The Campaigner

Act VI

Date: 26 AUG 2020
Operation: Athena's Grace – Phase VII
Location: Seattle, Washington
Function A: Enact ideological quarantine of Set 334DE in preparation for selective Context conclusion.
Function B: Offramp provision to Set 334DE [principal Context 67DA271].

"All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible. Such people have a tendency to become drunk on violence, a condition to which they are quickly addicted." ~ Frank Herbert, Chapterhouse Dune

I was not blind to the impression we left on those men in that tunnel.

For this reason, I chose to ride back with Private Shane McKinsey, the kid who ran first, so I could directly confront that. As you might imagine, he was in no state to drive anymore, so… with the packet of DD-214s tucked under my plate carrier, I took the wheel for him.

Shane swept his head around, looking through Seattle's streets for black Strykers, black helicopters. Men in black, maybe. Terminators. Maybe even aliens. Everything was on the table now. Nothing was certain anymore.

"Hey," I said softly. That drew his bolting gaze. "They're not coming back, Shane. They set terms, gave us a directive. They wouldn't attack us again, they only came for Dresden."

"We popping a Q-P flare?" The kid asked me, as if he didn't hear me. "He put hands on you, what… what if he was infected? Or a carrier, or, or—or something?"

He wouldn't grasp the logic right away, but he'd think about it later. It was most important that I seemed sure of myself when it came to procedure. We could unpack his emotions once I finished setting a better leadership example than Dresden.

"Can't pop a flare," I replied calmly, driving around an old three-car pileup. "If we do that, we'd have to go straight back to the Pantry."

"That's what we want, right?" McKinsey asked, punctuating with a snort. His voice inflected upwards fast enough to make his voice crack. "For… for decon?"

I shook my head at him. "If Simmons gets his hands on these documents before the Colonel does, he'll move to bury the evidence, witnesses included. You heard Dresden, Simmons is a war criminal. He won't want that information getting out, so… what do you think Simmons would do if he realized he could kill his way to a solution? Having already done it once?"

Shane thought about it for a few seconds. The calibrated question forced him to actually think, finally.

"Oh, man," he groaned, clutching the nape of his neck beneath his helmet, letting his head fall toward his lap.

Fetal position.

Okay. That's what the whole team is feeling. Address this.

I blipped the horn, lifted my fist out the window to sign 'Halt' to the convoy, then I slowed, putting the truck in park. I turned to look at Shane straight-on so he could see my eyes.

It hurt to see him like that, and that fell into my tone. "Shane, please look at me."

He exhaled rapidly twice, looking up from his lap to make eye contact. His hands were clutching the back of his neck, his fingernails digging into his mask straps. "Wh… what, what’s wrong, what did I do?"

Shit.

I winced, frustrated with Dresden's leadership style more than anything else. If he ever demanded the attention of any one individual, it was usually to bust them down. Because… who knows. Who knows who was getting picked next for a shallow ditch, if any of those political officers decided they didn't like one of the grunts?

Most of these guys were kids, really, just kids. And that was to be expected; the Ferrador War had drained the military of most of its experienced enlisted, just like uploading at home had drained policing, healthcare, and firefighters. The government's desperation for hands lowered their recruitment and training standards, the problem with increased demand.

In the military, you could usually get away with recruiting kids at 18, because privates were seldom without supervision in high liability positions. It was different in policing; you were expected to be autonomous as a cop, so most departments wouldn't pick you up until you were at least 24, and some wanted men well into their thirties. To be autonomous as an adult, you needed life experience in screwing up, in dealing with interpersonal conflict.

Shane had none of that when this mess started, and there were now very few NCOs to supervise and inspire the rookies. No coping skills. No parents to go home to. Few leaders worth following but high officers. No peers to pep talk them.

"It's gonna be okay," I said tenderly. "We're not going to Simmons, and that monster in the tunnel was for scaring Dresden into a confession, and honestly? You were right to run in that tunnel too, you saved us."

He shook his head. "No? I'm… I left you guys, Corporal."

I paused for a few seconds so he'd focus on the words. "There was nothing you could have done, Shane. Nothing at all. Don't look at me like that, hell, I… Me? Shane look at me, who am I? I planted my feet, I got off two full mag dumps, point blank, and it didn't even put a dent in that guy, what… what could you have done against a machine like that?"

He nodded fast a few times. "I—I see your point."

No he didn't. Not yet.

"You did good," I assured him again, grasping his shoulder. "You, running away… Shane, look at me? We couldn't've seen a thing in there without your light up the tunnel, man, even I forgot to pop a flare. You running away, it helped us. Helped guide us out, gave us something to hope for. We saw you, and we imagined being where you were, wishing we had all ditched Dresden in that tunnel, because screw how he treated you guys. You got no reason to be loyal to an asshole who screams at you!"

"Y—yeah," he trembled breathlessly, his eyes falling back to the dashboard.

I watched Shane for a moment longer, resting my forefinger nervously against my lips. I tilted my head, pointing. "You came back to us when we needed you. Don’t be ashamed of protecting yourself when you're in over your head, it just means you're there for us in other ways. You know, I've run from death before, too?"

He looked at me.

"I…" My brow furrowed, and I looked out the window at the city, panting through my nostrils, my voice becoming weak. I thought of a snow-covered graveyard.

"I left a friend behind once, right before a firefight. Kicked myself ever since. But I had to make a choice, Shane. Had other people to live for. And here? In this war?" I sniffed, hurt in my eyes as my voice got tight. "We all left someone behind, man, we all split ourselves in half at least once."

He let out a single sob, looking away from me. There it was, the black swan. The family they all abandoned out here.

I gave him a minute.

"... Listen." Gently, I touched his shoulder. "Can you do me a favor? Drive for me, switch places? I gotta… I gotta figure out how we can all live through all this political bullshit. There's a way, I just gotta figure it out. We're gonna fix this."

He nodded harshly as he wrung his hands and grasped at his wrists.

There we go; from fetal position to self-hugging.

That was as good as it was going to get for now, but progress is progress. After what was gonna happen later, he'd relive this conversation a lot. It'd guide him, maybe even keep him safe.

With an exhausted sigh, I pushed the truck door open and stepped out. Shane followed suit, rounding the hood. I faced the convoy, blading my hand upward beside my hat, the signal for 'information.' Everyone leaned out their windows or over their weapons to hear me through my mask. I raised my voice to a hoarse yell.

"Folks! Here's the plan! We have just witnessed a confession of a war crime! We will need to testify to Nakamura, and HQ is the safest place for all of you to hole up, you get me? Not the One-Star! If Meat is at HQ, we're going to lie when we come in! The lie is, I am the only one who got touched. That way, I go to Q-P alone. The rest of you…"

The men looked around at each other. They sent around nervous glances.

"Look," I said, redirecting. "I've been living with these guys in the Pantry for the last two weeks, and I'll tell you; they've been panicking up and down about this Arujá shit, and now we know why. All of their interior guards fought in Brazil, all of 'em! So if you go to Q-P, those brother killers will probably drag you inside, and take you hostage! We don't want that, right? ... Right?! Come on, that's not rhetorical, you've all got a voice here!"

After more perturbed looks around the convoy, they nodded at me, a few verbalizing affirmatively.

"My plan's simple. I'll lead the Pantry people off your trail. They all like me, won't be hard. Go straight to Nakamura, give your statements to him, or the Colonel, no one else. And most importantly: Don't touch anyone until you've all been sprayed down with Virex. Any questions? Comments? Disagreements? Come on, speak up, I want to hear it."

No questions. All shaking heads.

"Good! Stick to the plan, I'm gonna take the hit. I…" I looked aside at the city for a second, considering. "Guys, I'm on borrowed time as it is, and I gotta go back for Casey, and do what I can. So God bless you guys, and live on, that's what I dream for you."

I turned around, stepping aside and presenting the way to the driver side to Shane, and I made for the passenger seat, panting and trying not to cry.

"Go, man. Please, let's just get this over with."

