain't gonna get shit from us, asshole."

He bobbed his upturned hand at me, frowning as if disappointed. "Lance Corporal Ramirez, please enlighten me… when Mister Simmons was spoon feeding you beef jerky, did he happen to tell you that he was a war criminal?"

"Aren't you?" I breathed, balling my hands into fists behind my head. "You killed my entire family. What about that crime, huh?"

"Your entire 'family,' Lance Corporal, was gearing up to murder some innocent people," Foucault retorted, partially bowing forward at me as he clasped his hands behind his back. "And they were just about to execute. Don't bullshit me, or we'll talk about Sergeant Hardt's vices next."

I didn't reply to that.

Foucault looked away from me and stalked back to Dresden, his burning gaze melting the man's soul free of its ice. I saw Dresden's shoulders wither under that observation. He was just barely not hyperventilating, cringing backwards whenever Foucault observed him.

"I—I, I—I'm s—s—sorry."

"You should be. But…" Micheal leaned in.

In a smooth two-part motion, Foucault grabbed Dresden's mask, pushing him backwards as he yanked the mask off his head. Dresden drew in several deep, panicked gasps and took one step back, halting when his head didn't follow his body. Far too late to stop the removal. Foucault grabbed his shoulder and finished clearing the mask, drawing his face in really close to Dresden's ear once it was free.

"Care to elaborate what for? Maybe... share with the class?"

Dresden shook his head, his face screwing up into a sobbing cringe. "I didn't… I didn't do… I swear, the crowd wasn't me, I swear, I—"

Foucault disengaged with a gentle shove, more disappointment on his voice. "Wrong crime. Again."

He turned his back, walking away. Dresden stopped talking to let out a confused whimper. I knew what Foucault was doing. The knife needed to be pushed deeper before it could twist the real problem free from this man's heart… this poor, pitiful, pained Julian Dresden. A deeper weight needed to be lifted. For this to work, Dresden needed to say the one thing that had been burning his soul alive for years, to speak of the image that haunted him at night above all else.

Before any of the Guardsmen could forget that they were here too, Haynes bopped the bottom of his plate shield on the road. The clang made the rest of us jump and glance back, then straighten up at Dresden again.

Foucault clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. Then, as if seizing upon an idea, he smiled at us with menace. He looked into each of us at least once. His eyes finally fell upon Dresden again.

"You know… I recently got out on parole, Mister Dresden? Thousands of unlawful homicides, overseas. I was on the hook for that. I had to answer for those murders. I was given a choice, not unlike the one I'm giving you. Between atonement... or punishment. And now, after a very long road of making it right… I am yet free again. Right now, command is whispering into my ear. Carte blanche, says she. Blank check, and full trust, to adjudicate you, on her behalf. And if I so please, I can just kill you right here, with nothing to stop me, at any time.

"If I were you, I would be asking yourself… why I haven't shot you yet."

Dresden swallowed desperately. "God damn it, are you…? You're crazy, you… There's no way that’s true, that doesn't…! They wouldn’t let you be a—... do this! No way, no way!"

"It's a different world now," Foucault retorted, shoving Dresden's chest hard with two hands to put the Lieutenant on his ass. Dresden flinched as Foucault towered down over him, throwing his hands up between them in defense as Foucault curved his entire upper body down by the waist… eclipsing the sun.

"Whether I am fit for the duty or not, Mister Dresden, I believe what I say to be true. I did murder those people, and you must now negotiate in my world. So if you intend to live through this day? I advise that you ask yourself what motivates me. Ask yourself why I killed those people. If you can figure that out, and can somehow understand how I threaded the needle myself… you might just live. So stay exactly where you are, and do. Not. Move."

Foucault withdrew his Glock 20 and casually pulled the slide back to inspect the chamber.

"P—please," Dresden said, his ass practically glued to that spot, his head bowing, now breaking eye contact in humility. "Please, please don't kill me, please—"

"I said… don't move," Foucault repeated, his gun in hand. He stepped forward so that Dresden's downward aversion of his eyes would be filled with nice clean dress shoes. Dresden scampered back two feet toward the rest of us with a trill of terror, and then Dresden realized that he had already violated the command he'd just been given. Dresden's wide blue eyes bolted upwards at Foucault, pleading non-verbally for forgiveness, shaking his head as if to say, 'accident, accident, accident.'

