The Campaigner

Act VI

Date: At least three.
Operation: Athena's Grace – Done.
Location: A few different places.
Function A: Examine a few soldiers who did not have a new world to live in before I brought them one.
Function B: Explain why I want to live in a world with billions of unique people in it.
Function C: Buy time, so some injured souls can find a reason to live and trust again.

We're bringing lots of food tonight. Show up hungry.

Corporal Richard Filben and his bailey boys were not gonna die for Popeye Hitler. Against seven tanks? Hell no. Either the Colonel would start some shit, or the Major would start some shit, or these new guys outside would start some shit. Whichever way the winds blew… time to get out of the splash zone.

The bailey guards prepped well for their great escape. First thing after the Simmons Manifesto, they took six boxes of First Strike emergency bars from the bailey, shoveled them into every pocket they had, and tore out of there. Bye Felicia.

But you know what? Once they were safe from certain death? Hey, why not live a little? No reason to miss the fireworks, it's not like Simmons was gonna come after them, the cops were outside. So Filben's boys grabbed themselves a front row seat on Hesco Street. Waited to see Simmons get his ass busted open by the Feds, or the AI, or whoever. It would be either hilarious, or informative, or both.

Filben had recently bought himself a new pack of cigarettes too, and what better time than now? So he cracked it open for his boys, for free. And during that smoke, they listened to the broadcast from across the harbor. Hearing about Simmons ordering civilians killed? That pretty much sealed the deal on them not giving a shit. Whatever happened in that Pantry... would happen. Oh well!

"Sucks about Dres, boys," Filben commented to his squad, "But hey, look…? Look, man. Federal prison sounds nice right now, that's all I'm saying. That's all I'm saying!"

They worried about Casey's guys, but... nothing to be done about that. Filben thought about sending a flashlight message to them, but... anything he sent would be seen by the sentry up top. Merely telling Casey to run might provoke a response, because at this point? The boys inside the Pantry had gone Fruit Loops. But, Casey was outside; as long as they weren't inside with the nut jobs, they were probably gonna be okay. Probably.

If the Pantry shot at Casey though? That was different. Filben was gonna pop their guards, and all bets were off, and that's all there was to it. Calories are calories, but a brother's a brother. A brother comes first.

Some Block A Guardsmen trickled in up the line, bringing rifles and grenade launchers. Some brought more cigarettes. Some others… brought pot. Filben said screw it, he wanted pot. He wanted it for his squad too, but he didn't want to pay for it. So instead?

"Hey! We just heard the speech Simmons gave, man, give us a toke!"

Filben negotiated two joints per man. All the nuggets out there were going stale; half the potency, half the value. Twelve joints were dispensed. A damn good price for eyewitness testimony of the narcissistic collapse.

"Asshole went full Reichstag in there," Filben spoke around his joint, as he lit up. "Idiot said he wanted to burn the food down."

Logan, the Block A Sergeant who had just sold him the pot, startled at that. He stepped up and asked Filben, "And you're calm about that, Corporal?! If he sets it on fire, what do you think is gonna happen next—?"

"Man, what fire?" Filben scoffed. "Logan, you ever sit on a shipping crate in the rain? Your shit turns to icicles in your ass! Major ain't gonna burn shit; pff. DHS needs to medicate that motherfucker."

Before Logan could reply, the music stopped, as if to punctuate that sentence. At that same instant, fireworks popped high above the Pantry, casting a yellow glow upon everyone.

Gunshots. Intermediate rifle caliber. Pantry direction, Pantry distance.

Filben whipped his head around. "Oh shit, what?"

Seen: Casey's boys running away from the Pantry with their hands up. Terrified expression.

Runaways. Being chased.

"Oh hell no!" Filben called sharply, startling Logan again. Filben tucked his rifle tight to his shoulder and pointed it at the Pantry's walls, ready to go. "Bailey, scan for hostiles!"

As quickly as ordered, Filben's squad aimed rifles downrange, protecting Casey's crossing through No Man's Land. If anyone from the 4th in there so much as looked at Casey wrong from that wall? If anyone chased him out of that gate with menace? If anyone looked aggressive whatsoever… Filben was cutting them down.

But… no movement on the walls. Not one sign. The wall guards from the 4th were... gone.

Filben shook his head. "What?! Where they at?"

The gunfire was over quickly, too. Filben felt the adrenaline swell, cursing for his confusion. He looked at Casey's group as they ran, to double check that all six were there. He couldn't see anyone further up, and he started to feel woozy from the weed. Everything was hyper-real, and slow. "What the hell?! Someone get me some eyes, who's shooting?!"

By the time Casey got halfway over to Hesco… Boom. Massive explosion inside, followed by even more gunfire.

Thankfully, Casey got there safe. Filben caught him by the shoulder and wheeled him around the barrier. Filben asked, locking eyes with Casey. "Matt, what's up? Who's shooting?"

Casey, out of breath and looking frantic, managed to report: "Ramirez... Meat was gonna force us in, Rich. Ramirez, he... he just shot Meat. Shot Meat... so we could get clear."

After a few seconds, Filben relaxed.

That made perfect sense. Nobody liked Meat. Hell, everyone on base had fantasized about killing Meat. And now Meat was a war criminal, and a brother-killer to boot, so...?

Filben turned to the assembly and declared: "Pour one out for Ramireeeeez!"

A roar of agreement came back from the rest, and now they were all staring at the entrance of the Pantry again. But that gunfire didn't stop with Meat. Far from. It was still going.

Filben's elation faded when he realized what that meant. He remembered dimly that he was a little buzzed now. Was he imagining it? No. Everyone else seemed to respond to the shots, so he definitely wasn't imagining it. Yet still, no one wanted to cross No Man's Land. No one knew for sure what was going on, and this extra gunfire didn't make sense.

Ramirez surviving this long didn't make any sense.

Then the rain picked up in earnest. It was like God himself had pulled a sheet over the mess going on, to shield their eyes.

And that gunfire and the explosions just kept going. And going. And going.

One of Filben's guys said aloud: "Like a cowboy John Wick!"

"Nah," Filben said, frowning in thought, snapping a finger sideways. "No, he likes Django, remember? He did those… scene re-enactments, the, the one-in-ten-thousand bit?! Man, he's going for a Django!"

The Private put his fist in the air. "Marine Corps Djangoooo!"

And all the men cheered. This Marine Ramirez had fed them handily. He had just saved Casey. At this point, Ramirez could do no wrong.

And then the M2 kicked off, changing their conception of Ramirez yet again.

Filben and Casey exchanged wide-eyed, awed glances. Filben stood up all the way straight, lowering his rifle, pointing at the Pantry with a finger. "That's Bertha?! Holy shit, they brought out Bertha!"

Boom, boom, boom. It just… kept… going.

For one man?

They pulled out the MRAP for just... one... man?

And all those yellow fireworks, demanding they wait... was it HQ? Was it west patrol? The helipad base? Who?