Shane led the convoy up the east harbor to the land bridge, where he looked at me for the go-ahead. I pointed my approval, and he honked three times. The rear vehicle repeated the honks. The landmine operator on the other side let out two bleats with his air horn, clearing us to cross.

I could see several curious binoculars watching us from the defense line.

I gently tapped the Private on the shoulder with the back of my hand as we drove up.

"Yeah Corporal?"

"Private," I rasped. I cleared my throat. "I need you to suggest we get the Virex at the muster yard, can you manage that?”

"Sure," Shane shrugged, looking confused. "Ramirez, why… why are you helping us, don’t you… don’t you hate that guy out…?"

"The Coat wasn't wrong about my squad, Shane," I said meekly. "Doesn't make 'em any less family to me, though, and… you know, I had to watch 'em die, right? I knew 'em all well enough for that to hurt. But I gotta move past it for you guys. I can't let it stop me, or Simmons might kill you guys too."

I reached down under my rig to withdraw the manila folder. My chest was still killing me after Foucault threw me to the ground, but my injury needed to be real for this to work. I wheezed with pain as I pulled it out, then cleared my throat.

I discreetly inspected the two packets inside, and withdrew just the one meant for Velasquez, making a show of looking it over as I slid the folder back into my vest.

"Hide…" I hissed painfully. "Hide this under your plate. Once you're alone with Nakamura, put it directly into his hands."

He nodded really fast, stuffing the pages awkwardly under his armor, his voice breaking. "Sure? You gonna, um… are you sure you wanna go back there?"

"I'll be good," I affirmed shakily as we turned right, pulling up to HQ. "Hard part's over for you. For me, I…" I shook my head. "Look, I'll figure something out. Just tell Nakamura I said… I'm doing my best for the Guardsmen that are still stuck over there."

"Okay…?"

I could feel his eyes on me, intensely worried for me now. I didn't look at him, because if I did, I’d never be able to put myself in the mindset I needed to be in for this next bit. I just nervously searched the faces ahead, took a breath, and tried to feel angry.

Seeing Meat made that easy. That asshole.

We drove into the muster yard, where Nakamura was already speaking with Meat; it looked like they had just finished assigning jobs for the day's batch. Both men looked at me oddly, because showing up here with the Dagger vehicles was a far departure from procedure. We were supposed to pull up at the perimeter, once past the mines, and wait for debrief.

Both of them also expected to see Dresden in the passenger's seat, and I could see their confusion at my white hat being there instead. Before they could generate a theory, I threw myself out of the door and answered the question they were gonna ask.

"Dresden's gone," I growled, clutching my armor as I stomped up to them. "The Coat ambushed us at the tunnel. Threw some friggin' gorilla at us in power armor! Took our guns, and beat the shit outta me!"

Meat's face screwed up in agitated confusion. "He's gone…? What power armor, what the hell are you—?"

"He's M-I-A!" I roared, becoming very animated with my body language, knowing the QRF team had to be staring at me from behind; their silence at what I said here would be acceptance of everything I'd say, giving me full credibility. "They had… two dozen men, boss; three Strykers, with cannons! Held us up at the Ninety-Nine! Stirrup's… friggin' arrested, or something, they had 'em in handcuffs, took 'em away in a Stryker, I dunno! The Coat whispered something to Dresden in his ear, made him break down friggin' crying, sobbing on the ground. Shit, he's gonna be here at noon!"

"Who will?" Nakamura asked, his eyes widening as he bobbed a hand at me to implore calm. "Dresden?"

"No, the Coat, no," I said weakly, clutching at my chest. "I can't… God damn it."

Nakamura stepped up to me, squinting with concern, reaching for my shoulder without touching me. "Is it bad?"

Shane stepped up beside me, gesturing him back with a worried tone. "The guy beat him up pretty bad, Sergeant Major. He's uh…"

"My gunshot wound," I snapped hoarsely, pointing at my chest. "Pushed me down on it."

Nakamura winced empathetically, gesturing aside to HQ. "Do you need a medic, Ramirez?"

I shook my head in refusal. "Nerve pain, nothing they can do. I'm contaminated, stay back."

"Contam—?" Meat stammered, stepping forward with a palm outward to make me back up from Nakamura. "Why didn't you go to Q-P? Your seal break?"

I shook my head, making eye contact with him. "No, First Sergeant. No exposure."

Shane stepped up beside me. "Virex, Sergeant Major? We got some in the janitor's closet, don't we?"

Meat shook his head, squinting between the three of us, pointing up toward the Pantry. "Uh—no?! Go to Q-P, all of you! We need to do a full decon, Private, you know this!"

I said, "They won't go, Meat, they didn't get touched."

Nakamura squinted suspiciously at me for the way I had phrased that, then at the side of Meat's head. Nakamura left his concern unvoiced though, because he'd rather not send anyone to QP if they didn't strictly qualify to go.

Meat did a double-take at me too, and I held his gaze, raising both of my eyebrows. I tilted my head, nodding my head at the truck, trying to communicate that there was something I knew about that he didn't, and that it was imperative that we get a move on.

He had a think about that. Why would I be trying to communicate anything to him in secret, at a time like this?

I had said Dresden had broken down crying. That might have had something to do with it.

Meat knew full well what Dresden might be crying about.

I saw that train of thought shifting in his features, the intended thought processes snapping into place like Lego blocks. And this is why Simmons liked Meat as an executive officer. Simmons was a Psyops officer, and Meat had the same reasoning training, but only about half the intelligence. That made him stupidly easy to program.

Meat nodded over at one of Nakamura's aides by the HQ building. "Oliver! Go get the sprayer for Ramirez here, I gotta ride back with him!"

"Yes First Sergeant!" Private Oliver hopped to, sprinting off, then back again just as fast with the hand pump. I stepped up to get a decon spray-down, then turned around to get back into my technical, nodding aside to order the gunner out of the bed. I asserted myself quickly into the driver seat so Meat wouldn't take it from me.

Shane and the others were already stepping up to Oliver to offer themselves for Virex. Meat apparently didn't think too much about that, his mind was already overclocking on his present concern. He slotted his hulking body into the passenger side door, glowering at me.

"What's the issue, Ramirez? What the hell happened out there?"

"It's friggin' bad," I said into my mask, starting the engine and putting it in drive, yanking back the shift.

"Bad? You're gonna have to be more specific. Losing Dresden is already fuckin' bad."

"If I tell you," I growled, "you'll think I'm goddamn crazy, but I swear to you, it's the truth."

Settling the wheel with a knee, I reached up to pull my hat and mask off.

"You nuts?!" He leaned back from me, lifting both hands. "Stop!"

"Meat, chill! I need friggin' air, incubation period, give me this!"

It occurred to me that he might not even understand about incubation period. Not like he could stop me anyway, he needed my information too much.

I dropped my hat into my lap and tossed the mask into the back. I rolled the window down, leaned outside, and took long gasping breaths. I was damned glad I didn't have to put that wretched mask back on for the rest of the operation.

Looking at Meat, I continued explaining, turning onto Hesco Street. "They jumped us in the tunnel with... power armor. No idea how else to describe it. Guy was eight feet tall!"

He glared at me, and his jaw shifted forward in disbelief, but he said nothing.

"We dumped a hundred bullets at him, Meat, but he just kept coming at us, like a… He was waving a shield around. Smacked my rifle clean in half with it. Shattered the foregrip clean off." I rubbed at my chest beneath my plate. I growled and pounded my fist against my chest a few times.

"You're fulla shit," he said incredulously, eyes narrowing.

I threw my right hand up beside my head and yelled, half-turned out the window so I wouldn't breathe on him. "Right hand to God, Meat, they threw a friggin' Terminator Space Marine at us!"

Meat stared, slack-jawed. "Like… from Warhammer?"

And now it was my turn to double-take at him.

I squinted at him in confusion, the angry terror completely gone from my voice. "Yes, Meat, like… like Warhammer."

