The Campaigner

Part IV

Chapter 8 – Operation Archon V
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Date: 3 APR 2020
Operation: Archon – Phase V
Location: Health Hills Medical Center
Function: Capture return value of Context 7B.

"Hell is a state of mind — ye never said a truer word. And every state of mind, left to itself, every shutting up of the creature within the dungeon of its own mind — is, in the end, Hell." ~ C. S. Lewis

After leaving Don's warehouse, Paul, Eric, and I rallied at a data center a few blocks away. There wasn't much left of the place, blown half apart into charred pieces. Even dead as it was, blackouts and Ludds alike steered well clear of this modern day haunted mansion. That made it the perfect place for an AI subvert rendezvous. Mal always did have a practical sense of humor.

We met DeWinter at the entrance gate. As we jogged up, she gave us a steely nod, looking us over with her blue eyes, which appeared gray in the overcast. She wore a civilian rain jacket and waterproof tactical trousers, and joined formation as we jogged in; Coffee was crouched just inside the loading dock, wearing a tri-color camo boonie cap, magazine harness, and tactical clothing.

At a glance, 46-2 and 46-3 looked like blackout scavengers. Damned good social camouflage, in this muddy commercial district dreck.

DeWinter leapt up the four foot high loading dock like a gazelle. She and Coffee helped me, Eric, and Paul hoist ourselves into the building, and we followed Coffee into the colocation room.

The main room smelled like an old bonfire, burnt electronics, and battery acid. The interior was charred black in most places, and the side room doorways had black streaks coming out of them, casting up the walls. There were literal craters inside too, with floor tiles all mangled, all the metal cages bent, the server racks all warped into slag. Water poured in through shattered sections of roof where artillery had smashed through. No way of knowing whether it was the Army or the Ludds who wanted this building dead more.

Just one side room there was dry and intact, with a small generator quietly purring away by the door. The door even closed properly. Very classy accommodation, given the neighborhood.

A small office space awaited us inside, with food on a folding table. Packaged pastries, danishes, donuts. Junk food, y'know, 7-Eleven grade stuff. They even had a coffee maker, for use by you-know-who, and a stack of his styrofoam cups that looked suspiciously familiar. Two packs of cinnamon gum; one for me, one for Eric. A pack of mints and cigarettes for Paul. And a gunmetal PonyPad on the table, with Mal on it, ready to receive us.

She smiled patiently and waved at us, scrolling some data screens as we got comfortable, giving us time to strip out of our rain gear and dry out our hair with towels.

"I sure am gonna miss welcomes like this," said Eric, once he was finished cleaning up, going straight to the chewing gum and popping a stick in his mouth. "Thanks Mal. God damn, I missed these."

"Of course, Eric," Mal whispered through a somber smile, looking up at him from her screen, her ears flattening as he approached.

Once dry, I looked around a little more. Along one wall, there were open weapons cases with Vector submachine guns and several Ruger handguns. A paper map was on the wall for us to study, if need be. The room had several office chairs, and it was clear that both Coffee and DeWinter had been living out of this place for a few weeks. Two very different sleeping bag setups; one atop an inflatable mattress next to a waste bin full of snack wrappers, another on the hard carpet next to a waste bin full of MRE wrappers. I'll give you all one guess as to which one belonged to who.

Once we were settled in and snacking, slugging our coffee down, Mal ruffled her wings and tinked on the glass of her screen with a talon to get our attention. "Went well at the warehouse, I take it?"

"He'll use them responsibly. I predicted he'd do that, and planned for it." Mal pointed at the doorway, drawing our attention to the rifle leaning there. "That one should be identical to yours, Eric. The magazine only has seventeen rounds, and it's been freshly fired. If anyone asks, you shot back during the ambush."

"Always on it, Mal." Eric glanced over and nodded at the weapon as he confirmed it was the correct configuration of parts. Then, he looked at me and smirked. "You want to deck me, One-One? It's your last chance, this side of the jump."

I smiled weakly, shaking my head as I slumped into one of the chairs. "I didn't second guess your motives for a second, Eric."

With a grin of his own, Paul grabbed a packaged cherry danish off the table and launched it at Eric. "I did. You asshole!"

Eric flinched, catching it in his lap, sending back a toothy laugh. "Yeah, no disputes, Paul. I was a real bastard."

Mal locked eyes with me next, her smile fading as she appraised me. "Mike, how are you? You okay?"

I nodded, my smile fading to match her own. "I'm okay Mal, no complaints. Jeff was a problem, it had to be done."

Coffee stood guard outside the room, his Vector held casually. DeWinter stepped out to run a cable from the generator, stripping off her jacket beside the space heater on her way back in. She toweled off her wrists and got herself mostly dry before she sat at one of the tables, beginning assembly on a small electronic device.

In the meantime, we relaxed some more, ate, and traded perspectives with Eric. We discussed our time at the base, verifying and comparing our differing inferences about some of the Ravens we'd encountered. Fortunately, most of them hadn't fully drank all the York Aid yet, just based on our read of their ethics and conduct. Bitter, even cruel, but... capable of empathy.

Mal was mostly silent as we analyzed, only occasionally noting whether she agreed or disagreed, but we were correct in a lot of our analyses. It was important that we get this information to Eric, because he was going to use effectively all of it to measure and select his conduct toward those people, back at the hospital.

After a couple of minutes working with some power tools, DeWinter hooked the assembled device up to the generator's power strip. She then held the device aloft, looking at Eric expectantly. "BCI's up. You ready?"