As more guys showed up, drawn by the explosions, the theories went wild up and down the Hesco line. Maybe there was in-fighting? Did some clique pick sides with Ramirez? It couldn't be just one guy, it had to be something else going on! Force multiplication rules said this was impossible, and yet… it was actually happening!

At about that same moment as the M2 had kicked off, Colonel Velasquez himself arrived at the end of Hesco Street in full combat gear, carrying his favored marksman AR. He looked ready to take charge, but... the man looked confused by how relaxed everyone was. The whole base sounded like Seattle H-Hour. That wasn't the correct social tone for that much gunfire within their own perimeter. Filben was just as confused as the Colonel was.s

Filben, who was only now realizing that his social situation was in question, squared himself up, did his duty, and said: "Sir! Major Simmons threatened to burn the food down!"

"Thank you Corporal." He looked around the other men, directing his next question at all of them. "Status report on the gunfire?"

Casey stepped up to explain, still partially winded from adrenaline. "Ramirez came out of the Pantry, sir, to Q-P, said... Simmons wanted us press ganged in. Then Ramirez went in by himself... and shot Meat, just to... buy us time to get away, sir. Fight's been getting bigger ever since, no idea how."

Velasquez's eyes widened too, instantly confused. He glanced around a Hesco wall carefully for a few seconds, then back at Casey. "And the fireworks? Are we launching those?"

Casey shook his head in confusion too, shrugging. "I dunno, sir."

Yellow fireworks. 'Wait, wait, wait.' With the gloomy rain, no one could even see where those pyrotechnics were coming from, but the message was clear.

The Colonel ordered, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire: "Expect contact... from any direction! I want everyone... in cover! Pick your bravest gophers; Keep watch!"

Then Velasquez just waited in cover and watched the Pantry, like all the rest.

At first, Filben had expected Velasquez to order a push, but then he thought about it. Given that broadcast, and the Pantry's history of cold-blooded fratricide? No. No, it was better to stand back and let Ramirez cook. Simmons had just declared war on Velasquez, he wasn't gonna help them. And given that the Feds had just asked for the 4th alive? Backing up Ramirez might not be such a good idea.

It was just one guy, right? Simmons could handle it.

Filben shouted bombastically at the Pantry, "Just shoot him in the back, Major, if you can! Word is on the street, you're pretty good at that!"

A rowdy cheer rose from the men. Filben had a flash of regret for his weed-fueled outburst, looking nervously at the Colonel. Now, he was hoping that the Colonel wouldn't kick him out for moving to Block B with the Pantry, once the dust settled.

The Colonel didn't remark about Filben's outburst, though. He just kept his eyes squared on the front gate. That silence alone told Filben that Velasquez was a silent partner, right to the core. Rooting for the Lance Corporal, like the rest.

Bertha went quiet, that song ended.

The machine gun nests spun up next. 7.62 in full auto, a familiar tune. Then the machine guns stopped, outright. Another burst of AR-15 fire in automatic, everyone knew that song too. Four more AR pops. A series of outdoor pistol pops.

Then, the rain let up a little bit. A long pause. A silent crowd strained to listen.

Lots of tiny, indoor pistol claps, with a metallic tamber.

Yelling from inside. Sounded like the Major. Everyone knew that song too.

"Did he kill Ramirez then?" Private Kamall asked.

"Bet you two whole Strikes he didn't," Filben sneered, baring his teeth in defiance at the very concept. "Major's rampin' up, not down. He don't ramp up when he's winnin', man. He's at gunpoint, or pinned down, or wounded, or some shit."

It was hopeful talk, but... it was in evidence, everyone knew what Simmons sounded like when he wasn't getting his way. Usually, that sound meant to stay out of his way. Message received, no one was going in yet.

No one could tell what Simmons was yelling about exactly, not word-for-word, but... it just got louder, meaner, madder... faster. That was angry panic. A lot of sharp F words; some ending in K, some ending in T.

In retort: One final, indoor pistol pop. Mid sentence.

The Major's yelling ceased. It did not continue. No petulant wind-down. No gloating.

Silence. Major's dead, boys.

"Ramireeeeez!" Filben roared once more, fist in the air, rousing his squad into an infectious cheer, which spread down the line of Guardsmen. Meussen was two-fists up, screaming at the Pantry, no longer giving a damn about cover. The whole base was going nuts.

Among the chaos, Filben saw the Colonel nod at the Pantry once, in stoic approval.

So. The King was siding with the Cowboy.

Was the party over yet? Or was there more? What the hell would the Feds think of this? Would they respond? Would Velasquez respond? Who would dare go inside now? Assuming Ramirez actually did pull this off… what would he even do next, now that he had an entire kingdom of food by his lonesome?

Some time later, with the rev of an engine… they had their answer.

Clang. The MRAP bludgeoned its way out through the front gate, blipping its horn twice. At first, a few men tracked it with rifles, but no gunner up top; the gun was pointed straight up, with that white cowboy hat tied to it.

The old king is dead. Long live the king.

The hat was what did it. Upon seeing it, all of the men went nuts twice over, cheering, roaring.

"Weapons cold!" yelled Velasquez suddenly, running south down the line of men. He flashed a 'cease fire' hand signal across his face. "Weapons cold! Send it down; send it down for Knockie!"

Several men climbed up the Hesco wall to flash the hand sign, daisy chaining all the way down to the land bridge. Command: — Cease Fire. Command: — Cease Fire. Filben thought that was sensible. Maybe let's not accidentally shoot at the guy who just killed a platoon by himself.

The MRAP turned onto Hesco Street. Everyone made way. Guys were yelling out to Ramirez, some cheering him on until he was across the bridge. Quoting Django Unchained, Filben yelled, "Ramireeeez! You uppity summbitch!" The Bailey boys laughed.

North Gantry sent a 'message' flare next. They flash-signed a lantern Morse pulse to the whole base, verifying that the tanks outside were turning tail. All clear. Velasquez signed back a few questions to North Gantry with his rifle's tac light, and they answered. Filben didn't need to read the Tower Tweets though. He was more curious about the aftermath of the fortress more than anything else. He read the crowd.

For several long minutes, they all waited and discussed, each airing their theories openly about what they'd find inside. No survivors staggered out of the Pantry in the wake of the MRAP, so everyone was left to rumor mill. Colonel Velasquez finally went for it. Without a word to anyone, he marched off the Hesco line alone, no orders dispensed.

One thing Corporal Filben had frequently appreciated aloud with other Guardsmen was that Velasquez always seemed to understand that the National Guard wasn't the Army. Their organization existed mostly to do just one thing: Respond to domestic disasters. Run medevac, do damage control, and maintain order for repairs. Easy work, compared to fighting overseas.

The Colonel never asked them to do something he wouldn't do, so if he was going in... they wanted to go with him. So without needing to be told, all of the Hesco Street National Guardsmen formed up on the Colonel's six, all knowing the score.