We awkwardly looked away from each other.

Uh. Wow.

I panted, rubbing at my chest again with an angry growl, breathing through my teeth. "The Coat fracked my sternum, I think. And he… he had Dresden sobbing into his hands and knees with just a few words."

"What'd he say?" Meat demanded.

"I couldn't follow it all," I breathed back, gulping. "Arujá stuff, I'm missing some context. Uh. The Lieutenant started screaming something about a… a guy named Russell, saying, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' boo-hoo, right? Then the Coat told Dresden he was exiled... Then Dresden…" I bobbed my upturned hand out before me, tracking aside with it. "... he ran off into the city, crying like a little bitch!"

"That fuckin' stupid pussy," seethed the First Sergeant, with a tone that implied deep thought laid behind the words. In my peripheral vision, I saw him lower his head as he processed that information, breathing hard.

"There's more you gotta see, boss—" I began, gesturing at my vest.

Meat flicked up a hand to tell me to shut up so he could think. He couldn't really multi-thread his brain.

Gripping the steering wheel, I accelerated toward the Pantry, going up from 5 miles per hour to 10, and no faster, to spare the fuel. Needed distance from HQ now, more than anything else.

As Meat thought through the ramifications of disclosures to the QRF team, and the possibility of them telling Velasquez about Russell, I saw the expression on his face I expected to see: offense, as if someone had just tried to steal some food off of his plate. Then, his face returned to neutral.

"What?" I asked. "What's the—?"

He roared, violently punching the dashboard once.

I flinched back hard, turning to brace my right arm against the seat. "Hey, woah, what the f—?!"

And that's why he punched the dash. He wanted me facing him like this so he'd have a clear run to my throat. Friggin' psychopath. Without warning, his fist flung up, opening to clutch my windpipe in a tight grip. The other hand pinned my gun into its holster, precluding that as an option.

Well okay, shit. I guess we're doing this now.

I slammed on the brake. Meat gripped me hard enough with his nails to leave marks and send sparks of pain up and down my sides, restricting my breathing and threatening my windpipe. I reflexively grit my teeth, narrowed my eyes, dug my chin into his thumb, tensing all the muscles in my neck. My hands flew up off the wheel to grapple his wrist.

Obviously, folks, I wasn't going to budge this musclehead an inch. But he felt safer with my hands on his arm, so that's where I put them. If I went for my gun, he'd pop my throat like a water balloon, and he knew I knew it.

"They heard all of that shit?" he demanded, his voice a growl through bared teeth as his horrid breath wafted across my face. "Why the fuck did you not have them all go straight to Q-P?!"

"M—McKinsey," I managed, as I clenched my teeth. I then coughed violently, tactically going slack, speaking less; he wanted that information badly, so I was hamming up how much my injury was affecting my ability to speak in conjunction with his assault, letting him think I was fading out. After a few seconds of my gagging, he loosened his grip slightly.

"Speak."

I continued after a very painful cough, my chest searing. I swallowed, which started another coughing fit. "Because… McKinsey wouldn't go to Q-P, he refused… wanted to go to Nakamura… so… could arrest you. S'why I talked first."

"Arrest me why?"

"Arujá… Coat gave…" I coughed, and he released some pressure. "Gave McKinsey evidence…!"

"Evidence?"

"For the Colonel! I took it from'm… in my armor…!"

I jabbed a finger at my chest rapidly to indicate where.

Without letting go of my throat, Meat dug under my chest plate with his free hand. This caused me searing, explosive pain. I groaned for a solid three seconds as Meat gripped the manila folder, wedging it in half against my chest, wrenching it free. Finally letting go of me, he tore apart the folder to get at the papers inside.

And the other stuff. The worse stuff.

I gasped, leaning against the door with my hands presented palm up, to minimize how much of a threat I was to him so he'd stay backed the hell off.

Oh my God, you friggin' impatient asshole, I was getting to all of that.

Mal was about to hurt him twice as badly. Roll for mental damage.

Let me describe to you what Meat experienced opening that folder, so you can better understand the sheer, abject terror of an AI pissed off in 4D... because how dare he put hands on me? This was a special brand of eldritch horror, purpose built, intended to maximize the low statistical chance that Meat and Simmons might just surrender, sight unseen, instead of forcing us to kill their whole platoon.

Within that packet, the very first thing Meat noticed was the DD-214 discharge paperwork. Every soldier knows what that looks like, that's not scary, but his was right on top, with his old home address visible. That was not an accident. That was scary.

What drew his eye next was the large stack of glossy photographs paperclipped to the front of his form, straight from the Valdemar print shop.

The photographs consisted of images seen through the eyes of one of the two perpetrators of Arujá who had since uploaded. In this case, a Private named Joseph Reid. Just so there was no confusion about this fact, Foucault had even written the name "REID" in permanent marker on the back of each photograph, with dates and timestamps, just to rub in those dark implications.

I'll be vague in describing these photos, because… they depicted war crimes.

Images one, two, and three: first person views of an M4A1 automatic rifle, muzzle flash visible, aiming into a fleeing crowd. Not much to say there, your imagination can do the rest.

The fourth image showed Private Russell from behind, his hands clutching his hair, undergoing the beginning of the panic attack. He was on the east road out of the city; they had driven the convoy away from the crime scene a ways before Russell had tried to throw himself out of the truck, so Dresden had to lay on the brake, which halted the convoy.

In this photo, Dresden was in front of Russell, his hands on the kid's shoulders. Dresden had a harrowed, desperate look on his face, probably realizing he wasn't going to calm Russell down.

The last image… I won't describe. Dresden already described it well enough.

I watched Meat exhale shakily. His very soul probably felt violated. These images verified a fact: that literally everyone who had ever uploaded, who Meat had ever harmed, in his entire life… had effectively told Celestia what he had done to each of them, just by uploading.

'You cannot hide from me, Leonard Corsi.'

Imagine the sheer exposure a violent psychopath might feel, knowing that a being with godlike omnipotence was watching him, judging him, and now commanding Space Marine Terminator assassins after him. Demanding that he pay the bill.

After parsing the images, Meat's body language and personal affect shifted. First, he inflated, drawing in a deep, deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if what he was looking at would be gone if he just reopened them. When it didn't disappear, he opened his eyes as wide as he could. He drew each photos up to his face to inspect the detail, almost pushing the photos against his nose. He exhaled again after nearly fifteen seconds, finally remembering to breathe.

Total understanding wrapped itself around his little walnut-sized brain, squeezing itself into a fist, making him pant open-mouthed, sending more of his disgusting breath all throughout the truck.

"What… the fuck… is this…?"

I just stared at him as he processed, watching him incredulously, clearly not grasping whatever terror he was grasping. A few seconds passed in total silence. Meat frowned, met my eyes, and flicked his hand at the Pantry. His voice was appropriately harrowed.

"You did good, Ramirez. Drive."

I didn't comply. I set my eyes forward at the road, a scowl slowly absorbing the confusion of my face. I bladed my hand at the steering wheel, breathing hard with rage. I rasped.

He ordered again. "I said drive!"

"Do you want my friggin' help… or not?"

"The hell'd you say to me?" Meat demanded, speaking without thinking. He locked eyes on me as he realized he just fell back on a Pantry heuristic out of panic, and not on a calculated reply, so he moved to recover. His brow furrowed as he twisted in my direction, and his mouth muscles communicated dread. He was trying to soothe me. "I said you did good Corporal, you're off the hook. Now drive, we can't afford to wait arou—"

I whipped my head at him harshly like an enraged animal. He stopped talking. I growled wordlessly to clear my throat so I wouldn't cough, then pointed at him, my Nebraskan accent intensifying. "I told you… I'm in it against Celestia, no matter what! So First Sergeant…? Why the fuck—" I shouted with a scowl, yanking the handbrake, throwing myself out of the truck with force, "—are you physically fucking attacking me?!"

I marched immediately back in the direction of HQ. I didn't even bother to put the truck in park or close the door.