The gun moved halfway up from the ground in Dresden's direction, but did not muzzle him.

"This is the end you prevented for him, Julian. Is it not? To die in terror, begging for his life?"

Dresden froze. His breath caught in his threat. His eyes widened.

"Wh…"

Those words changed Dresden's demeanor entirely. He leaned forward an inch. Wide-eyed.

Foucault slowed his creeping advance, staring directly down into Dresden's eyes. Dresden stopped cowering. From Dresden's perspective, Michael looked like a stone statue, a furious giant glaring down at the appreciator, threatening him with a single massive boulder of leaden death.

"Fear not the wrath of Mister Kyle Simmons, Julian. Fear not Leonard Corsi. Fear me, if you answer wrong about this. For if I am the one holding the gun, there is no law in this land but me. I see everything, and I know… everything. So do not… fucking… lie to me."

Foucault leveled the Glock 20 directly at his face.

Dresden raised his hands, cringing, trying his damnedest not to scamper even further away. "Okay."

"What happened… in Arujá?!"

"God damn it!" Dresden whimpered, flinging his hands up in front of his face, still shaking his head. "M—Major Simmons forced me! I didn't want to shoot Russell, I didn't want to, but he made me, so please don't fucking kill me!"

Echo. Echo. Echo.

All up and down the streets of Seattle.

A pregnant pause.

The silence of the soldiers to my left and right seemed deeper, and all of them went stiller than they had been just moments before. Foucault did not waver, did not move. His frown was tense, almost pained.

"Explain."

"T—th—th—the blackouts were throwing rocks at us. Rocks. Wanted our food. They were starving."

Foucault tilted his head, his voice now calm. "Did Simmons stop the convoy… before you received the rocks? Or did he stop the convoy… because you received the rocks?"

Dresden grit his teeth and nodded his head. "After… After the rocks. After, after… He stopped us because of the rocks!"

See, here's the thing about confessions. If it's brought on by true regret, then once they start, it's very hard to stop. It sets a tone. As soon as they are past the point of no return, if they have a conscience, they want to talk. They want to be free of the pain. They have to talk. Their soul won't let it stop.

So, the confession flowed. Dresden blubbered. He cried, and it poured. Now that it had begun? I doubted the gun factored anymore. This had been devouring him from the inside, and it was why he resisted drawing connections with the younger men. Why he was cruel, why he always yelled at everyone, why he kept himself despised by the men on purpose. To get close with doomed men was pain, and he wanted no part in that anymore.

"The rocks," Julian whimpered, through his sobbing. "They… th—they hit the lead car hard enough to crack the glass, and Simmons, he… he said it was a fuckin' bullet, said it was— b—but Private Russell found the rock when he got out. He told 'im it was a rock, told us, he saw it get thrown, showed us, but Simmons didn't care. He didn't care that it wasn't no bullet that hit us, no bullet. We—we were all tuned up because of that mortar fire, the… morning riot, fuckin' alarm and siren, mortars, kept us awake all night before, watching the food... And them damn mortars, he said the Ferradors must've been tuned up at us, the…"

Foucault narrowed his eyes. Dresden trailed off.

Everything he said was true, but... now he was veering into the wrong topic.

He decided to just stop beating around the bush and he got to the heart of it.

"He said return fire. We killed those poor people, they were just hungry! Just wanted food! When it was done, we—Simmons just wanted to silence... bury evidence, fuck, I'm so sorry! I'm so fucking sorry, Russell!"

"You murdered that poor kid," Foucault demanded, trembling with his teeth bared. "Private Jacob Russell died so you could bury the evidence in a shallow grave. Ditch on the side of the road. Right?"

"Y—yeah, that... that's why we..."

"So who did it? Who was the trigger man?"

Dresden couldn't hold eye contact. He nodded his head at the ground, tears falling before him, turning the road wet.