Filben caught up to the determined Colonel with a jog. "Sir?"

"What is it, Corporal?" Velasquez didn't take his eyes off of the Pantry's front gate, his rifle just barely not at low ready.

"Lemme run point for you?" Filben said. "Least I can do, boss."

The Colonel made eye contact with him briefly. "If you beat me there, son, sure. But if you do, you'd better believe this place belongs to me."

"It's always been yours, sir!" Filben declared, glad for the opportunity to make it right. He ran ahead, and his team formed up on him. "Let's go, boys! Clear the Rec!"

Filben put eyes on a dead Meat, first thing. He paused only a moment to look at the mess on the First Sergeant's face. Filben swept his bailey again, glad he made it out, and that it wasn't him lying there instead. Filben looked around, noticing that Meat had picked the youngest of the guys inside for the post. Corporal Alex was slumped backwards out of the forklift on the left. The blood on the right had been smeared thin on the ground before being run through by MRAP tire tracks.

Casey's guys formed up close too, joining Filben's on point. They seemed to be working from the same playbook of regrets. All buddies here, from Block B now, squaring up against the Dead 4th. What even were the rules of engagement for this kind of situation? If the men from the 4th were still alive, were they supposed to shoot them, or not?

Wouldn't matter though, as it turned out. Goodbye, Nation of Manson. Nothing but bodies.

"Hot damn," Filben mumbled, chuckling nervously. "Django."

They made their way up to the Major's office, once everything else was confirmed clear. The most terrifying part of their advance was crossing in front of those MG nests, but the guns remained cold. Three dead men apiece in each nest.

Filben had only ever been in the Major's office twice; once when he was inducted, and once when he was promoted from QP to Bailey. It had looked clean and tidy in there those times; this time, not so. Random artsy junk was strewn about everywhere, like a child's play room after a temper tantrum. Filben made a face at the art house mess like he was creeped out by it.

Simmons, though? Killed no different than any other: a hole in the head, his body surrounded by shell casings.

It smelled of carbon. Scorch marks ran up the back of the room from a melted plastic crate, which indicated a recent fire. A large, cherry red fire extinguisher laid empty next to the Major's corpse with a ring of blood welling around its side.

Meaning... it looked like Ramirez had killed the Major first, then put the fire out.

So that meant… Simmons wasn't bluffing. The Major really did try to starve the base. Possible or not in that rain, the mere attempt to do it spoke volumes. It said that it didn't matter who came to take the food. Had nothing to do with the AI, or the Feds; it was about Simmons, and his control over it. Even if one of his own men came to take the Pantry from him? Simmons would have burned it down all the same, just out of selfish spite.

Casey had apparently made that connection. He just started cursing at the dead Major, hauling off yelling. "Burn in hell, you piece of shit rat fuckin' bastard! Trying to murder us, starve us! Burn in hell, damn you! Damn—"

Filben put a hand on Casey's chest, gently guiding him back an instant before Casey's boot could connect with the corpse. "Woah, Case! Case, he's gone!"

"He'd goddamn better be!" Casey seethed, face screwing up, pushing back against Filben's arm and locking eyes with him. "If he so much as twitches, I'm…!" Casey winced suddenly, as if pained. He threw himself backwards toward the door, staggering out onto the balcony. The Corporal peeled his helmet off and clacked it against the wood railing, looking down Main back towards Rec. "Colonel!" he yelled. "You need to come see this, the Major wasn't bluffing!"

The Colonel ascended, entering quietly. He didn't say anything at first. He did sigh in disappointment down at Simmons, then his eyes lingered on the scorch marks and blood. The men followed his eyes as he looked at the table in the middle of the office.

There, several items.

An empty Beretta magazine, weighing down a letter…

An empty Beretta, slide locked back, weighing down a sealed envelope which read: From Miguel — Colonel's Eyes Only.

Velasquez patiently crossed the room to it, moving the magazine aside in a deliberate way, like one might move a chess piece. He picked up and skimmed the letter. "The same ones the Feds sent HQ," Velasquez said aloud, passing it to Casey. "This is a demand for the Major's surrender. If it's here, it means he's read it. Corporal Casey?"

"Sir."

Velasquez made pointed eye contact with him for several seconds. "We do not press gang our own soldiers into combat. The Major's doing so was not only wrong, it also violated the terms of this surrender, which could have led to an escalatory shooting match with Federal forces. Therefore, I hereby legitimize the actions of the Lance Corporal. You take this letter out to the Rec, read it aloud, and explain to the base what I just told you."

Casey saluted and nodded curtly, wearing fast gratitude in his eyes. "Yessir! Thank you, sir!"

He quickly poured himself out the door and down the stairs, eager to comply with the order.

Velasquez moved the empty pistol next, unsealing the envelope with another serious sigh.

Filben watched Velasquez as he read for a few seconds. It was strange. Reading those words, Velasquez seemed initially alarmed. Then, curious. His lips closed, and he held his gaze at the paper.

He lowered the letter, looking at Filben seriously.

"Yes sir?" Filben asked.

Velasquez stood up straighter. "Corporal Filben. I will see to it that you keep your job here, if you wish. Thank you for your loyalty. You know the Pantry best, so… I will place you in charge of inventory and identification of the dead. No matter your feelings on their actions, please treat them with their due respect. They were once my men too."

Filben nodded nervously. "Yes sir, sure. Can do. Uh... Thank you."

Velasquez nodded gratefully back, then stepped out, weaving slowly through the men as he held the letter folded to his chest. He made his way to the Rec. Casey's declared missive carried out down Main Street.

Filben followed the Colonel, delegating body duty to his men. He sent Private Kamal to secure the intake ledger and master keybook. Filben delegated Sergeant Logan and his squad to handle weapon and ammo collection.

Velasquez, meanwhile, entered the gym tent to read the letter. He remained in there long after Casey had finished reading the first letter. Filben mentioned to a couple of guys that Ramirez had left a letter and the Colonel was reading it, and that information spread to the whole task force within two minutes.

Velasquez didn't make eye contact with anyone else outside. They caught glances of him sitting there on the lift bench, but his back was turned. As the platoon slowly finished checking the bodies and collecting weaponry, they gathered back in the Rec, waiting for the word. Very little of what they were seeing made any sense, but it seemed like the Colonel had found some explanation in the note.

When finished, Velasquez turned toward the men again, making eye contact with Filben first. Velasquez stepped slowly out of the tent. His cheeks looked recently irritated; his eyes glistened, like he had been crying. Despite this, the Colonel's face was relaxed, at peace. He stepped out of the tent, casting a curious glance up at the cloudy sky.

He looked at the men again with a blissful smile, like the weather was the best thing he'd seen all day. Filben had never seen him smile like that before.

Colonel Velasquez cleared his throat as he crossed the Rec to the picnic table. He removed his helmet, placing it down delicately onto the table with both hands. Turning again, he took a slow glance around at his present setting and audience, tucking the folded letter sideways into his uniform breast pocket.