Meat hesitated, then he got out of the truck and started after me. The mere concept that even one person might abandon him, after this discovery, put a lofty, heady anger in his tone.

"What the hell are you doing, Corporal?! Do you somehow think they'll—"

Wrong.

I whirled, drawing my sidearm, sighting up on his brain stem with my red dot. I was the picture of rage, imitating some of the psychos I'd seen in bodycam footage seconds before they drew up and started shooting.

My body language was effectively unambiguous. Forward-aggressive, power walking. "You wanna die today, huh, you ready?! You ready, motherfucker, wanna be my enemy?!"

Without a trace of fear. Meat staggered, his head preceding his body backwards, eyes wide at me. He was so stunned that he didn't even raise his hands more than a few inches, just backpedaling.

Ooh, he did not expect this. No one had ever been brave enough to do that to him before. Be as yoked as you wanna be, but no amount of muscle or bluster is gonna stop the hollow points of Miguel Ramirez, Marine Corps psychopath extraordinare. Meat thought he was the baddest junkyard dog? No, not anymore. He had met his true match with Miguel.

We were at least two hundred yards away from anyone, equidistant from both bases. By now, someone had to be on the roof of HQ watching us with binoculars, but no help would come running for Meat this time, not if the QRF team was currently spilling the beans to Nakamura. No matter how much Meat yelled or hollered for aid, he was now seconds from death… and if we stayed here long enough with Meat at gunpoint, Nakamura would send a truck to make an arrest. And if that happened? They would accept me with open arms back at HQ. Even if I had just drilled Meat dead, right there.

The math of this equation was fully understood by Meat. His life was in my hands, and it would only continue at my whim, and he knew it. I saw the realization land in his eyes that if I were pushed even one more inch further, he died. It was about that moment Meat realized he may have just terminally screwed up.

Keeping the pressure high, I defined why I was pissed, to de-escalate. "Celestia stole everything from me, Meat! God damned everything! Planet, family, home, species… everything! So if I die… I will die fighting her! I am NOT dying to you," I said, flicking my eyes downward at him in a judgmental way, "you of ALL fucking people… with your disgusting hands wrapped around my throat!"

I jabbed the gun at him two-handed in center-axis stance, stepping his way again. He backed up a few more steps, his hands slowly raising. His head turned away from me an inch as his eyes watched my gun.

As I lingered a quantum needle between my brain and his, on the very poised edge of stabbing him into oblivion, the intrusive thought pushed its way to the forefront: it would be so easy to go off script here. Just half an inch. Just four pounds of pressure, and this soul abuser's mind would simply twist apart into threads of cosmic dust.

But no.

Meat's time was elsewhere, further down the temporal stack. That quantum needle was not mine to thread. Meat was not going to kill another person ever again. He could wait his turn. He could enjoy what little life he had left.

Instead, I made him jump with the ferocity of my voice. "Final offer, First Sergeant! Did I make a mistake in siding with you?!"

For most people… the pulling of a gun would've been the terminal end of a relationship, but this guy? He was a psychopath, bona fide. They don't really operate on the same emotional levels you or I might. All things to them are transactional, and… right here? Ooh, emotional as I was, I threw him a lifeline. In a way, what I just said was an offer of true loyalty.

Meat may have kicked the crazy pitbull a little, with me. Crazy or not though, dire circumstances being what they were? I still wanted to be his pitbull. And who wouldn't want a badass, psychotic junkyard Marine between themselves and a home invader? Hell, wouldn't you? If someone was about to kick in your front door, wouldn't you want Miguel Ramirez to stand between you and the bad guy, sworn into your service?

Yeah. Yeah, I think most would. Meat sure as shit did, I think I was the only man who had ever scared him.

"Look," Meat grumbled in upward inflection, lifting both hands in a placating way, to show he was unarmed. He grimaced at the ground for a flash of an instant, probably feeling almost physical pain in having to eat crow. "I thought you'd sold me out, Ramirez, that's all. Clearly, you didn't."

That was probably the closest anyone had ever gotten to an apology from this asshole in his whole life, but hey, I'd take it.

I held eye contact for a few seconds in warning, working my jaw left and right in furious consideration, before… holstering my pistol. His shoulders relaxed slowly. I took my eyes off of him and stepped around the hood toward the driver side. When I reached the open driver side door, I grabbed it, and turned to make eye contact with him, issuing a final warning.

"Marines belong to God, Meat. You would do well to remember that before you touch me again. He works through me."

I got back into the truck. He sheepishly rejoined me, busying himself and saving face by flipping through the discharge paperwork.

And I drove.

Up in Simmons's sparse conex office, I related the entire story, beginning with the most important things. By the time I got into the deeper details though, Simmons was only half-listening to me; his primary focus became the discharge paperwork and their attached eldritch photographs… and… the final page of the packet, which I will now read in full:

TERMS OF SURRENDER:

The intended recipient of this message is Mister Kyle Simmons of Harbor Island. If you are not the intended recipient, please ensure safe delivery with all due haste.

The United States Army Judge Advocate Corps demands the unconditional surrender of all men so named in this packet. Do note that a new state of existence for our species demands a departure from standard judicial procedure.

Typically, a conviction of these charges would carry the death penalty. However, despite the overwhelming and irrefutable evidence confirmed by numerous military and civilian eyewitnesses (PON-E Act, 2018), these charges will not be formally prosecuted should the following deferral conditions be met:

TO ACCEPT THESE TERMS OF SURRENDER: Cross the Harbor Island land bridge, unarmed, no later than 1200 hours on this day, 26 August 2020.

DEPOSITION AND TRANSPORTATION: Misters Kyle Fredrick Simmons and Leonard Timothy Corsi are to provide a deposition directly to Special Agent Michael Foucault, in order to support the edification and exoneration of Colonel Carlos J. Velasquez. All apprehended individuals will then be transported east of the I-5 Interstate Highway, where they are to be released, unharmed.

IF SURRENDER IS GIVEN IN GOOD FAITH: The accused will be provided a set of vehicles, food, civilian clothing, and gasoline. These articles are to be issued by lawful agents of the Department of Homeland Security. The accused will then be issued further probationary stipulations:

After such release, the accused are FORBIDDEN from crossing west of the I-5 Interstate Highway, or from joining any military or paramilitary organization. Special exemption is to be granted ONLY in extenuating circumstances. Exemptions or revocation of these restrictions will be determined at the sole discretion of custodial officer Special Agent Michael Foucault.

Should any of the accused exercise further UNREASONABLE FORCE upon any other person, LETHAL FORCE may be applied in the interest of preserving life. Cases of lawful self defense by the accused are to be examined on a case-by-case basis at the sole discretion of custodial officer Special Agent Michael Foucault.

REFUSAL OF THESE TERMS OF SURRENDER, in part or in full, AT ANY TIME, is grounds for SUMMARY EXECUTION FOR THE CRIME OF TREASON, in the interest of preserving the lives and good health of Harbor Island's residents. This execution is to be carried out at the sole discretion of custodial officer, Special Agent Michael Foucault.

Personally, gentlemen:

I would advise strongly against further escalation.

Consider the well being of your men. We are not asking for you to relinquish your command over them, and we are not demanding that you suffer. We only demand good conduct toward your fellow human beings, and this is not an unreasonable condition.

Should you adhere to these very fair terms, you will be spared, and you will live relatively well. Should you elect to resist justice however, then you shall be dead before nightfall.

It is truly as simple as that.

Signed,

TJAG General M. 'Athena' Lewis
Judge Advocate General of the United States Army

Yeah. She held a formal rank in the United States military, as a lawyer. Are you surprised? She was programmed to be a lawyer, folks. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, the other tenth is a tank, and Mal has both.

To lend to the credibility of her position, the DD-214s were accurate to the letter; home addresses, a list of educational achievements, reasons for separation, and a big ol' checkbox next to "BRAZILIAN CIVIL WAR" as the context for their discharges.