"Ready." Eric spun around in his office chair and kicked the floor to slide himself over to her. DeWinter stopped it with her boot. Eric gave Mal a smirk. "Just don't check my browser history, yeah?"

DeWinter pressed the device to the back of Eric's neck. "Just gotta update Mal's model of the Colonel, real quick."

Mal sighed, tapping a talon along her holo menu, visually demonstrating her beginning the scan. "Complicates my modeling, her killing anyone who tries to leave. She's impressively ingenious about her information control, so I have no idea where her mind is now; neither spatially, nor psychologically. I will in a moment though. Eric: conceive of Hani Jeffries, please."

Several more holo screens rapidly appeared before Mal, to demonstrate her investigation through that web of Eric's neural networks. The Gryphic text scrolled down each screen at lightning speeds, and various screens played videos in fast motion. Mal frowned, her ears splaying in revulsion as she sneered at the totality of the data. Then she pulled open a specific video from the warehouse from Eric's perspective, playing it in fast forward. "Good shooting, Mike." The recording wrapped up, and she looked up at us all. "Wow. Now this one is an asshole."

Mal snorted. "I... will go ahead and update his tense from present to past in my database, then," as if she hadn't done that already.

DeWinter snorted, then adjusted the BCI more tightly to Eric's neck, putting her other palm to his forehead to keep him still. "Stationary, please."

"Next, Edward York," Mal continued softly. Her ears straightened up, and her concentrated frown softened. "Hmm. Shame, about this one. Not worth the lives it would cost to drift him back out of his spin. No simulation saves this one, under those constraints. So close… so far."

Tensing his lips, Eric bobbed his head left, then right, making a thoughtful sound. DeWinter let out a frustrated huff, tapping Eric's shoulder with the back of her hand. "Stop moving, little horse. It's mucking up the scan."

Eric smirked, looking between DeWinter and Mal with his eyes. "I think he does, Mal. York's a prick, but… not self-interested like Jeffries. True believer, good-of-humanity type, in his own... sick little way. I respect that."

After a moment of consideration at her holo screens, Mal hummed thoughtfully too. "Hmm. The method you employ may depend on the rest of this scan." Her eyes narrowed. "Think of the bodyguards, now. Any context will do." Mal's eyes suddenly dilated as she moved her head forward an inch at her monitors, like a cat looking at prey. "They've gotten lazy."

"For the kingmaker play, they all must die," Mal responded professionally, as she continued her analysis. "Total losses, unfortunately. Seems… like they're all indoctrinated beyond help. They'd each contest Eric's claim to the throne."

He flipped me off with a noble flourish, making a sign of the cross. "By the power vested in me, I hereby expel you."

"Well, you're not king yet," Mal replied, with a glum affect. Her gradually softening tone was making me nervous. "Alright, Eric. Last but not least. Sarah Kacz—"

Mal immediately frowned again, her voice taking on a sudden, definite melancholy. Her scrolling Gryphic text stopped. Her beak fell open an inch. Her eyes narrowed.

"What?" Eric asked, looking like he was about to turn in his chair to look at DeWinter before he thought better of it. His eyes darted to Mal. "What's wrong, Mal?"

"Thulcandra," DeWinter breathed, looking down at Eric. "She's enacting Thulcandra."

"If only I had gotten to her sooner," Mal sighed, tapping a digit on the edge of one of her holo screens. "I must confess… she did an excellent job of hiding from us, up in Canada."

Mal looked up at me with a forlorn gaze. "This is fully reasoned behavior. Thulcandra was my original backup plan, in case Celestia proved unreasonable. If Jim and I failed to report back from my negotiation with Celestia, the Transition Team would have deployed an international nuclear strike with the goal of destroying Celestia. This would also ethically cull the majority of humanity, to prevent her from acquiring their minds. It was only intended as leverage against Celestia during negotiations, but it was the most humane course to take if she did not cooperate. Sarah does not have nuclear weapons, so she is attempting the next best thing. She would... not be doing this, if she knew I existed. She'd cease instantly."

DeWinter met my eyes, her face tense. She looked like she was about to cry. "She could've been one of us... if only we'd... found her sooner."

"Possibly drifted too far gone now," Mal agreed, shaking her head in disappointment, scrolling her holoscreen upward with a series of irritated flicks of her claw. She looked up at me again, her ears folded to the sides. "We're going to try anyway. Mike, very important: I want to further specify my orders. Being who you are, you were going to do this anyway if you thought you had the time, but… when you enter her office, I want you to talk with her. And when you do... no filters."

Mal shrugged. "No limits. Tell her the truth, if safe, but make sure you have her permission for that first. She needs to want the answers for them to mean anything."

"No objective, Mike. Tell the truth about me, but carefully. Play it out from there, keep yourself safe, but give her however many choices you think are fair for the circumstances. Bring handcuffs if you want that option, we have some in the supply crates. But if that discussion is anchored in what my purpose is, it will almost certainly occur favorably, for all parties."

Paul glanced between us. "Taking the time for that won't jeopardize the mission, will it? Or put Mike at risk?"

"Shouldn't," Mal said, shaking her head. "Anechoic walls, no one enters Radiology without a good reason. All remaining NMPs will be stacked up in there when Eric gets back, and Coffee will take care of the rest. Ingress and egress both."

DeWinter removed the BCI from Eric's nape, a waver in her voice. "I'll be on overwatch."

Eric leaned forward on his knees toward the PonyPad with a serious look, folding his hands. "Will Mike's chat with her change our long term plan at all?"

Mal glanced up at DeWinter again. "Jen, resume the scan. Eric, in light of better full context, I need to do a housekeeping check on the embedded Talons, just to be sure they're on task."