"Say it, and be free." said Foucault. "Who pulled the trigger?"

"Fuckin' meeeee," he sobbed at the ground, clutching his hair in his hands. "Simmons said, Russell trusted me, had to be me, and…" Dresden’s face snapped upward, soaking wet, streaming tears as he bared his teeth. Finally, the anger flew out from him. "Look, fuck, it’s better the kid die quick, from a friend who cared about him! Not knowing it was coming! Better than some… yoked fuckin' yokel, tormenting him, who don't know him from Adam! I liked Russell, like a son, I did! There, I said it! But it was either that, or… Meat'd do it, said he'd take his fuckin' time, then me next! Been hurting from it ever since, and I fuckin' hated it! I mean it, I do!" He buried his head in his hands, sobbing again. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, Russell, you didn't do nothing wrong, you were just too damned good for this world! So fuckin' sorry!"

Foucault held position for a few moments longer, then slowly drew back. Satisfied. His eyes searched us all, appraising the solidification of that confession in the eyes of the witnesses before him. Dresden just… poured, sobbing in another world, curling inward on himself. Debilitated. Disarmed.

Free, though. Free. Plain for all to see.

Foucault backed off. His gun was still held in his hand, but it was limp at his side now. He glanced over at Erving, Bannon, Aaron. "Told you," he said softly to them, before looking back at the rest of us. The old spy drew a long breath. I could tell even he was shaken.

Foucault gave Dresden a full minute to process before he drew closer, squatting down just out of arm’s reach. "Julian. Please look at me." His voice was not unkind.

The Lieutenant looked miserably up at him from a wet road, seeing Foucault silhouetted against a violet-orange, carbonized sky.

"That was some real remorse, Julian. You are mended."

Dresden nodded violently, barely cogent. "I—I mean it, I swear, I mean it, I want to take it back. I'd trade places with him, if I could, he didn't deserve... If that's what... what you're gonna...?"

"I believe you," Foucault replied in a genuine tone. "For that… you have earned a second chance. You do need to be punished, however, because murder is murder. So, for this crime? You are hereby exiled from King County. You are to leave this base, to never associate with it, to never return. You will avoid military association entirely. If you do not comply, then a bullet will catch you on the road, and it will be mine. And Mister Dresden…? I have faith in you, but I will be watching."

The Lieutenant looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He panted, shaking his head in confusion. Foucault glared down at him for another few seconds. Foucault stood, then he bobbed his Glock again up the offramp.

"Yes, really. Go on. Do not turn around. Do not go back to Harbor Island. Do not even communicate with Harbor Island. If you do, my snipers will find you, and they will kill you. Don't you dare produce any more paperwork for me out there, Julian. I hate paperwork."

With a fervent intensity, Dresden nodded, tears still in his eyes. He scooped up his gas mask, scampering away at a sprint before he was even fully standing. He ran wide around Paul, Rachel, and Erving's guys, not daring to get within even ten feet from any of them.

Dresden was done. Over it. Over and out, fear of God deployed.

"And don't scavenge too long, either," Foucault yelled after him. "You have until tomorrow morning to be east of the I-Five, and never cross west of it again, for as long as you live!"

Foucault holstered his sidearm and turned his steely gaze back on the squad, sweeping his hands out wide as he walked back to us all. He dusted off his hands.

"Welcome back to the American Old West, ladies and gentlemen. This is the new justice of this land, and I'm sure you all agree… that was a very fair punishment for first degree murder. It's either that, or… I force you into the world's only remaining prison. And I think we all agree that that is not acceptable. Am I wrong?"

Foucault clasped his hands behind his back and stalked toward us, moving like a military commander inspecting his troops. His words were menace, but his cadence, tone, and demeanor were perfectly crafted to address an entire regiment of soldiers before battle.

Now was the moment.

I howled, out of nowhere: "They were my family, you fucking bastard, you owe me skin!"

I charged.

It was so off-tone and unreasonable for me to do that that none of the other soldiers followed me, not while those Talon lasers were trained on them. They weren't gonna die for the vendetta of a strange outsider, not after that display. No way. They wanted to survive this, and they now had fresh hope that they could.