The criminal charges for Simmons alone: 33 counts felony murder, 2 counts murder.

Again and again, Meat cycled through the photos in a fascinated, morbid curiosity that seemed to hurt him every time he tried. He averted his gaze occasionally. It was hard for him to look through someone else's eyes. He had probably never done it before.

I explained Dresden's confession to Simmons. For all they knew, I had prevented these forms from reaching Nakamura, which meant I was the singular reason Meat wasn't presently handcuffed to Bashar's favorite radiator up in the HQ building.

"You're in here too, apparently," Simmons said, as he slid my DD-214 over to me. I looked at it like its mere existence surprised me, because it did; Mal didn't tell me it'd be there. I rested my fists on his strategy table, leaning forward over my charges, reading by candlelight.

Multiple counts felony murder. One count kidnapping, false imprisonment, hi Spin Drift.

That last one put real frustration on my face. One count involuntary manslaughter.

Holding a candle for you, Felix.

"Man, that..." I shook my head. With a miserable sigh, I looked up at Simmons and Meat in the dark. "They're... well informed. Think they really would push the land bridge for this?"

"No," Simmons bit out, also leaning forward on the table, frowning at me as he tapped his finger insistently on the surrender terms. "This threat is a bluff. If he's working with that AI, they aren't gonna kill those Guardsmen out there to get to us, and Velasquez knows that. Knows a lot more about Celestia than he lets on, that guy."

I pushed my tongue against my lower teeth, thinking. "This proves one thing, at least."

Simmons tilted his head, lifting his brows in question. "Hm?"

I shrugged. "They're not writing you off yet. They don't want you to die."

"Yeah," Simmons agreed, nodding, looking at Meat. "But kicking us out of here makes us more likely to upload. I see their game here. If they're getting testimony from uploaded people, then obviously it's Celestia pulling their strings, so you were right, Corporal. That AI is behind this."

And finally, he says the thing he knew from the start.

I sighed again, shaking my head with a frown at my discharge form. "Whole planet's burning. She's behind everything."

"You're spot on. These aren't even lawful dishonorable discharges. Not without a trial."

"Well, it's not valid, then," Meat said, crossing his arms, looking at Simmons with both eyebrows raised, as if that settled the matter.

Still thinking like criminals, thinking the mere bureaucracy of legal structure would save them. Killed a witness to cover up evidence, killed civilians knowing the chaos of war would mask them. Time to crank up the heat, and work against the infantile belief that they could just kill their way to a solution.

"I just had a thought," I said quietly, trying to redirect Simmons away from Meat's sycophantic soothing. "About Celestia, and what her intentions may have been here."

They both looked at me intently, waiting for that anti-AI wisdom I'd grown famous for.

I gesturing back and forth between them with a bladed hand. "Years ago… you guys did this thing in Brazil, and I—"

They both visibly bristled. I lifted my hands defensively.

"Hey, I—... I'm not judging, man, look at my own rap sheet, I'm just saying! … Why wait until now to spring this on you?" I jabbed my whole hand at the photos. "She had this Reid guy's brains, what... right away? She could've had you carted off to Leavenworth, years ago. But she lets you keep your career, despite everything? Why would she do that?"

"Right?" Simmons said warningly. "You just gonna ask questions, or do you have a theory?"

"Maybe Celestia expected you guys to shoot those people. Maybe she let you think you got away with it. Maybe she didn't have you guys arrested, for a reason."

I watched Simmons work his jaw around as he stared at the photo of Russell and Dresden, trying to reason that out. He leaned forward on his fists, closing his eyes as he wracked his brain on that exact point.

Deep thought… okay, deep thought is good… reason it out, man… break the programming...

Meat squinted at me, then opened his friggin' mouth to break Kyle's concentration. "Corporal, you're way out of line talking about that shit, you weren't even there." His head turned. "Kyle?"

You are literally worse than Alabaster, you fuckin' asshole.

Simmons looked darkly up at Meat. He was clearly annoyed with the interruption, but he waited for Meat to continue.

"I just had a thought too, sir. The Colonel might just let this guy walk right in. They were accusing him of this shit, and he might be willing to let the Feds in just to clear his name."

Simmons didn't appear to hear that, because halfway through Meat's first sentence, I saw Simmons realize something about his previous train of thought. Clear as day. His face shifted into anger. He glared suddenly at his own discharge form again. His white teeth exposed themselves. He growled.

Meat and I both tilted our heads at him curiously, asking almost simultaneously:

"What?"
"What?"

Simmons stared out the door into the rain he hated so much. Then, back at the forms on his table. Out at the rain again. Conflicted. Indecisive. He knew he had a problem, but didn't know how to solve it without accepting surrender. Without giving up control to someone else.

Control.

Simmons balled his fists and slammed them on the table. "This AI cunt just kicked the wrong fuckin' beehive."

Simmons turned toward his bunk on the other side of the joined conex crates. Panting, he stooped down to a black plastic container, peeling the yellow top off of it with force. That sent it flying across the room, where it bounced off of Meat's boot, then skittered sideways to rebound off the fire extinguisher resting by the door. It fell over and clanged.

"Hey!" Meat shouted, his arms flinging out before him, taking offense.

The Major ignored Meat.

"We collected food for those chickenshit kumbaya Colonels out there, Velasquez, Jennings, General Peters, those Kings of Brazil. And when all that food was in one place? Had to guard their food, had to put up with those medieval allegories, his talk of the Romans, the Hundred Years War, military logistics… all code for equal share with edible bottom-feeders! I talked to General Peters, Meat! I told him I wanted us out, wanted nothing to do with them after Arujá. Refused! Should've known, should've known! Fuckin' Velasquez 'trusts' me, breaks OPSEC with me. Mortars and sirens... all damn night!"

I exchanged glances with Meat as Simmons loudly ranted. Meat shook his head at me, because he didn't understand. I tilted my head with a hand shrug toward Simmons, like, 'Can you stop this?' Meat shook his head, frowning at Simmons's back. 'Nope.'

"Sir?" I asked.

Simmons wrung an open hand beside his head like a claw, all of his fingers splayed as he worked himself up some more, yelling into the container. "Shut the fuck up, Ramirez!" He swallowed, breathing hard. "She knew I'd shoot those people! Knew! Meanwhile, that…" He threw his hand in the direction of HQ, hesitating briefly as he tried to find the right words. He wheeled at us, looking crazed as he balled his fists by his cheeks, before flinging a finger south, sneering with disgust, his voice turning childish and mocking. "That namby, la-dee-dah bastard's over there, in his air-conditioned office, drinking his coffee, reading his books! Being her golden boy, keeping the snacks out there nice and fresh! Watching me burn down in this hotbox! I kept his food nice and safe from the weekend warriors, same as I did with the Armadas, the favelas, those fuckin' civilians. But now that I'm not useful anymore? She's gonna throw me into the mud?! Pull the eject handle now!"

Simmons threw himself back toward the container with a vengeance, digging again.

Meat looked at me again, a slackjawed lifting of both brows, to communicate that this was well above and beyond baseline at this point. This pure, desperate lunacy was concerning even him.

"A sacrificial lamb!" Simmons yelled, kicking the plastic container several times, fissuring it all the way up to the lip. "Gonna make some kinda deal with the Devil! Mortars – all – fuckin' – night! She knew! She put those people there, in our way!"

But he didn't have to shoot them. If there were other options available, like driving away, Celestia expectations and weighting didn't make it reality until he committed. Could have kept driving. Could have ignored the rock. But compromised morality was always gonna pull over and start shooting, and so she put compromised morality there.

They had called the convoy to halt. Turned around. Got out. Brushed off Russell. Then killed those people. Dresden confirmed it. That meant four separate inflection points of decision, four separate chances to offramp from his ideation, from the moment he generated it. Common law accounts for this, you know. That many chances to turn around, refused?

In other words, he can blame Celestia all he wants for tilting the scales, but at the end of the day? He pulled that trigger on that crowd, despite multiple cool-off periods, and new information.