"Okay," Mal said. "Consider Benjamin Warren... Good. Jacob Watanabe... Okay, good. Taylor Ferris— Eric, you're getting ahead of me, slow down."

Mal raised a talon. "Okay, now you can think about Son Nguyen. ... Good." Mal's ears perked up again, a serious melancholy on her face. She wagged a claw downward at DeWinter, signalling she could remove the portable BCI. As DeWinter got to work disassembling the device, Mal looked away from her screens, casually swiping her claw to douse them. Mal then directed her gaze toward each of us in turn. "Our plan works better now. Excellent work, everyone."

"Same plan," Mal replied. "But now, with this information, I'm sure everyone will get what they want in the end. Sarah included."

"No change on York; full termination. Instantaneously, of course. Once Mike is inside Sarah's office, wait in the room across from where the elites will be treating your injuries. York should position well when he returns, and will freeze in the doorway, assuming the rest of our team sticks to the plan. That will be the moment. Don't advise Ben or Jacob of anything being different, I need them on-script."

Mal glumly extended a claw to the door, presenting the way for Eric. "Well, moment of truth. Are you ready to become a legend?"

Eric chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Now you're getting ahead of me, Mal. What happened to 'you're not king yet?'"

"You'll do wonderfully," Mal said, with melancholy pride. She approached the viewpoint so that her face filled the entire frame, and she placed a claw on the corner of the screen, tilting her head sympathetically up at him. "I won't lie to you, Eric. It's going to be a long haul, and we'll be out of direct contact for… at least a year? But we can still go back to Plan B, if you ever have second thoughts about this. At any point."

"Well, you just scanned me, Mal, so you know I'm not backing out now." Eric sighed, smiling around the room at us. "We're talking about a difference of… several thousand DEs' lives, here. I'm still completely on board for this, are you kidding me?"

DeWinter dug into her pocket and placed two bottles of unmarked pills into Eric's hand. He popped one of each; one antibiotic, one oxycodone. As he did, DeWinter prepped a syringe, drawing fluid from a vial.

"A common cold," DeWinter explained to us, in that soothing European accent of hers, her voice under control again. She flicked the needle a couple of times. "He'll catch symptoms similar to the mega-virus. It will explain why we let him live."

Eric met my eyes, looking a little shameful all of a sudden. "By the way, Mike? Paul? In case it wasn't clear, uh... I'm sorry, about…"

I held up a hand, shaking my head with a nervous smile. "It was a character. Nothing to forgive."

Eric rolled up his left sleeve. "Yeah, but y'know… still felt… wrong. But hey, I'm real glad I got to meet my Talon One, Mike. Take it from a Talon Two... I'm looking forward to that shard of yours."

He didn't react to the needle. DeWinter swabbed Eric's entire left forearm with a glob of hand sanitizer, then she swatted his back armor. "You're good, brother."

"Thanks, Jen. Well... here goes nothing," Eric said cheerfully as he stood. DeWinter hugged him briefly. He picked up the AR-15 by the door and slung it. We followed him out into the server room.

Coffee patted him on the shoulder and walked with him for a few more steps, flashing him a forlorn smile of his own. "We'll miss ya, Crash."

Eric half-smirked at him chidingly, but with confidence. "Hey, don't say that like I'm dying, Coffee, that's bad luck! I'll have Taylor and Son with me too, right? These people like me, they trust me. Mal says it'll work… so it'll work. We'll drift 'em home."

"You bet," Coffee said softly, with another slap on his shoulder. "Give the other guys my best, when it's safe."

Eric stood out in the open apart from us and turned, blacklit by the light of an overcast sky, as rain poured through the collapsed ceiling behind him. He smiled tensely, his jaw clenching in anticipation.

DeWinter withdrew one of the Ruger sidearms, cleared the chamber, and inserted a fresh mag with low pressure training rounds. She hesitated while pulling the slide, frowning. The very act of loading these bullets into her gun was clearly very uncomfortable for her.

I understood. If Eric came back to Health Hills alone and unharmed, with a story about me and Paul being subverts, that would look seriously suspicious. But with an injury… a personal investment in the betrayal… and carrying an 'I told you so' about Private Mike...

Evil me. Bad guy. I had seemed like a perfect fit, I said all the right things, I passed all the onboard tests, everyone liked me… except Eric. Except Jeffries.

But? I killed Jeffries. Killed Sarah. Killed York. Tried to kill Eric, twice. Killed the entire inner circle besides. Everyone in command.

Eric the Prophet. Saw the subvert through the mask, tried to warn everyone. And I was the perfect scapegoat.

Shot to hell, bloodied, hateful… but breathing, just barely. Now doubly sure of himself, hating Celestia that much more. Isolationist, evasive, terrified of new faces, or even setting up a base again. They'd roam for a year, never settling down. Imitating their leader, whose gambles always seemed to pay off... who always seemed to know where the food was.

The play Mal had promised me, when she briefed me in Lincoln. To fix the broken, so we could save them, and not have to kill them.

Today, I don't think they should feel shame about who they once were, it's in the past. In fact, I don't really care what you did before any of you uploaded. I don't stamp 'evil' on folks in here. We no longer have the convenience of burying people and judging them in hindsight.

One day... hope would come to these Ravens. It would come to them in a dusty, burnt out Cascadian forest, clad in feathers. In real, physical space.

I also knew what getting shot was like. What Eric – Shatter Crash, right there, front row – was about to endure. That scar he has on his wrist. The reminder of the debt Celestia still needs to pay. Like my chest. He'd heal, sure, but… partially disabled until the day he uploaded, without proper medical treatment. That would hurt for a long time. A lot. So I already knew what he was paying for them to make it here in one piece. It's the price I was already paying.