I was on my own for this duel. On my own, to get my own ass beat, to show how proportional the Man could be.

I reached for Foucault with a simple lunge, meant wholeheartedly to gain control over his arm, in the hopes that he'd raise it defensively. He of course dodged expertly, taking instant control of my wrist instead, effortlessly sweeping my arms away with his single elbow. He released me, sending me half-spinning. That almost knocked me off balance. He stepped back once, not even bothering to enter a defensive stance. I rounded on him.

Foucault chuckled at me like that was the dumbest, weakest thing he'd ever seen. He looked back to his tanks and his soldiers. "You’re a brave one, Marine, heart full of fire, I'll give you that."

"You killed them," I growled, as I circled him, as he stepped back. "You killed Ian and Daniel, and Sarge, and everyone else. Where was their kangaroo court, huh?! What chance were they given to get free?!"

"You know why they're dead," Foucault glowered back. "You know what they were planning to do when I killed them, to jump those Ludds for just trying to feed themselves, and admit it… you disagreed."

"I'd have stopped them," I said desperately. "If I could. Was gonna find my own way, and you took that from me!"

"Not as you were, Corporal," Foucault said casually, with just the slightest hint of condescension. "They couldn't feel guilt or compassion anymore, not like you can. So, soldier… return to your post. Do not push your luck today, or you will lose."

I charged him again.

Paul, Rachel, and the other Talons stomped forward once in unison to startle the rest of the squad, to keep them all reminded of the individual stakes. That way, they wouldn't feel brave enough to join in. It also served the purpose of tying their unspoken creepy unity to the image of me getting my ass kicked. A very critical union indeed.

To the QRF team's eyes, the DHS agents weren't concerned by my token rebellion. Not at all. As long as the Talon troopers felt in control, and unafraid by this physical conflict, then the outcome was inevitable.

I threw a punch aimed genuinely at Foucault's face, but he was already on a momentum track out of the way the instant I committed to it, so I had no hope to recover. He deflected me effortlessly. I tried a series of jabs and punches, and he casually brushed my arms aside as if I were moving in slow motion, like Neo fighting Agent Smith.

I kept going, and going, and going, and he made me look foolish as my every swing met nothing but air. I tried to lean toward him to close distance, and he simply twirled out of the way. With a feint, I got him to deflect air; a false error, one I fell for. With my other fist, I went for his face. Full commit.

He exploited the opening. Foucault sidestepped me like the wind, going the opposite way I expected.

Holy shit, that was cool.

Before I could stop my forward stumbling momentum, he drove the bottom of both fists against the back of my carrier rig, hard. I staggered flat, and he followed me down. Before I was even grounded, Michael ratcheted my right arm up behind my back and knelt on me, pressing my gas mask against the cement. Also hard.

God damn it, ow.

"Don't make me break it, Ramirez," Foucault rattled into my ear, as he yanked my arm in emphasis.

He held that pose and leaned forward, applying pressure in a very obvious way. I yelped.

Ow, too much, Michael. Stop—stop.

He let up, held it for another second, twisted my arm gently one final time in threat… then he released me, standing slowly up.

I wheezed, coughing, gripping my chest, trying and failing to stand against the pain. Coughing sucks in a gas mask, and I had to resist the impulse to remove it, or else I'd never be allowed to complete the rest of this operation. I resigned myself to roll onto my back and looked up at Michael, wreathed in dawnlight as he was.

The impression was made: He would not be a vindictive man toward a grievance, would not kill me for an unarmed assault. But, to oppose him was still folly. Now that I had been neutralized, Michael looked at the rest of the squad, addressing them, stepping over my legs.

"Any other confessions of homicide to air?" he asked quietly. "Or are you all quite done, wasting your precious time?"

Foucault withdrew a sealed manila folder from his trench coat, flicking it straight up beside his head to make it seem like solid granite. "Now hear this. A proclamation. An arrest warrant, Dead or Alive. Inside of this folder is the official DD-214 discharge paperwork for every war criminal on my shit list back on Harbor Island." He sneered down at me.