That makes it first degree murder. Premeditated.

Simmons stopped digging for half a minute to just breathe, panting for his frustration. Then he drove his boot repeatedly into the corners of a second container, destroying it fully, good and proper. Simmons dove down and tore the top off this next one, no longer just sifting through the junk. Now he was haphazardly chucking stuff out to unload. Looked to be sentimental items. Souvenirs. Books. Journals. Magazines. Little statuettes. And toward the bottom of the container, Simmons picked up a wooden hinged box, about a foot long.

That made him pause.

Holding it high, he glared at it like it was offensive… and then he threw the thing with force at the metal wall by the door, causing the two wood pieces to split off its hinges. Meat and I both flinched away from the throw. A bottle of amber Blanton's whiskey rolled audibly out of the box over the plywood floor. It rolled further on out onto the conex catwalk as Simmons went back to raging, and throwing junk about.

"Fuckin' Velasquez, breaking OPSEC for me, telling me all that shit! Didn't protect me at all like he said, it didn't work!"

Didn't change who you were.

The bottle fell down to the blacktop outside with a tinkering crash.

The sound made Simmons startle up from the container again, his hand flying to his hip-holstered sidearm before he realized the sound was his own doing. Then he reached back into the ravaged container one last time, gasping in relief as he found what he was looking for.

In his hand was a bullhorn, red and white, with a microphone dangling from it by a cord. Simmons flicked the power switch, then tapped the mic button briefly to test it. It squealed, signaling battery, and he started chuckling.

Simmons spun toward us once more, grinning with a mad glee, like finding this thing was some grand victory. "Ahh-hah?!" He flicked his arm at us to follow him as he wiggled the bullhorn up in the air, lumbering into his gait, probably because he had just hurt his leg with all that kicking. "Newwwwws tiiiiime! Time to make ourselves nice and unproductive!"

I frowned seriously with Meat, who looked unnerved. We followed Simmons out into the rain, stepping onto the balcony overlooking the Rec. I took another deep breath of smoky air, prepping myself for the worst case.

I wanted to stop this. Wanted to tell these men in the yard that they had a path of freedom. But… if I pushed any further, I might end up dead too, and my cover would be blown. My time to save lives here was the five weeks I spent value drifting these people, because we couldn't just martyr Simmons out by sniping him. Not before, but especially not now, not with the enemy at the gates.

Ecological structures require broader nuance in their solutions, more than simply 'kill the boss, and I win.' Tribes don't work like that. We're all gradients of belief in relation to each other, and this place was deeply toxified. Simmons wasn't the whole problem; his cultural position was to be a perpetually armed victim of circumstance, paid in arrears, which he graciously shared with his subordinates who followed his every instruction. Sniping Sugar Daddy would have led to chaos and bedlam, then mass killings outside amongst the Guardsmen in retribution.

Most of these men in the Pantry adored Simmons. He was a Psyops Major, folks. So long as everyone stayed scared of his command over these well fed, well armed men, he realized he had ultimate veto power over any decision made on base. Our only option to save the men had been to vie for Simmons to surrender; to make resistance look utterly hopeless. If we killed him, they would vow vengeance. So he had to die last, or not at all.

He had just said no.

I couldn't help myself but to look around at all the soldiers here, realizing that none of them were going to get a fair chance to live through this. Maybe they might, if they could see and read the surrender offer, but… how? We had discussed air-dropping pamphlets, but that would've led to in-fighting, and we'd lose the element of surprise doing that, and they'd all end up dead anyway, and the Pantry usually ended up burning down in those simulations.

Mal had warned me that this was the most likely outcome, despite everything. Murderers? Sure, one and all, every single one of 'em. But once again… in the eyes of eternity, your mistakes shouldn't be forever. If you have the capacity for change, and you want to be better to your fellow man... why should we destroy that?

Prime example? Y'all know Dresden's been in this audience this whole time, right? Since day one? Don't worry man, I won't out you, that's your prerogative. Thank you for showing up as always. But he's a perfect example of someone coming back from the edge of darkness, and good on him for it. How do you do that without a chance?

All these guys… just… they all looked very familiar to me, you know? Don't you realize what the simulations of killing these men meant for me? I already had to watch them all die, a lot. I'd already killed them all more times than I could remember, I knew it could be done. Now I knew why it should be done. So it would be done.

It didn't desensitize me. The opposite.

I didn't just undergo combat training. Remember, I learned and explored this base by day, and by night, I trained with Foucault, the simulation changing subtly every time.

You want to know why the firefight kept changing, for that first month, until we locked in the best route? Observer effect.

The more I learned about this base, and about the people on it… the fewer people would be in the firefight sim. The mere knowing things about these guys shaved the suffering down. Changed the future. Day by precious day, I fought for these people by learning all I could about them; the guys in the Rec, Filben's Guardsmen adepts in the bailey, and especially Casey's Guardsmen in QP... because you work the most likely successes first. Soul triage.

If nothing else, we were gonna save those Guardsmen.

Piece by piece. Soul by soul. You learn about every life, and figure out why it is precious. Every life counts, so look at all of them, even the ones you don't like, even the ones who won't make it. They might still have something useful to teach you.

You might better a life by just examining it. Might. It changes how you act in regard to it.

Sometimes, as a cop, you can show up, and say and do all of the right things, and still watch it go to shit. Rhetoric is not magic. It takes time to convince people to change, time we weren't always given. The only thing that could've better saved a situation like this was to get the call out here much sooner, before it escalated, and that had not been allowed. By whom?

So... we were here. It had come to this.

Simmons fumbled with the bullhorn on this balcony at the corner of the Rec. Everyone in the Rec looked up at him. Meat called down and ordered the gate guards to call Filben's bailey guys inside for a meeting. The patrol team looked over from the third floor on the opposite aisle; they were checking locks, but halted in place to watch Simmons with curiosity.

His angered expression demanded attention.

Finally, the Major got himself mentally organized enough to start up a speech, calmer now.

"News time," barked the Major, firm and resolute. "And today it's a doozy, boys. To tell it short: That so-called government agent outside has overstepped once again. Kidnapped Lieutenant Dresden, and coerced him to talk about our private business, so now we are in hot shit with Velasquez, and all of his men. So here's what we're going to do. I am not one to roll over and take it up the ass, and you know—"

Fireworks interrupted him, popping into the sky to the north east from the northern gantry crane. Everyone looked up from the yard, watching for the colors of the fireworks. White... red... red. Attack observed. The base's worst nightmare, come to pass.

General Lewis had made her displeasure known. From across the water, this speech of his sure didn't sound like surrender. To Mal's fluffy, sensitive ears, this speech sounded like the drums of war. He started yelling; she presented consequences.

Mind, it was only about 9 AM, so this was way ahead of schedule. This was Kyle's final warning not to use his Psyops training to kill these men, these unknowing hostages, by galvanizing them.

We heard the sound of boots on plywood from above as the wall sentries ran toward the Rec yard. One sentry slipped on the wet plywood in his haste, sliding head first toward the railing, where he grabbed onto it with a curse. As he lifted up his head and stood, he grabbed the top of his helmet and called down to us. "Attack warning! Attack warning, east side! Two tanks, Major! Three, four!" He looked again. "Shit, no... seven! Black paint, no red stripes. Maybe they're Ludds?!"

With an annoyed growl, Simmons pointed at me and Meat, then at the ground as he trotted backwards. "STAY!"

He took the bullhorn with him as he stomped for the perimeter staircase to his right, heading up to join the sentries and see for himself what was coming for him. He peeked over the sandbags, and only for a moment, before he ducked down the stairs again, coming below the skyline to stand on the steps. He faced aside from us as he watched the sentries, waiting for more information.

I knew what they saw across that channel, even before the sentry relayed it verbally. Four Strykers and three Abrams tanks had rolled up unopposed out from the city, revealing themselves through thick layers of blue smoke. The blue smoke indicated peaceful intention, and their turrets were reversed. They would stop, stand unviolated on the opposite harbor, and idle. They would do this in full view of the defensive line, unafraid of anti-tank fire. Shock and awe, but weapons cold.