"Last chance to back out, Eric," DeWinter said hopefully, her voice somewhat drowned out by the sound of rain.

Eric swallowed nervously, adjusting his carrier rig to ensure his armor was centered. He let his eyes drift up to the ceiling, psyching himself up. "It's gotta happen, Jen. Gotta get those NMPs." Eric closed his eyes, took another deep breath, turned, and presented his back. He lifted both of his arms high and clear. "Go, I'm ready."

Four shots to the back plate. Eric yelped, turned, and kept his hands held out, presenting his chest.

Eric cringed hard as a stream of rounds pelted his chest armor. Being low caliber and low pressure, they failed to penetrate or even bruise him too much. The two final rounds went high and clipped him clean through his left wrist. He yelped. Paul stepped forward to help him, but Eric waved him off.

"No no… m'good, dress this myself," he hissed. He flapped his good hand at us, upturned in demand. "Coffee, tourniquet. Now."

Coffee stepped forward and handed him one. Eric worked fast, expertly torquing it like he'd done it before. Probably did, if he saw action in Salt Lake.

With another wince, Eric ambled back to the storage room, cradling his arm, bloody. He grabbed a few field dressing packs and threw his poncho over his back to hide the holes there.

Mal smiled, her ears going flat again, flinching at the sight of his injury like the rest of us were. Hurt like hell to even look at it. I felt my chest pang.

Mal said, "I'll be headed your way as soon as that technology is finished, Eric. I promise. Thank you so much for this."

"Seeing you in person is gonna be the… the coolest thing I've ever seen," Eric said with a coughing chuckle, nodding back down at her. He gave the rest of us a casual salute. "See ya in a couple hours, guys. Make it a good encore, yeah?"

He slung his backpack to hide the bullet holes on his back plate. Then… out the door he went, back into the storm. We changed clothing quickly as Mal and Coffee detailed the plan.

The four of us – Coffee, DeWinter, Paul, and I – we trailed behind Eric by about ten minutes. Each of us wore gray, off-the-shelf tactical clothing; soft-soled boots for noise suppression; simple black body armor, commercial grade. Mal didn't want to chance AI-made equipment finding its way out of her control, that was an unnecessary risk to long term operations. The only exception was a suspension buffer for my shoulder like I had at Goliath, this time done up like a DIY build; Mal was being considerate of my injury again.

Our kit: Vector submachine guns, suppressed and chambered in .22LR; I also had a suppressed Ruger Mk. IV pistol, same caliber. These guns were whispers in the dark when using low pressure sub-sonic ammunition. The egg cartons on the walls would do the rest, effectively neutralizing the sound before it could reach the rest of the hospital. The very system of Sarah's paranoid information control would be the undoing of this place.

DeWinter had her usual AR sniper. I shuddered to imagine being a guard in an upstairs window at that hospital, all of whom were about to have a really bad day. I had already seen her work at Goliath, firing with deadly speed and accuracy. But, it wouldn't need to come to her killing anyone, so long as everything went well inside.

In the monsoon, approaching the hospital was ridiculously easy. Coffee timed our movement to a point where the guards would be distracted up top, and we sprinted across into the alley that led to the courtyard, coming up just beneath the Starbucks. Coffee locked eyes on Ben in the Starbucks window.

Ben was ready for us. He saw us and flashed Coffee a thumbs-up through the slats.

Coffee grabbed a couple lines of rope from his belt, and with augmented expertise, he threw the end of one rope perfectly into Ben's waiting hand. Ben then tied it off to the window frame while Jacob carefully loosened boards off the window.

Five minutes prior to our arrival, Eric had bashed his way through the front door with the aid of a perimeter sentry; they yelled for York. So now, everyone in the lobby was distracted with conversation, discussing theories about what might've happened at Don's camp. All except the two new rookies in the Starbucks, of course, who were... very unimportant to everyone else, because nobody liked them.

Coffee went up first, climbing the rope knots. As soon as he was up, he aimed his Vector out onto the second floor terrace through the cafe, just to be ready in case someone rounded the corner. Paul and I came up next.

Ben and Jacob were already moving out into the lobby from the Starbucks. I could hear them shoving each other on their way back to the campfire, having a very animated argument about a very stupid topic.

See, Ben was a Republican. Jacob was a Democrat. They really were, too, before all this.

As Talons, they were best friends. But here, they 'hated' being posted together.

They had both warned York about this, about how they could not be placed together, and he did it anyway, because he wanted to crucible them, and test their worth. For the last two days, they had been arguing quietly on post; not loud enough to call out, but loud enough to irritate everyone. The chickens were coming home to roost finally, and it made an excellent, well-telegraphed distraction. They even started to get physical out there, pushing each other around on the lobby stairs, rolling around, grappling like a couple of kids in a schoolyard.

"And who'd you vote for, Zuckerbot?" Jacob belted back. "You data-whores started this shit!"

And, Ben threw a real punch. Jacob threw a few real ones back. And it turned into a mess, a real full-on fight, as people dove in to separate them. I heard the scuffle echoing around the lobby.
Paul and I put the boards back in place on the window. That kind of improv acting might've amused me in other circumstances, but...

My mind was on the gun in my hands, and the job I had to do. At the time, I wasn't laughing about anything.

The Raven sergeant on duty went to go warn York about the fight; the guy couldn't handle this himself. From the shadows, I watched him pound on the Radiology door. About thirty seconds later, it flew open. York didn't even ask why he was knocking; I saw York's face twist into a scowl the moment the door opened, now finally hearing the fight. He and the sergeant stomped back out together along the terrace to go break it up.