I scowled up at him. He tilted his head. I mirrored the gesture to let him know I was okay.

Michael continued, recentering on the crowd.

"You are to present these to your Sergeant Major, or to your Colonel, directly. No intermediaries. Straight to HQ, or I will consider you to be an accomplice. Gentlemen? If you pick up this folder after I leave… you will handle it carefully, or you will give it to someone else. This is the One Ring.

"The murderers on this list will present themselves on the land bridge, or will be presented, by… " He checked his watch. "Hm. Let's call it twelve noon today, shall we? In honor of this man's stupid cowboy hat.

"Should these murderers present themselves accordingly? I will afford them the same punishment I have just issued to Mister Dresden; confession, exile, and release. If they refuse? I will simply come inside and kill them all, one by one. In that event, the rest of you would do well to stay the fuck out of my way, or you will die too."

He looked down at me with a severe glare. "... Regardless of your good moral fiber, past or present."

Aww. He likes me.

In protest of that telepathic jab, Foucault dropped the sealed folder on the ground next to my face, which caused dust to whirl up and outward in a plume, clattering against my mask.

"Spread the word," he declared, his voice belting out in a vicious bite. "Mister Kyle Simmons and his cronies are marked men, outlaws, and the Pantry's walls will not save him from justice. If there are no further questions, we are done here."

Foucault turned, not waiting for a question. He pointed his left index and middle finger up to the sky beside his head, rotated it with a sharp twirl to indicate a military 'regroup,' and then he moved toward the nearest IFV, ducking into the Stryker.

I rolled my head sideways to watch him go, panting, saying nothing while trying to stand.

Paul gestured his gun at Erving, Bannon, and Fanning. "Get in."

The three cuffed men complied. The rest of the Talons followed, filing sideways into the ports of the tanks, their guns remaining level at us. Rachel aimed her rifle directly at me as I stared her down, her finger off the trigger. She put a sneer into her voice. "See you later, Cowboy."

She entered last. Once they were all inside, the door closed.

Haynes dropped his shield in the road with an earth-rumbling clang, and everyone spun, backing up from him. He dropped several collected rifles onto the shield, my sidearm mixed in among them.

"Fear not the darkness," Haynes intoned. "I pursue only murderers and tyrants. I do not destroy good souls."

Haynes turned, lumbering back into the darkness of the 99 tunnel, unafraid of us. The Strykers yoked left at the end of the offramp, their engines humming away with the puttering stench of precious gasoline.

We were alone, all thirteen of us. Everyone lowered their hands from their heads, and the three handcuffed men stood. Nobody moved or spoke for a long moment. We remained motionless, watching the darkness until the stomping of Haynes faded away entirely. We looked at each other in awe, the Guardsmen surprised to be alive and unharmed.

Once the coast was entirely clear, I muscled myself to my feet, collecting my Glock from the back of Haynes's shield. I checked the mag and chamber, and pounded at my chest in anger at the nerve pain. I must've looked pissed. The rest of the men hesitated to go near the knight's shield at first, but they all inched their way over once I had demonstrated that it was safe to retrieve a weapon.

I was the ranking NCO now. I returned to the manila folder and hesitated, growling at it like I didn't want to touch it.

The S-O-S fireworks launched off from the base, the yellow-white-yellow beacon deploying right on time.

After a glance up at the yellow light, I scooped up the folder.

"Corporal?" Private McKinsey said, trembling my way. "Are you sure?"

"I don't want to know what happens if we leave it," I replied, then I directed my attention to the others. "Get your vehicles! Back to base, andale!"

What were we even allowed to do now? Certainly, we could deliver paperwork to the Colonel. No political officers were left alive to intercept it, and Dresden was gone now, so... delivering post for the DHS was very allowed.

Author's Note

🗡️ ~ [Tool – Forty Six & Two]
🛡️ ~ [Lee DeWyze – Blackbird Song]
🤠 [Django Unchained OST – Freedom]

🗡️ ~ Dresden did pretty well for himself out there.