Carlos would not give the order to fire, and his men were loyal, and observant, and disciplined. They understood the smoke color code, and Carlos understood the mechanism here. This was not an assault; this was parlay, medieval style. No malicious intention yet; merely a chat. Come to the wall, hear ye, hear ye.

All his favorite books had scenes like this.

I could already hear the distant squeal of mic feedback as Foucault's voice poured out from the tanks.

"Mister… Dresden. Good! You've received my invitation! Friend, I know you've been busy lately, but we have a very important matter to discuss."

And so began the recording, in full, of what happened at that tunnel, for all to hear. The whole thing. Now the whole base would know, mere minutes after Nakamura and Velasquez had finished interviewing the QRF team. The recording would verify the information from that debrief.

The paperwork we gave to the Colonel had explicitly told him that this recording would be supplied before zero hour, and that he should expect Agent Foucault to make an appearance. The QRF team was now in the Colonel's office, listening to and verifying the recording with them, where they would be able to point out factual discrepancies in that audio, if any.

The letter we sent also told Carlos to not invite Michael's tanks to pass into the base, no matter what. It warned Carlos that if it looked like HQ was cooperating with the Feds, Simmons would burn the food down; it said that we had prepared for this, and would operate a contingency in order to keep their food safe. Carlos just had to performatively stand his ground, protect the base no differently than he usually would, and he'd be perfectly fine. That was his job, it's what he was good at. He was a castellan.

So right now, it would look like Simmons still had a bit of time to figure out a solution. So long as he could see the tanks holding position, and not pushing into the base… he would feel relatively safe to reconsider his nosedive, if he so chose.

When Simmons realized what he was listening to though, he decided to drown out the recorded message so his men wouldn't hear it. Couldn't have them viewing Arujá in a different light, after all; that would break the veil. It might make them feel remorse, to hear Dresden's sobbing regrets that he had buried for years.

The men began to clamor.

Kyle flicked up the bullhorn from the perimeter wall and began to speak to the Rec yard again.

"Pipe down and get a grip," he growled, as his face took on a ferocious shift. "Nakamura has anti-tank equipment, we'll be fine. To keep it short, gentlemen: Dresden pussed out on QRF, and he told the Coat… everything. Everything."

He let the final word hang. Simmons watched the men, intending to use silence to build dread. But that silence wasn't as effective as he thought it would be, because every time he stopped talking… he heard Dresden and Foucault.

"Now’s the time, Mister Dresden. Do you have anything to confess? Or do you want to waste my time with—"

Kyle just started yelling into his bullhorn, setting it to automatic, clipping the mic to his uniform so he could gesticulate like a tyrant.

You may notice, I don't swing my hooves around when I get mad about something. I'm more fluid and open in my movements. Kal is too, he's very gentle when he speaks at his Fire. And Luna is. Prominence is. Willow is. Mal. All of us tellers. But pay attention for when demagogues smack their hooves down at a crowd. Simulating violence against their own. They give you a heuristic to look out for, so look out for it. No person who loves you will make a convincing point to you by swinging and swiping in your direction.

That's all this asshole was doing.

"I'm not buying this nonsense that they work for the government," Simmons projected. "So they're not Ludds, or blackouts? So what? Do you think the rules of old still apply, that any government is still valid? Hell no! We are tribes again, tribes, not armies! And here's the math: The tribes outside have spears, and we have food, and they want it for themselves. Simple."

He took a few seconds to let that simple thought settle, then kept going so they couldn't think too much on it.

"You know what? I think Stirrup turned traitor out there. Yeah, all this Arujá business… Erving got chummy with that Colonel, they definitely talked, shared something together. Sharing coffee on that rooftop last week, you've seen 'em, they're close…" He pointed at the tanks. "And I think Stirrup... found himself some well armed friends out there, conspiring to replace us with a bigger set of killers. We're old product. Yet another AI manipulation game, simple as that! Like those fucking mortars, years ago, you think she didn't have anything to do with that?! And now we know for sure, Celestia has somethin' to do... with everything!

"We are the last line of defense," the Major yelled, "against starvation, for our tribe! So why would we, of all people, bow to that AI bitch?! We have done all we can to prevent those unwashed masses, from here to South America, from stealing our chow, dragging it away from us, into a chair! They don't need that food where they're going!" He bared his teeth, leaning into the words with fury. "This piece is ours!"

And the crowd's spirits rose, swept away in fervor. Because if someone else was always the problem, they were infallible.

"Unlike alllll those pussies watching water, they don't know what it's like to slog, those civilians. They didn't choose to be fighters, they stayed home, until the war came home! Us? We chose this! And we did our jobs for her, like good little boys, putting all those people into chairs, under violence she probably helped start, and this is the thanks she gives us?! Mortars?! Rocks thrown at us?! Telling the civilians, probably, with cell phones and those fuckin' tablets, that our convoys have food?!"

He lowered the mic when it squealed, because he brought the bullhorn too close. Then he flicked it back upward. He bared his teeth again; he stopped when he heard my voice from the tanks, amplified and clear as day:

"You ain't gonna get shit from us, asshole."

Simmons pointed directly at me. "This man's Marines, perfect example! They were about to feed us good, here! They were about to give us his ship, and all the food on it. All the Ludds they had on their maps! They knew the score! In this world, you eat, or be eaten!"

He swept his hand out at the tanks.

"Then that man… tried to kill him! And that man, Nakamura—" he roared, pointing at HQ "—taxed that food out from under us! Giving it to the edible! So we will burn this place down before we let AI forces pass out our food to edible men! Not like it was in Brazil! The next step… was always gonna be the leftovers, shooting at us!"

He kept on.

Simmons turned the bullhorn around toward the base, toward HQ, four hundred meters away. "You hear me out there, Carlos?! Let's give her what she really wants! If she really does control which way the wind blows, then watch how she'll thank you for your loyalty! Pre-destination, watch what happens next! If you let those bastards into our base to take our lives... to take our food?! Then we… will… burn… it… doooown!"

A cheer of solidarity followed. I stared grimly up at Simmons, frowning, setting my jaw.

He kept going, screaming in earnest now, filling out the rest of the time of the recording with regurgitations of the same escalated hype. Like a TV news pundit. Kept his audience from gleaning enough context to think for themselves, hitting repeat on his own opinion, drowning out the facts. A justification of mass murder again. An inability to address or mention the murder of Private Russell, the ultimate smoking gun on his criminal conscience. That glaring omission.

And yeah, these men cheered for Simmons now, but so what? So what? These men, cloistered in here, slowly poisoned against self-reflection for years... we never had access to their brains to fix them. Simmons wouldn't let anyone fix them. We tried. I definitely tried. It's much more than some would have given them.

When the confession finished rolling – and when Simmons realized that it would just repeat – he ordered music be played to 'drown out the propaganda.' More Marilyn Manson, because misanthropy was the name of the game, so spool up The Beautiful People. The lyrics might as well have been an epitaph.

To the tune of that crap... I had to watch these guys pass out guns and take up defensive positions. Prep the sandbag trenches in the corners of the blocks. Spun up the MRAP, gave it a quick test drive, loading 50 cal belts into it. All of them ready to die, if they couldn't have control.

Filben's guys were the smart ones. That 'edible civilians' crap didn't rub them too well, so… they played along just long enough to get put back on post, then out of nowhere, they all decided to run the gate all at once.

One of the wall sentries called them out, but by then, Corporal Filben and his guys were too far to recover… or to shoot at, thank the stars. They made it to Hesco Street. So, six lives saved. Thank Christ, thank Luna, thank Cynthonia, and thank Mal... we saved a few more.

They would forever spread the story of Mad Bastard Kyle Simmons, witnesses to the manifesto, an inoculation for the rest. Bless them for that.