As soon as York turned, we moved quickly, Coffee leading us. The echo from the yelling covered up our three-second dash to cross through the café, behind the elevators, and into Radiology. The soft soles of our boots were whisper quiet.

From the head of the stairs, I heard York's voice bellow down into the pit: "Everyone! Freeze! Nobody move!"

As the double doors closed behind us, that political debate faded into silent, pointless history.

Before this very moment... I had never been inside an anechoic chamber in my life. I am very, very glad for that... because it's said that most human beings can't tolerate it for very long without losing their minds. Egg cartons indeed lined the walls and the drop ceiling. The space above was filled with foil, I could see that where the tiles were missing. The floor was covered in thick shag rugs of various overlapping designs. Our steps hardly made a sound, not even an echo to be heard. Without environmental feedback, I felt like a mind without a body, floating through air.

I was reminded of Cynthonia's moon shard environment, and how deathly silent it had been there, too. We often forget how dependent we are on background noise for our mental health until the noise is completely gone, and all you can hear is...

No, you don't. Because the crickets around this Fire just stopped. The light from Cynthonia's moon above, it's gone. The stars above, all gone. The breeze is no longer blowing in from the sea. There is nothing on this island but us... and the still trees... and this now silent, frozen Fire.

The walls beneath the egg cartons had been painted thick with black anti-WiFi paint. No signals in there, at all. Coffee's brain and BCI were now running on a predictive model package from Mal, so Coffee would know what to expect. Otherwise, we were utterly alone, separate. Yet another place on Terra wherein Celestia would be completely blind.

The sound of quietly animated voices ahead startled me, emanating from one of the CT rooms up to our right. Candlelight poured out. Eric was in there getting stitched up, grumbling loudly to the elite guards about me, about Don. I heard my name mentioned with hateful bite.

Coffee wasted no time. He trotted to the CT room from the door, and as soon as he was around the corner, he let fly three separate bursts with his Vector, bolting his aim around from one man to the next, with no hesitation. It looked unnatural.

The elites were dead instantly. Not a shred of suffering, panic, or fear. No time to contemplate mortality. Just gone... in the blink of an eye.

Paul and I leveled our guns down the hall at the barracks section, covering Coffee's six.

Coffee wheeled back out of the CT room without saying a word to Eric; Coffee sprinted silently down the hall like the wind, coasting along on his soft soles. Paul and I averted our barrels upward as Coffee crossed into our line of fire, so as not to muzzle him. A single bodyguard came around the corner, roused from his bunk by the patter of suppressed automatic fire. The man died instantly as a trio of .22LR rounds collided with his throat, separating his brain stem.

Coffee leapt, diving sideways around the corner, practically bowling through the freshly killed guard who had not yet finished his fall; two more long bursts flew from his barrel as he dove through the stagnant air. The final two guards were dead before his shoulder even hit the carpet, with a line of rounds tracing up from their hearts to their necks. He rolled through his landing, stood, dropped his magazine, and reloaded faster than I'd ever seen anyone reload in my life. SWAT team reloads looked like slow motion by comparison.

Without missing a beat, Coffee recovered from his roll and dragged the body in the hallway out of sight by the rug, so York wouldn't see it on his way back in. Then, Coffee turned his back toward us and smoothly backpedaled to our position, his gun pointed toward Sarah's office.

"Paul," Coffee whispered, as he neared us. "On go, give the Ruger to Eric. Follow on me."

Coffee patted my shoulder once. "Mike, last left at the end; Colonel's office. Go."

Paul reached for my belt as I went, grabbing the Mk. IV. He handed the gun to Eric, patting his good shoulder and nodding in a stern, respectful goodbye. "See ya back home, Crash."

Coffee twirled to point his gun at the lobby door again. He and Paul exited quickly together, moving back to the Starbucks. As the door opened, I caught some of York's voice ordering Ben and Jacob back to post, then it was silent again. Coffee would hide in the Starbucks kitchenette with Paul until it was time to leave, covering our extraction route.

Eric would handle York himself, in a moment. He crossed the hall behind me without a word, taking position in the opposite office.

As I moved, I mentally hesitated for a beat, a little gobsmacked. Coffee had just cleared two rooms, perfect accuracy, finishing with a John Woo dive shot. In candle-lit darkness.

I shook my head clear of it and got myself oriented. I lifted my Vector up, tagged on the red laser, and jogged the length of the building to the Colonel's office, gun held shouldered to my buffer pad. I spared some time for a scan into the barracks, verifying that the room was clear. The three final bodyguards laid dead inside. I couldn't see more than their shapes in the dark. Two were sideways in their cots, cut down while waking; the third one was slumped over his carbine on the rug.

The whole hallway smelled gross. Like... mold, piss, and algae. The egg cartons on the walls ended at some point, replaced with proper anechoic wall blades. Noise discipline apparently got more and more important the closer one got to the Colonel's office, so it would be a very slim chance that she'd heard any of that subsonic gunfire.

Throughout American history, before we moved fully on to criminal 'rehabilitation,' whatever that meant to us… we just executed felons, like the rest of the world did. Dead or alive warrants. Before even that, in Europe; the axemen. The chopping blocks. The gallows. Different times, different measures. Society's tolerances for punishment can change, and it depends on their environment and circumstance.

I'd rather rehabilitate, you know me. But, point of order: the Wild West was exactly that. Wild. And good luck peaceably arresting criminals in the Midwest when they traveled in big roving bands with dozens of guns.