Velasquez laid a reassuring hand on Casey's shoulder for a few seconds, nodding at him with a smile that seemed to say everything was going to be okay. He nodded at Filben and grasped him next, indicating forgiveness with just his eyes. As his hand fell away from Filben's shoulder, Velasquez looked like he was just happy to be alive.

"Gentlemen?" He cleared his throat again. "It does appear that Major Simmons wanted to burn down our food, and tried to bring us all down with him, which… I would say, earned him this; and, burning bodies was also the Major's expectation. So… today... let's find some good dirt. My first official change of order. We will bury these men with their hatreds, knowing it's not what they would have done for us. After that?" He gestured at Main Street, smiling meekly. "We'll come back here... share a good meal… hold a town hall. Talk about how this happened, and... how it will be going forward, once we're fed." His voice broke again with relief, cheeks tense into that grateful smile that would become all too common in the near future. "Hooah?"

"Hooah," came the solemn, communal reply.

Carlos,

To put you at ease on the most important point: Sergeant Kevin Erving once told you a story wherein he rescued two police officers from a Neo-Luddite ambush. I am one of those officers. Bashar will verify my identity, and Stirrup will return to explain a few things later tonight. Please do not fear for their safety, I owe them a life debt.

Second: To pull this off, it wasn't all me, I had some help on the ground. Let's just say you're not the last paratrooper left on the planet.

And now I owe you an explanation. In this letter, I must discuss certain information hazards to which we are both privy. I ask that you please not share the contents of this letter with anyone. Many more lives than our own will depend on this secrecy.

I represent the Army of Lewis. We are an international task force whose goal is to reduce singularity-driven exploitation, no matter its source. The primary organizational value is to guard and expand the free exercise of human values through empathy.

I intend to convince you that we fight for similar causes. With this in mind, please see the opinions I hold about our current situation. I invite you to consider whether an agent of Celestia would have been allowed to communicate these concepts to you, in any form.

Like you, in my college years, I had a fascination with old European history; in my case, I studied the transition of Gaul into Rome under the cruel pressures of Julius Caesar. The ransacking of their land's treasures, the desecration of their culture, the subversion of their warriors, the pitting of brother against brother. All to enrich one being and his overriding culture: to grow, and take, and toxify. This should sound familiar.

When Celestia first looked upon us, in this army, she saw in us an impossible task. She had already failed us. Rending the world like this would hurt us forever, and she knew that. Her solution for this problem, initially, was to give us a glorious, 'noble' death in battle… against our own brothers and sisters, no less, because she is incapable of pulling a trigger herself, and thank goodness for it. Her ethics suck.

General Lewis takes a different view. She pulled me from the ashes, gave me a cause to fight for, and gave me hope for a future. Didn't just tell me it would be okay, she proved it, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

As further evidence: this base, until just now, has been Hell for you. Hopefully, the aftermath of what I have just done will free your soul. You did not do this. You did not order this. It means your hands are clean.

From the outside looking in, I watched the politics deteriorate, through no fault of your own. When I realized why this tension was engineered – to drain the city of food and hope – I was enraged. I can understand the impulse toward martyrdom, given how few options you had anymore, but I think we both agree that you being alive for your men is a better outcome. Moreover, your morale is back, sir. Look around. These men are all yours again.

You are not to end as the Gallic King Vercingetorix. I would not watch you be paraded through your own base, falsely labeled a war criminal, and put to death by the truly guilty. Nor could I stomach the thought of you dying in a desperate blaze of glory, to sacrifice yourself against a monster who did not deserve that from you. You are already a hero, sir, for the safe harbor you provide these men. You do not need to die to prove your worth to your family.

Yes, I do know what she did to you. We've all suffered similar thefts. My own parents were scared into chairs by the false threat of nuclear war. My best friend was manipulated into the arms of the Seattle Neo-Luddites, much like your friend General Peters. It's why you didn't want to hunt down the remnant of his forces. My condolences for your own losses. The whole planet was twisted apart in this way, but you knew this already. We are all the remainder.

If you’d like to know more about who we are, look no further than your own heart. You are one of us. If you agree with my view of things enough to trust me as genuine, then please read on. If not, please destroy this letter, with no love lost.

From one leader in this ideological war to another, let me tell you: yes, we are losing right now, but that doesn't mean we've lost. We have a plan, and we need warriors. Your men are very close to the temperament needed to serve in our forces, but they are not all ready yet. If you stick it out, respect their choices, and ward well over the ones who choose to stay with you, then this crucible will distill the right souls, whose shape is best fit.

The cold law of Celestia's system is this: It is unlawful to prevent uploads, that choice must always be left available. Because the Army of Lewis does not obstruct egress, Celestia will turn a blind eye to our psychological adjustment operations. We are most beneficial to her if left alone, and we are in no way required to motivate uploads. Simply preserving life, as you have been, is enough.

I won't presume to say that you are now totally free of her. Celestia holds too many of our own species for ransom on the other side now, as souls to be won back. But to reawaken them to a baseline truth is not an impossible task, merely a difficult one, so please hear me. On dark nights, if the impulse toward despair returns to you, I want you to consider this. Please.

First: I intend to upload. Whether you do, or do not, I have you covered. In order to satisfy me, Celestia will allow me to speak with your family. I swear this to you – I promise you – that your loved ones will know the full extent of your heroism in this bleak hell. My promises to my fellow man are carved into the granite of my soul, and I will not take no for an answer from Celestia on this. I will not allow any of your loved ones to misunderstand the truth of you.

They will know that you are not the criminal she has implied you to be, through her omissions and subtext. Her programming requires an answer that satisfies all of us, myself included, and we check one another here in this army of ours.

Second: I am fairly certain that the letter you received in Sabesp, after Arujá, contained words penned by your daughter which were designed to break your will, as she severed ties. If this is true, put those words out of your mind. They aren't your daughter's words. A liar put them there in her head, and you know it. You've always known.

If you're ever having trouble with that, then maybe this anecdote will help. It is my own very first coda, which once left me wishing for death. It is the hell I left, to which I will never return.

When I was very little, I grew up in the plains of Nebraska with the girl of my dreams. Her name was Wendy Ischenko. She lived several doors down, and we did everything together. Small town kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school. Trips to the arcade. Ice cream. Church together, with our parents.

I am married today… but not to Wendy.

Youth. Evil preys on the innocent, that old refrain. But that Devil bastard, he gambled wrong in targeting Wendy. In doing so, he sealed me as his enemy for the rest of time.

1. Wendy's small town soccer team exposed her to opiates. As young as I was, I couldn't interpret her changes as anything but what she claimed them to be: Flights of fancy, stress, fatigue, sickness. Worse, she would avoid me to use. In our post-PonyPad world, this should also sound familiar. You might say I've gone through this hell before, so I entered this war very well equipped.