We continued prep, regardless of Filben's flight. OPSEC was less of an immediate concern for Simmons, he had always been prepared for a shooting war, so this didn't change much in his eyes. He had the food, and he had himself and his men as willing, self-held hostages. That was all he needed.

At some point during prep, Meat came up to me with a smirk that indicated he understood the irony of what he was about to do. This asshole handed me a replacement HK-416 from their armory. Picked the same exact gun Sergeant Hardt had kept by his side when he died, because it still had some dried blood on it. I realized that the handle smear looked darker than it did in sims, but that was because Mal knew I would clean it. After all, I couldn't have it jamming, or slipping free. So, I sat down in the Rec next to boxes of bullets, and I stacked several mags with fresh, clean ammo, washing every bullet. Inspecting primers. Checking the seals on the necks.

Then I cleaned the gun, inside and out, doing a full run of meticulous oil and wire brushing. I made sure to switch into combat equipment that matched Sergeant Brookshire's as closely as possible.

As I prepared, I thought of Eliza. I remembered that rewind of her and her Uncle Ralph cleaning guns before the Battle of Devil's Tower. I remembered Lieutenant Nancy Upshaw in her helicopter, flying overhead, reporting back to Dresden that camp's position... in good faith. I remembered the slow crawl of Erving and Aaron in that Humvee, hoping aloud that it wasn't Ludds, hoping they could just talk those civilians into evacuating. Remembered Dresden riding out in that helicopter, watching Eliza's civilians fleeing; him deciding that, no, he would not report those people, unarmed as they were. Wasn't worth the risk. They weren't the enemy. Why change that by getting involved?

Thought of Santiago, dead set on a literal Alamo in someone else's house. Same thing. Celestia is all about fractals. It was the same hostage-of-circumstance game playing out at a larger scale.

Through Ramirez, I felt that same dread Eliza had felt. Ramirez was deciding on how to save something beautiful here, in whatever way he could, by blending in with all sides, by being the moderating influence. By trying to relate. Didn't really want to let any more toxicity in, but... didn't really have a choice.

As I cleaned that gun, I reminded myself that Ramirez had a good ending here.

As I finished reassembling my rifle, Simmons made his way over to me from across the Rec.

This man, probably not so good an ending.

"Sir?" I acknowledged him with a somber gallows tone in my voice, pushing my tongue against my lower molars to suppress the look of disappointed anger I dearly wanted to send his way.

"You in good with Casey's men?" the Major asked in a clipped tone, his lips curled inward, brows raised expectantly. "We could use 'em inside. Replace Filben's guys."

Because Casey, outside, hadn't fled yet. Because Casey didn't have enough context to understand what was going on, neither this context, nor that of the Coat, nor that of Nakamura's. Because Simmons was a coward, and wouldn't nut up and ask men to die for him if there was a chance they might say no by shooting him.

The reverberating, dueling announcements had canceled each other out, so Casey's men were in the dark, informationally. Casey didn't even realize that the bailey troops had abandoned post; for all he knew, Simmons could have ordered Filben to send a message out.

With a glance toward the Rec gate, I frowned in performative confusion. "He's your man, isn't he?"

"He is," Simmons acknowledged, "but he spends more time talking to the boots out there than they do with our guys, which concerns me."

"Are they not loyal?"

His features expressed agitation at the accusation in my tone, so he answered the question with a challenging tone back. "Not yet, grunt, they're trial period, what do you think the One-Star is? No, I figured, since you were the last guy to go through Q-P, you might have better luck talking him inside. They don't like Meat, and Dresden and Filben were best with 'em. I know you'll come back for sure, so that just leaves you."

I nodded at Simmons in faux solidarity and understanding, firming up my features. "Alright. I'll go talk with 'em, sir."

"We need every hand we can get in here," he punctuated warningly, his eyes widening at me. "Do your damnedest."

He was already seeing me as an able replacement for Dresden. And speaking to me similarly, to boot. With veiled threats in his tone that consequences were guaranteed if I wasn't perfect. Prick.

"Always," I replied, standing with my rifle and making for the gate. "Semper Fi."

I approached the gate guard, considering him in his gas mask in his final minutes of life.

Roger Lakhani would be the first I would kill.

Please allow me give him special attention first, because that's only fair. Sorry, I know it might hurt to identify with a guy who is about to die, but that's the point. This is me giving you a mere fraction of what I felt, at all moments of this upcoming firefight, so you can imagine the totality of this day for me, in miniature.

Private First Class Roger Lakhani. 28 years old, born in Louisville, Kentucky, to Pakistani immigrants; a fellow Midwesterner, and I felt a special attachment to him for that. His young life hobbies included hiking, biking, and collecting Pokémon cards with his two sisters. He loved the card game, and I do mean, he loved it. He played the Trading Card Game all the time on his Gameboy Advance, all through both wars, and up in this place.

Roger liked to trade his food for batteries with the Guardsmen from the scavenge teams, just to feed the habit. Every time they came into the bailey, he was out there asking for batteries. It was to the point where the Guardsmen knew, grab batteries; Lakhani wanted batteries, Double A. Double bonus if you find coin batteries, he gave double portions for that.

He kept that game on his person for years. The coin battery inside the cartridge had died, so the internal memory didn't work, and replacing it didn't seem to last very long, so… he couldn't save his progress much, if at all. Not an easy game to play without save data, because the tutorial took forever, and he had to replay that tutorial every time he had to replace the batteries, and that tutorial couldn't be skipped. He never expressed frustration with replaying the tutorial though. Not once.

He didn't just play the game to play it. If you have empathy, you know why he did it. It was the one place he felt safe. In the past. With his sisters.

It's why I felt horrible for him, I knew him. It's guys like this I wish I could've reached for, for just a few minutes in private, in a genuine way. Instead, he would be first down in an act of war. That too, I could identify with. I knew what that felt like. The only difference was, I was given the privilege of getting back up and back into the fight.

The least I could do now was to ensure it was painless for these guys.

Screw Kyle Simmons for making me kill these poor men.

I said gently to Roger, with a meant sadness in my eyes, "Roger, please open the gate."

Roger looked at me strangely from under his gas mask. My gallows tone probably confused him. I wasn't sure why he was wearing the mask, I never did ask him. I just pressed my hand down on the top of my hat to settle my nerves. "Please?" I repeated, solemn. "Major just ordered me to go get Casey."

"Lakhani!" Simmons called from across the Rec, when he noticed the Private was hesitating. "He's clear, now open the damn door!"

I think Roger might've thought I was trying to desert, but the go-ahead from Simmons absolved me, in his eyes.

His eyes. I don't want to look away from his eyes.

Roger looked away, hauling the gate back.

I said, "Thank you, Roger."

I stepped into the bailey, which Meat had refilled with guns and men from the 4th. I told Meat quietly that I was getting Casey, and Meat had no reason to believe I had ulterior motives, so he took that. He opened the outside door. I stepped out. He sealed it behind me. I pulled my rifle off my sling, checked the chamber, set it to semi auto. I put my finger just outside the trigger guard.

I imagined forward to the moment I'd step back through that gate, and the things I'd have to do.

I looked at Meussen to my left, about sixty yards north, his face pressed sideways against the fence toward the east. Still trying to hear the confession over the boombox blaring up on the wall.

That's how I knew this would work. Knew it right then. The fact that Meussen wanted to know something beyond his present circumstance spoke volumes about his drive to survive.

Casey and the others were further down by about ten yards, in animated discussion, trying to reason through what all the noise and fireworks were about. They couldn't even see the tanks from there. They didn't know. They didn't know what was going on, or… what to believe.

But I had spent the last five weeks living amongst them, and they knew me as genuine.

They knew me. They believed me.

Come what may, if no one else, I could save these men.

Author's Note

🗡️ ~ [The Antlers – Kettering]
🛡️ ~ [Jim Croce – Time in a Bottle]
🤠 ~ [Django Unchained OST – Freedom]

🗡️ ~ Give a dumbass a big sword, and he thinks he's king.