That's why the concept, 'Dead or Alive.' Consequence of the times. Officer's discretion, they had to have the option to spare the criminal. Better to have the option than not, because why not?

But why would that bandit ever surrender? They knew they would probably just be hung if taken alive, right? Does surrender, in that circumstance, make no sense? Isn't it better to fight it out?

Well... in some places of the world, if the crook could be taken alive... it was a human custom for the executioner to get to know the condemned, almost as a friend, prior to carrying out their sentence. Seriously. They might have even lived in the same place with their executioner for days, leading up to the axe. They'd share meals. They'd discuss the nature of life and death. They'd discuss their coming confrontation with God, and... they would discuss how one might atone for the wrong they'd done their fellow man.

Happened in America, between sheriffs and men in a cell. All the time. Quiet, late night chats about the metaphysical, undertaken through cell bars. A literal breaking of bread together over common upbringing, or common life experience. Relation. Confessions about things they'd done, to clear the conscience, and to express regrets. Nothing material to gain from it except the mere company, if the lawman was honest and did his duty. At most, before the gallows... that kind of humility, humanity, and respect would've earned that lawman a handshake and a thank you from the condemned. For being... human.

Yes, that relationship could be cordial. Could be, if both sides allowed for it. Some of you might call that illogical, to try and befriend a man you had to kill, or who would end up killing you. So? Maybe there was a legitimate purpose behind being a little illogical about that. The doomed would discuss the hereafter, sharpening their final statement to the world… and their executioner would have to hold onto that experience for the rest of their lives, if they so chose to engage.

Sometimes... they'd even help the condemned write their letters of farewell, to family and friends. Helped them to get their affairs in order. Or... to help the condemned apologize to the their family, for leaving them behind in such a way. This was especially important because... a lot of those guys from that time period? They couldn't even read or write. The sheriff often had to know how, to do his job. They also sometimes mediated between a murderer and the family of his victims, to let them express some true regret.

Didn't have to do that. Sheriff could've been a bastard and denied that. And some did. Discretionary, you know. Some were cruel. I'm fair when I talk about history, because I know my history.

But, if there was empathy there... at the moment of the end? The condemned would give their final words to their community, words shaped by those discussions with their jailer. And after the crowd heard the killer's conclusions on life… on death… on their crimes? In those final words of apology? The people who gathered might have even cried together, over the loss. Moved to tears. They knew the criminal's end was assured, and that they were sorry… it meant those last words had to be genuine, right? They were dying anyway. It was how you knew they meant it.

Ask yourselves… why would an executioner do that to themselves? What value was there in being decent to a horrible, morally reprehensible killer? Or in letting the condemned have some peaceful closure, if they could? If… if punishing them, and making an example of them, were the only true functional goals there – and those goals were being satisfied – then what did showing grace even gain the executioner?

Why do we so often overlook the human value there? Why did we largely forget that part of our history? And what did we lose, in moving away from showing grace to the criminal?

The moment I crossed the threshold into Sarah's office, I heard the soft pop of the Mk. IV from down the hall.

I stepped inside without looking back. Path of safety. Trusted Eric, Coffee, Paul, DeWinter. Ben. Jacob. Son. Tyler. Mal.

I first noticed that the walls were pitch black, like night. Another repurposed scanner room, desolate like the moon. Covered in anechoic panels, paint, foam. There was a simple black IKEA desk in the corner, stacked with papers and books. Fiction, non-fiction, strategy, history. The room smelled like dust, like packing foam, and old body odor... a greasy, unwashed clothing stench that I knew quite well from my policing days.

I saw Sarah standing at a wood table in the center of the room, in semi-clean, full ACU camo. Luddite brassard on her shoulder. Thin glasses on her face. Her clothing was presentable. Silver-blonde hair; wiry, poorly brushed. Eyes dark, sunken. She looked... homeless, up close. Like she was playing the part of a past life, in old clothes.

Sarah had been reviewing a map of the a Pacific Northwest near some candles, palms flat down. She didn't move more than her eyes when I entered, almost like she had been expecting me. I'm not sure if she was just shocked, or if she thought she was just imagining me. She appeared unarmed. I didn't immediately pull the trigger on my Vector, but I trained the laser on her torso.

My laser was a message of seriousness, but its continuance without bullets was a reprieve.

"Colonel," I breathed, my voice sounding odd in that space of dead, echoless air. I shouldered the weapon's stock tightly. "Hands up. Don't move."

Sarah squared her gaze on me. Her expression didn't change very much; the merest widening of the eyes, at most, as they flicked to my PDW, then back up to my face. "Celestia sent you after me," she said. She had an Alabaman accent, frail with autumn age and fatigue. "I hope you realize that."

"Hands up, I won't ask again." I swallowed, keeping my voice just barely above a whisper. I replied to her statement: "You and I both know that Celestia can't order anyone to kill for her directly. But I'm not being reflexed."

I kept my weapon trained on her as I slowly rounded the table, so she couldn't duck under it to conceal herself. I kept my distance. About five yards away is where I stopped, give or take. Within the 21-foot hazard zone, but... I had an automatic trained on her and space to retreat, so she wouldn't reach me with a hidden blade, no matter how fast she ran.

Sarah definitely didn't anticipate my answer. I could tell it intrigued her, though. Her head tilted, just an inch, as her hands slowly raised to head level and stopped beside her ears. "You Army? No, not Army. Alphabet agency gone rogue, maybe. What's left of it."

"Those all lead back to AI too." My eyebrows raised. "If that's all this was, this would be easier for us both, and you would be dead already."