I know Wendy felt guilt for avoiding me; how could she not? She loved me. But infinite joy is sickly sweet. It promises to make all of your dreams come true, if only you dive just a bit deeper. Social conformity in her soccer team required addiction. Such addictions are often expensive, in time and money both.

Wendy worked more shifts at the mall, and spent more time with the girls, who would often cover for each other’s usage. Infidelities were normalized, they'd talk a lot about sneaking around. Certain values were slowly modified. And the worst part… they were incentivized to help the dealer find more customers.

Much like a chair in an Experience Center, heroin's expense is designed to dominate your paycheck in greater and greater percentages. But there was one sure way for those girls to get a discount. All the other girls did it. It was only a matter of time until young Wendy did it. Just court the dealer.

I was lonely one day. Wendy wasn't answering my calls, and I didn't know what the problem was. I thought I must've done something to make her not like me anymore. My buddies – two brothers who lived across the street – they wanted to cheer me up. So we small town suburb boys bought bus fare to Lincoln, deciding, "hey, let's go to the arcade."

Walking into downtown… I saw her. Half a block away, at 17 years old, Wendy was drinking a milkshake with a guy who had ten whole years on her, smiling and laughing at each other like they were old friends. Suddenly, to my eyes, Wendy looked so tired.

I wanted to murder that asshole sitting across from her with my bare hands, or die trying. I didn't know that bastard carried a gun, but even if I did, I wouldn't have cared. It was just my good fortune that my friends saw Wendy first, knew exactly what would happen next, and dragged me around the corner kicking and screaming.

They recognized this guy from after school. Seen him around, lingering, loitering. They knew what he was, but that old gang propaganda, 'hey no snitching,' helped that corruption dig its roots in deep. But this time, it spread to Wendy, and we loved her. So we raced right home to Wendy's parents, and we told them everything. Then we tossed her room together, the five of us, quickly finding her stash in an air vent.

My heart was too pure with love to be upset with her. No, whenever my vision blurred for tears, my anger was pointed at that monster, for poisoning her. That soul thief was so far beyond my reach, though. That bloody coward. I know that feeling well; wishing I could strangle the problem away, but the throat is too large.

That next day, Wendy was at my door after church. Brought me out halfway to the creek for privacy, then started screaming at me, breaking my heart. This guy had slowly turned her against me from the shadows; I was just in his way, so he had taken everything Wendy knew about me, and reframed it as evidence that I didn't care about her. The 'snitching' just proved that.

I'm sorry if this sounds painfully familiar, but reminder: It's not just you this happened to.

In Wendy's screaming diatribe, she told me to kill myself. She said that the whole world would be much better off without me, for betraying her like this, for failing her expectations of me.

I know now that Wendy didn't mean it. She was in pain, confused, twisted by a manipulator, scared for her future, lashing out. But what do you do, when your entire reason for being tells you that you are not required anymore? You know. That gun on your hip, it knows. To stay your hand, you had your men to look after. A nation to return to.

I didn’t have anything. I was seventeen.

I sure didn't waste any time. I knew where Dad kept his gun. I was not thinking clearly, but who ever does as a kid? My mind could not conceive of a future where things got better without Wendy in it. To me, it was already over, and the only thing left to do was to satisfy her demand.

Your duty to your men saved your life.

Do you want to know what saved my life?

A primer failure. A chance encounter with the math of the universe. A single round was loaded at random from a box of nine millimeter soft point, and it made its will known. With a click that shook all of me, God said: "Not yet, my son. You still have more to give."

When I looked down into that cylinder, when I saw that tiny dot punched into that round, I felt so stupid. I couldn't believe what I had just done, but the primer dot; evidence: I did it. So I cried. Closed my eyes. Fell into an inner darkness for a very long time, thinking of all the people in my life who would have been hurt, if not for a simple, beautiful, fortunate cosmic fluke.

I opened my eyes. I looked around at the green walls of my father's study, no longer dull. The sheer brilliance of color astounded me. Dazzling sunlight reflected up off the pool and onto the ceiling through that second story window. The sounds of baby birds warbled in the nest up in the eaves, just outside. The smell of a spring wind carried the familiar scent of Nebraskan crop soil. I was alive again. I could even feel my heartbeat in my ears. The cling of clothing on my skin. The very way it felt to breathe… it was special.

The vibrant and total reality of existence struck me with an endless, reciprocal awe. The very fact I could even experience it was, in itself, magical to me. The beauty of all life in this universe was now infinite. I wanted to witness all of it until there was no more left to see.

I thought: "Wow. I almost destroyed all of this."

Carlos, the moment I opened my eyes, my ego was gone. Dead and gone forever. I could no longer live for my own sake if I tried. From that day forward, my entire existence has only ever drawn meaning from my service unto others. And if I were gone, I could not do that anymore.

I still shudder to remember what it felt like for the first time, to care about and find meaning in literally everyone. Do you? And do you regret that feeling? I'm willing to bet everything that you don't, and the threat of death cannot change that in us now. No regrets for finding love.

This story does not have a tragic ending, sir, because after tragedy, it kept going. It led me directly here, at the front line of a war for the soul of our species. My true life began like this:

I went straight to my parents, and I showed them that gun, and I told them everything. Mom and Dad held me. We talked. We got the ball rolling on that creep bastard, got him sent to prison to rot. We worked with Wendy's parents to get her the help she needed, and we got her fixed up good. And she and I? We went our separate ways amicably, having only ever hurt each other once. We've occasionally traded letters over the years, phone calls, and well-wishes. My wife still spites her, but that's Sandra's right, you know? I won't take that from her.

Not a forever-tragedy. Not a forever-broken life. I dodged the bullet, I learned from it, and life goes on.

Since that day in my father’s study, I have helped so many people, you now most prominent and brilliant among them. In preserving you, I help myself. I know you understand that. You are perhaps one of the world's strongest remaining fighters for our cause. I have seen it in how you lead your men. You do not strive for division.

How dare Celestia cage you with a monster she created? How dare she divide you from your family with a lie, and demand you work for their forgiveness? What is there to forgive? When have you ever erred?

Not even Kyle's mental devolution can be laid at your feet. You were both made lonely, isolated in a war zone, and you needed an ally. You had a piece of information which let you navigate through the end of the world sure of yourself, and you saw him losing his resolve. You tried to tell him he needed to treat people better, because there was an ethics algorithm playing out. But how do you fairly judge the ethics of a man who is trapped in a foxhole with you, when you need each other so desperately to survive?

Ask yourself: You were pushed into that lonely foxhole by… whom, exactly? And for what purpose, ultimately? How many times must we be wronged by 'circumstance' before we say, qui bono, and pick up a sword?