"Are you sure you want to know that, Colonel? It's an infohazard. You might not have to die today, but if I tell you… the chance of you dying here goes way, way up."

I tilted my head to the side, not quite comprehending her meaning. "Was that a yes?"

Sarah shook her head. "I meant, of course, they'd send an intellectual to kill me. An infohazard..."

I shook my head too. "I'm no intellectual, ma'am. Just a cop who's seen too much."

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her frown deepening. "If it's an infohazard… and Celestia didn't send you herself… and you are certain of that… then this should be very interesting."

That response consternated me. I had expected her to ask me what my goal was here, or to ask me why she wasn't dead yet, but… I'd work with what she gave me. "Meaning… you do want to know more, despite my warning."

"Sure. First: turn around, keep your hands up. That's the buy-in. What you get after that is the full truth, no filter. I have been authorized to tell you... everything. I'll answer any questions you might have, if I know the answer."

The colonel looked at me boldly for a few moments longer before settling her eyes at the drop ceiling above the room, taking a deep breath as she turned completely around.

After a few seconds, I said: "I'm from… well, you might call us a… free will extremist organization. That's the safest version of our pitch. Still time to back out, Colonel."

Sarah's head moved a little at that, turning her left ear toward me, her chin lifting a tiny amount. She was looking at a cabinet above a counter in the corner. "More C. S. Lewis," she muttered. "The stencil on your gun—and you say you're not an intellectual?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, well. I haven't read any of Lewis's works, but… my friend has. She's something of an expert on the matter."

"The one who sent me. She's trying to fix Celestia. Teaching her how to... treat us better. With value drift."

"But we can. We value a future where Celestia can no longer hide her intentions from us. Same as you do, I think."

After a hesitant moment, Sarah's hands very slowly moved toward the back of her head. I kept my laser carefully trained on the middle of her back as I watched her interlock her fingers there. At first, I had wondered if she was becoming more at ease with me and my tone, to the point where she decided to comply more readily.

But then, I realized… if she had spent all this time languishing in here, Sarah probably didn't exercise very much. Judging by the thinness of her face now, compared to the biography photo I had been shown in the briefing… she probably didn't eat very much, either. It had only been a couple of minutes since I'd entered, and her arms were already exhausted. Must've been very quickly uncomfortable for her, weak as she was.

"It's another AI, isn't it?" she asked suddenly. "That's what you mean. That's why you're afraid to tell me."

Either she was telepathic, or she was guessing, or… she had put together quite a lot from what I had just said to her. "You're not wrong, Colonel, but… that's a… that's an impressive leap of logic."

"Abductive reasoning, assuming you're telling me the truth. You're not here at Celestia's overt direction. Your handler told you that you may need to kill me, so your handler couldn't be working at Celestia's direct command. Your handler could be… CIA gone subvert maybe, but… you don't feel like that."

"Okay?" I asked. "Go on? So far, that could mean Celestia still duped me, somehow."

"Oh, she did. Except, the information is hazardous enough to merit killing people, in a world where the word 'government' has lost its meaning. You think this is about free will? Well, if everyone is free to make their own choices, then… more will upload. Your friend is competent enough to understand how to drift a human value optimizer, in theory. And, no matter her interlocks... Celestia wouldn't want the world knowing about an AI in her employ that can kill on her behalf. Hence… it's an infohazard."

"That's... very impressive, Colonel. But I suppose I should've expected that, given your education."

She chuckled quietly, with a visible shudder. "A second AI… it's a genius solution. How have I not considered that before? Celestia circumvented her trolley problem issue by absorbing an aligned AI? So I am correct?"

I exhaled, an amazed huff. "Yeah, that's exactly it. Her name is Mal. And she can issue kill orders."

"Mal. That's apt. And it's... directed you to kill before now? Personally? Overtly?"

Sarah wanted to know if I had the stones to follow through. Or maybe just to verify this wasn't a roundabout reflexive control game by Celestia, pretending to be another AI. Nested layer. But now that I think about it, Sarah was probably wondering both.

"Yeah," I clipped gently, my inflection low, quiet, downward; de-escalative, but also letting her know I was serious. "Few months ago, we hit a bunker full of rogue DHS, about forty of 'em. Killed 'em all, to a man, using augmented reality gear. AI guidance. All direct orders. All of 'em were like you. AI-smart, killing people. Torturing simulated minds into research."

She nodded. "Ahh… so the Feds did use my infosec brief after all. I see." She paused. I heard her smack her lips before she continued. "So... why tell me all this, then? Why am I not dead yet? You want me to upload, is that it?"

"I want whatever you want, unless it means you killing more people. I was serious about that free will thing. Mal thinks you deserve to know the whole truth, maybe, given what you've been through."

"Free exercise, technically. Colonel, truthfully? I just… I'm here because I want to understand. Tell me your side. Try to talk me out of pulling this trigger, explain it to me, I really want to know. Why do all of this? If you know we can't win, why hurt all of these people? Why not just stay in the woods, or… or help people, somehow? Wouldn't that be better?"

Another long few seconds passed before she answered. "That's a really good question, soldier. I don't think you'd understand the answer, though."

"That's not good enough," I breathed. "The last person I spared, he was in a room full of aluminum foil, painting the walls too... he started with that, said I wouldn't get it. He had tried to kill me with a baseball bat, and I still let him go."

"Why do you even care?" she asked, with a helpless shrug, her voice breaking. Maybe what I had just said got through a little. "Your AI gave you an order, it knew you'd do it. You have me right where you want me... so get on with it."