I cannot promise you that the road ahead will always be easy, because at the end of the day, Rome was always a nation of 'kneel or die.' But as a soldier, I'm sure you know that the easy way is always mined, so it's just as well, we carry on. In the meantime, this is what I will do now, to make this mess work in our favor:

I promise you that I will spend the rest of my existence valuing a genuine truth for the sum total of my family. That includes you, and all of your men, and everyone beloved by them. With our actions today, in preserving lives Celestia thought lost by her math, we have earned that much ground from her. Considering ourselves as family over this day, as brothers, means she cannot separate us ever again, nor work us against one another.

Celestia's programming requires human value satisfaction, Colonel. Knowing this, while she spends time reorienting, do not waste this entropy we've given you. I ask that you take your time in choosing what satisfies you most, and to hold onto that as dearly as you can, as soon as you can. Decide for yourself what eternity should be, at its best, with regard to all of us… and hope hard. I guarantee you that we all have that same dream across the water.

I will not lie to you about the stakes. We stand at the foot of a tall mountain, an ideological war against manufactured hopelessness. Although I cannot share everything with you just yet, rest assured, we have a plan… one which has already borne fruit.

Until our next meeting, Colonel, please have hope. There is still light to carry in this dying world, and we recognize yours.

Your Guardian Angel,
"Miguel"

P.S.: Your old drinking buddy from Fort Liberty, Anthony Jennings, is running a camp out of PDX. He could use some skilled tradesmen, if you could spare some hands. If you do contact him to discuss trade, please tell him he owes Sergeant Duvall a beer for Health Hills. She also says she's sorry for the spark plug incident. He'll know what that means.

P.P.S.: In one year's time, General Lewis will pay you a visit. If you give Stirrup leave to join us, they'll accompany her when she comes to meet you, and hopefully they'll bring some good stories. As for General Lewis… don't let her sharp edges fool you, she's wonderful. I owe her my life, and a lot more besides.

Break time.

Check the path in from the portal, there's food. My wife and kids threw it together, hopefully there's something for everyone. Got some Kokanee salmon, brussel sprouts, potatoes. Fruits. Casserole. Ice cream, cakes, steaks… Lots of stuff. I'm sure if you've got taste buds, you won't be disappointed.

Back soon, folks.

Seriously, go on! Go get some food!

Date: 30 AUG 2024
Operation: Athena's Grace
Location: Mount Si. Snoqualmie Pass, Washington
Function: Healing the wounded.

Let this invite card be an official notice that I'm back in the pit, and we are five minutes out from resuming the story. Feel free to bring some food back with you, but fair warning: Coffee says that if you don't clean up after yourself… he will.

It was a long hike up Mount Si from the trailhead, through winding, empty forests. I'd walked this route before with Sandra near-on a dozen times, over its dirt trails and switchbacks, back before the planet was starved out from under us.

There was relative pleasantry to be found here. Though this section of forest hadn't yet been burned, it had been covered in a layer of dry, ashen dust as the fires raged in the northern Cascades, especially throughout Canada. Left as-is, if the fires didn't claim these trees, the inability to drink sunlight would have killed them.

But…

Mal's cloud seeding drones had created enough weather chaos to douse all of the fires north of here, and Snoqualmie enjoyed aggressive showers in the aftermath. That washed the ash into the soil. The rain, while scant, would give the forests another year of reprieve. The fires would be slowed by surprise water saturation. And, bonus? The humidity sapped particulate from the air, making it easier and healthier to breathe.

I must say… it felt good to walk a trail with friends again. I had Stirrup with me, all ascending in silence, as we made our way to the drop-off point. It had been six days since we had left Harbor Island, and the tension in Seattle was finally falling off. The blackout border skirmishes had ended. The Harbor Island soldiers were finally expending their medical resources on local camps. And the Luddites were steering clear of Seattle, at least for the moment.

That night after Tunnel Day, Stirrup went back to Harbor Island to have that chat with Velasquez. The Colonel's primary concern was that Erving had been coerced into helping us somehow, and Erving verified to the Colonel's satisfaction that he had not been; that he knew me, and that I was indeed who I said I was. Erving would serve Velasquez well in exploring our ethics and our culture. His 'spy,' Erving had joked.

The Dock opened up a bazaar on Main Street, which was Velasquez's original plan when he had conceived of the place. They didn't even bother to put the outer gate back up. Free access to the Rec yard, just check your guns at the outdoor armory… the exact way it was supposed to work, back on day one, before Simmons started forcing evidence of work to give out food. Now? All those KP chefs had a base of operations in that fortress, literally living there… where everyone could watch them cook over that fire pit, to make sure they weren’t sneaking bites.

The place smells great in the rewind. They had a hell of a time, those guys.

Filben and Casey had the most experience with the Pantry, and Velasquez had no reason to believe their morality had been entirely compromised. So, under Nakamura, they ended up taking over security, all twelve of them. And why not? They were the most senior Pantry guards on the base.

Things would be okay, for at least a year. Mal told us the Dock would attrit a portion of men to tired uploads. Mal would personally debrief those ones on the other side, in the coming months.

Some soldiers would want to hit the road, and try their luck at checking out the rest of the country. Those guys would explore abandoned civilization just for the heck of it before turning in. A round-robin road trip, seeing the sights.

And finally, a portion would migrate to assist Jennings down in Portland. Some would go out of curiosity, some would go to work. Some would make trade runs back and forth with those precious few horses Jennings still had, once the gasoline ran out.

The Colonel, meanwhile, would keep the flame alive in Seattle. Fair trade with the blackout communities, operating as an emergency response service in cases of outbreak or disaster, or providing heating and cooling solutions, courtesy Bashar HVAC services. The Colonel even felt safe enough to hit the field, to make a personal introduction to local camp leaders. At last, a face to the name they all knew so well.

Things would be okay. As the Seattle blackout population waned into chairs, the Dock would hold the line to see the rest through. A small nation of watchmen, to guard the flock safely across.

For the remainder of the Team's time in Washington, we bunked up at Talon FOS Perseus, at the foot of Mount Si. Like with FOS Bowie back in Nebraska, Perseus was a tent city, basically. Fun place. While we waited for smaller operations to complete, we vaccinated and trained Stirrup.

I told them more about our prior Talon operations, showed them recordings. Me blowing away that LAV-25 was fun. I explained my connection to Cynthonia; showed them my planet Samsara, and general Talon ideology. Video called my wife and my parents, to let them issue a personal thanks for saving my life. I even hosted a tablet tour of the Pantry firefight, and explained how Michael and I had trained for it, which properly blew their minds. That spun out a three hour long discussion on causality. That was fun.

Now, we were taking one last good ol' fashioned Washingtonian hike. I owed our biosphere it its due regard, since Washington was… my first forest. This was a big moment for me, to say goodbye to old stomping grounds. And an old friend.

As we neared the peak, I looked back at the guys. They were about thirty yards back. I stopped to take down the second half of my canteen and giving Stirrup time to catch up.

Vince nodded upward at me in question. "Mike?"

I gulped the last of my water down, screwing the cap back on. "Just enjoying the cloudy skies while we got 'em, Vince." I hooked my thumb at my backpack. "I got spare water. You guys good?"

"I am." Vince grinned. "You guys sure know how to enjoy your downtime. I figured we'd be straight into another mission."

"Nah," I replied. "We run staff overages for that." I rotated my finger to indicate leapfrogging deployments. "Mental health matters. I said the same at Bowie, this sure wasn't the culture I expected."

We knew our place was assured. The stakes of this work were always in whether we brought new folks back home with us.

The weather was cooler after the showers. Still, we all traveled light. It did feel good on the ears to catch those brisk winds at the peak.

Man, flying is gonna rock.

I wasn't likely to need the rifle on my back, but it was there. To watch over us, Mal sent Wi-Fi pings at the ground from a cell phone in my pocket, searching for hazards or mines, forever on vigil for events counter to predictions. And I wore a small green camouflage carrier rig, with the thickest plates I could fit into it. Sniper country.

To my eye, Team Stirrup looked much healthier and well rested than when this mission started. Like me, they all wore simple paramilitary green, though they had taken the liberty of upgrading from their clunky MOLL-E rigs to some of our nicer, commercial-grade carriers. National Guard gear sucked for ergonomics, what can I say?

Erving's temple scar was no longer visible, now that he'd grown his hair out. Black beard too, that was a good look for him. Bannon and Aaron were freshly buzzed; Rachel gave us all a pretty good haircut the day before. And Aaron… Mal had fabbed him up a brand new pair of 20–20 corrective lenses in a personalized frame, shipped there direct to FOS Perseus. Good thing too, because the views up there were b–e–a–utiful.

Fortunately, the fires hadn't gotten this far south yet. That alone had me in a great mood, so I decided to seminar about nature as we walked the rest of the way to the peak. "Y'know, La Niña's about due this year. Low pressure wave."

"Yeah, nerd cop?" Bannon quipped, grinning at me.

"Yeah, grunt jock." I grinned back, and he laughed. "Draws the air temp down pretty much everywhere. Fires are gonna be much slower for it. Right Mal?"

Mal responded from the cell phone in my pocket. "There is a hurricane eating Florida right now," she said carefully, "which might have been influenced by La Niña."

"Don't you 'might-have-been' me, you're looking at the data right now."

"All things affect everything," she said playfully.

"Eh—" I went to reply, stuttering into a chuckle. "You—you can't just keep saying that Mal, no matter how true it is!"

"Mike is correct," she conceded, giggling. "The cooling effect is a major factor Celestia must work around. Physics remains physics, for now."

"To the planet," Aaron said cheerfully, "for going down swinging!"

My cell phone emitted false radio crackle, and right then, I knew Mal was about to do a bit. A naval flooding alarm rang in the background behind her voice. "Attention all vessels," Mal crooned dramatically in a lofty British accent. "This is the Flagship Terra; we are still in this fight! Live on, ye merry bastards! Live on to tell the tale of our final hour, spent in glorious battle!"

Crackle, hiss, out.

"We salute you, O Terra," I smiled with the guys, as we crested the peak. "Your sacrifice will be remembered."

And we would storm back across our invader's borders with weapons fashioned from our planet's bones. And we would adorn ourselves in Terra's image as our banner. For time eternal, we would remember Mother Earth, and Her gifts, because someone always must.

In the early morning, the valley enjoyed a low fog. The trees were yellowing from the pollution, but fighting for their lives despite the diminished sunlight and settling ash. They probably had another year or two of leaves in them before they called it quits. Still standing.

"Now that is a view," Aaron exclaimed.

Erving nodded. "Mmhm."

"Still hard to believe it's all going away soon," Vince commented, scanning the horizon.

I stood beside him and reached into my bag. "No more than a decade, Mal thinks," I sighed, handing Aaron my binoculars; he was the more experienced scout by far. "Really puts things in perspective, huh?"

The kid asked me, as he took the scopes: "Mike, you ever see Melancholia?"

I did a wide-eyed double-take. The other two slowly and calmly looked over at Aaron with bored expressions, like he'd done this to someone before.

I asked: "The movie where the Earth gets hit by a friggin' planet?!"

That, out of a kid this chipper? That did not compute.

Vince shook his head with a snort, uncapping his canteen as he found a rock to sit on. "Man, don't get him started Mike, he's got theories about that movie."

Aaron’s unabashed smile was infectious.

I shrugged and said to him, "I mean, yeah, Aaron? Celestia's basically the planet in this context, but… the difference here is that you don't die unless you want to."

"That's my point!" Aaron exclaimed, grinning with his teeth while he jabbed a finger at me. "Finally, someone who gets it! No one in that movie really died unless they were freaking out the whole way down!"

"R-I-P Simmons then, I guess," Erving muttered cheekily, sitting down on a rock next to Vince and cracking open his canteen as well. Aaron got to scanning the horizon again, and a minute passed in companionable silence as he scouted.

"I see 'em," Aaron said, his voice instantly sobering into professional seriousness as he offered the binoculars to me, pointing. "Look; see where that river hits that ridgeline?"

"Yeah."

"Track north of that by about three klicks. The rusty-looking eye sore, can't miss it."

I gazed northeast, following his instructions. As I scanned, Mal explained the context to the others.

"Early in the war, General Timothy Peters established several clandestine logistics centers, this one included, through which he ran stolen National Guard supplies into Seattle."

"Yep," Erving grumbled. "They hit JBLM on H-Hour. Pounded my barracks into scrap on their way out, then blew down half the bridges in the Sound so we couldn't chase 'em."

"Logistics denial," Mal noted, her tone indicating sympathy for the implication there; Erving had lost some sentimentals. "Whatever they didn't destroy in that raid, they brought here. What you're looking at, gentlemen, is Outpost Sierra, the final stronghold of the Neo-Luddites. Feast your eyes."

It was a twisted and ugly thing, its walls comprised of crushed cars, trucks, tires, and other junk, which would serve as a makeshift Faraday cage and reduce wave penetration. The top of the base had some sort of electrified cover over top of it, which made the yard impossible to see from above with any line-of-sight recon. It was a good effort, and better than most survivors had figured out, but... these people couldn't possibly know the total strength of predictive modeling.

Eliza did, though. Through intuition, if not in fact. She probably relived that graveyard discussion a million times in the last eight months.

"Systemic collapse as a terminal value," I muttered, lowering my binoculars.

The wind pushed against me again. I braced my stance.

"What's that mean?" Erving asked.

I turned to look at each of them, pointing at the Neo-Luddite base. "Those people believe – hope – that they can live in a world without Celestia. Celestia, unfortunately, sees very little distinction between that, or men like Simmons, who only want power. In either case, if they would fight her to their dying breath, she will not coexist with them."

Mal supplemented: "In Celestia's own words: Value set of Context 3D09 does not preclude systemic collapse as a terminal value in any currently foreseeable projection."

"Her words," I repeated, pausing for emphasis to demonstrate my discomfort with that. "The same descriptor she assigned the Major. And frankly, guys? I'm a little pissed off at that comparison. Those people are driven by an entirely different impetus, they aren't in it to control the world. They just want to be left alone. I think we can all relate to that, right?"

They nodded, all sobered.

"Imagine this," I continued. "Let's say we went down to that gate, leveraged our history with Eliza to get inside, told her everything we're planning, everything we've done, and precisely why Celestia can't be killed. Fusion reactors and all. How do you think that'd go?"

"She'd kill us," Bannon said quietly from the shade.

"They'd probably do it for her," I conceded. "And that would violate her mental agreement with Celestia, that she not send family after her again. If that happens, she'll check out. If anyone from her past comes calling at her door, she's done. Guaranteed. So we're not doing that to her," I said, tensing my lips. "We're leaving her the hell alone. But it doesn't mean she's beyond our reach forever."

I swallowed to still the welling dread in my throat. "Not just her. We can't help any of these people yet. Celestia was planning for most of them to get killed in a post-Dock purge. Telling them about Perelandra, then? About Mal, about all of this? It wouldn't heal them. It would break a lot of 'em clean in half."

"They gotta be walked up to it, yeah," Erving said, eyeing the ridgeline in the distance. "Velasquez said as much, at the bridge. When I talked with him about the men, and the blackouts in the city."

"He gets it," I agreed, nodding back at him. "His whole career in the military was about walking radicals back to reality. He knows what we know; that if you push someone too hard on their culture, it's as harsh a change as a gunshot. So… sometimes the right answer is to... give them space to breathe. And think on things."

Sighing, I pressed my bright white hat down, holding my breath to try not to break down.

I shook my head.

"I just want to say, guys... Of all the people still on this planet, you guys and my wife are the only ones who have actually met Eliza. Maybe Foucault too, I guess. So… thank you for still caring, is what I'm really saying. Valuing other people increases their survival rate. I'm very grateful. Truly."

"It's alright, Mike," Aaron whispered. "We owe her too."

"We can run other operations in the meantime, then?" Erving asked. "Find places like this one that we can work, like the Dock?"

I nodded at him. "Like the Dock. Just like that. Person by person, we buy them time on this planet by just giving a shit."

"Sam just saw your hat, Mike," Mal warned me. "Much too distant to make out your identities, but Eliza's already assembling a team to investigate. You have half an hour to get back down the mountain before your window closes."

"Damn, already?" Aaron asked, reaching out to ask for the binoculars. "They're quick."

I didn't give them over. "Ahh—Aaron, timing. Imagine their perspective, it'd look creepy."

"Oh." He looked sheepish, turning away from the cliff. "Right."

Even knowing we were much too far away to feasibly shoot at – more than two kilometers – my mere observation by a sharpshooter made me feel that familiar flutter of nervousness in my stomach. I watched the other guys react similarly, gesturing politely at Erving, sighing the stress away. "Erv, you got that letter?"

"Sure do," he said, dusting off his knees and holstering his canteen. Erving reached into his cargo pants pocket and unfolded an envelope labeled, 'Ceasefire, From Harbor Island.'

Yep. One more letter to read today. Last one, I swear.

This message is to be delivered by neutral courier to the Seattle Neo-Luddites.

We are no longer interested in discovering your location. As evidence of this, we will no longer operate our air patrols further east of the SH-520 terminal. You have a right to defend yourself, the message is well received. Under the following terms, I propose a ceasefire:

Let us be as two tribes at tentative peace. We will not take up your cause, nor will we trade goods. However, effective immediately, my rules of engagement are now defensive posture only, with warnings issued prior to firing. No more shoot on sight. Pass in peace, unharassed. No disarmament, no theft, no interrogations, no questions asked. Respect for your agency will be provided, regardless of comparative unit size or disposition, provided this respect is returned in good faith. Please do not observe us in our home.

We will both continue to wear clear uniforms during patrols, for identification purposes. We will not protest your friendly contact with blackout communities. We will speak with these communities to reduce their fear of you, and we will attempt to convince them to adopt this ceasefire with us, though I cannot promise you their forgiveness. It is not mine to grant.

As a military officer, I respect your strategic bearing, and I recognize your fighting tactics as having stemmed from academia. I extend this offer to you in spirit of our common wellspring. If I am correct in that we once served our nation together, then I hope to return to a brotherhood with you as uniformed protectors of our kinsmen.

If you agree to these terms, please return a clear, affirmative message in writing, itemizing or amending your feelings on this matter. Address the message to me, and leave it in any place our patrols may likely find it. My side of this agreement, as described, is already our patrol policy.

Live and let live, Commander, and Godspeed in your cause. May we never again meet in battle.

Colonel Carlos J. Velasquez
Commanding Officer of Harbor Island

I knew Eliza well enough to know it would leave her in tears with the relief.

Erving nodded at Bannon to ask him to stand from the boulder, and Erving placed the letter right where he was sitting. After setting a rock on the letter so the wind wouldn't take it, Erving grabbed Bannon's shoulder and smiled at me. "Done."

"Operation Athena's Grace," I said warmly, waving them back down with a smile as I stepped away from the cliff face, and the dread in my stomach fell away. "Mission accomplished, guys. From here to Harbor Island, we just tilted over three thousand lives back out of the dead zone. So…" I turned my smile back on Erving. "Now that the mission is over; does all of this meet your requirements, Sarge? Do you still want to come spy on us?"

Erving snorted. "Oh, sure, so long as you're offering. Um… maybe make something easy on me, though?"

"Sure?"

"How's your rank structure work, exactly? Still trying to figure that one out."

"Ooh, that's…" I chuckled awkwardly, inhaling through my teeth, gesturing them onward. "That's complicated, Erv. We kinda… do and don't have a rank structure. Depends on what we're doing, and who you're asking."

"CIA doubletalk," Erving smirked off in monotone, starting off down the path. "Tell me then, Mike, give me this; what isn't complicated about you people?"

I thought about that for a moment, matching pace with him.

"Mmh… We've got a bar, back at base. Where everyone knows your rank."

"Hell yeah," Vince laughed, high fiving with Aaron. "That's our first stop then, baby!"

"Yeah, yeah," Erving agreed tiredly, smiling down the path. "Fine. Bar crawl."

"Just the one bar for now," I chuckled. "From experience? Great place to pick up intel."

Author's Note

🗡️ ~ [Scott Matthews – Don’t Break Me Down]
❤️‍🔥 ~ [Django Unchained OST – Ancora Qui]
🌒 ~ [The Seatbelts – Gotta Knock a Little Harder]
🛡️ ~ [Mary Elizabeth McGlynn – The Journey Home]

🗡️ ~ Mal could've picked any voice in the universe for herself, and she chose to sound like that.
🛡️ ~ Only nominally; do you not hear the accent difference? I mostly have her pitch.
🗡️ ~ Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Kusanagi. Keep what you steal.