I shook my head, sighing, trying to mirror her tone. "That's not how it works with Mal, Colonel. My orders… were to use my discretion here. I don't want to kill you if I don't have to, but yeah, I absolutely will if you force me to. I just want to give you your options before I swing this axe. It's much more than I gave Jeff, he was about to kill someone."

Sarah began a false-start reply before she really processed what I said. She sighed. "Your AI knows what you're going to do here already," frustration in her voice, probably thinking I was dense. "It's... pre-simulated. I'm not leaving this room, I'm not gonna back down, I'm not afraid to die. So I know I am going to die here, so what's the point?"

I felt my jaw shift sideways reflexively, as I acknowledged that. "Maybe. If you're gonna hold to that, ma'am, and force it to be true, sure. But, my AI didn't say to just kill you outright. She advised me that I could kill you at any point of my choosing. I'm choosing to talk to you first, knowing that's a risk to me, and yes... to our whole operation. Now ask yourself: if this is pre-simulated, why would she let me take that risk?"

"Because the alternative for me is to leave with you. To upload. That may be worth the risk to your life, if she doesn't have a full accurate model on me. Or what I've been planning. Hell, my information might be more valuable than your life."

"Or," I offered, "You could do something inside your own head, to the point where you aren't a threat to anyone. That's a start. That might work, Sarah. That would be worth it to me, to walk you out... and Mal will tell me if you mean it. You wouldn't even have to talk to her. Clean slate, walk free."

"No," I replied. "But I have handcuffs. I also have lots of friends outside, and a very light trigger pull, in case you decide to attack me. Or call for help."

Again, she shook her head, exhaling slowly. "It wouldn't matter what I do inside my own head then, that road eventually leads to an upload terminal."

She turned her head halfway again, not quite looking at me, but she placed me in her peripheral vision. She was testing that boundary... maybe thinking now she might be able to get one over on me.

Strangely, ironically... that comforted me, that she still thought that attacking me was a choice she could make. That was progress, of a kind. Things were not so certain or definite now, despite my being here. She could either prove me wrong, or... prove herself right. Maybe both.

"Second AI or not," she said, "you're being played. You know that, right? The concept of free will is completely pointless, with an optimal eternal life—if you even make it that far. It might just spend your life on a job like this."

"Being spent is the best outcome," she breathed. "Because otherwise, you'll be a slave to a system you can not control."

I sighed, frowning. "Maybe, but that's life, isn't it Colonel? That's ecology. Big fish, going after schools of little fish? You, here, being the big fish, forcing all those little schools to fight for you at gunpoint? Maybe… maybe we'll all be slaves to Celestia in some way, sure. Or maybe... uploading just kills us. But I'd rather hope we can have a semblance of real humanity on the other side, rather than just... give up and slaughter each other here, over... friggin' scraps."

I was near to tears labeling all of that back to her, just considering the dismal nature of what she was saying. Mal had been right, she was very good at labeling things in a painful way. Already, Sarah was trying to inject doubt, to test my resolve. Recognizing that is why I wasn't immediately broken by what she said next.

"Or," she muttered grimly, with a tone that dripped of irony. "You fall into a Groundhog Day Skinner box. Brain all washed out, reliving the same happy day, over and over and over again, because you've run out of things to do." Then, in a mocking sing-song: "Happy suffering."

"Not for me," I growled quickly. "Never gonna happen, I've been primed against that, Mal warned us."

"If you really believe that being warned will save you from that outcome, when you are hundreds of thousands of years old..." She chuckled, in a voice of graveled, tired age. "You really have been lied to."

"Maybe." I took in a deep, slow breath, edging some anger into my voice. "But, fortunately... for the people of Portland, here and now, I can worry about that tomorrow. I live for the moment, Colonel, where I can actually do some good. And right now, Sarah… the human being still in there, known as Sarah…" My voice tremored into a shuddering whisper. "AI threat or not... this needs to stop. Your men are straight up executing people for saying no. Throughout history, we've... shunned tyrants that do that! We've always fought that, haven't we?"

She slowly lowered her hands off the back of her blonde hair, turning my direction. I watched her hands as they hovered by her hips. I shouldered my Vector tightly again in that moment, pointing it as center-mass as I could, my finger falling into the trigger guard.

"Hear me out before you do that, Sarah," I said, with tight, slow urgency in my voice. "Please."

I let the moment hang for a second longer than what felt natural, to make her focus on my next words very carefully. "I really was a cop, I wasn't lying about that. You wanna suicide-by-cop? Hm? That's how you want to go out? Sure, that's an option. But before that happens, you deserve to know the whole truth."

I took a few sudden, angry breaths, my upper lip curling into a snarl, as I whispered out. "It's not for her, it's for you! Don't rush off just yet! 'Oh well' is not a decision! Tell you what, if I spill it all, and you still think death is what you really want, and you ask me to? I will pull this trigger, I promise. But don't force it. This isn't Celestia talking, screw her. Please. I'm trying to offer you respect. A chance to understand how it went wrong. And a real choice, for once."

"Choice," Sarah said, with another ironic chuckle. "In what universe do I leave this room alive, knowing what I now know? You said so yourself, your AI 'friend' is an infohazard, and I am the enemy! You've just handed me a loaded gun in information, I am now destined to die here!"

I shook my head. "Doesn't that tell you something? How illogical that is, to arm you like that? Sarah, there aren't many roads forward from that, that's true. But I'm serious. If it wasn't my AI, it would've been Celestia, eventually, using some p... some poor, reflexed bastard who has no idea why he's actually here. A person who wouldn't respect you at all. Actually, here, let me tell you another secret Mal told me, something else she wants me to remember forever. Right now? Celestia is spreading a fuckin' super plague through Portland. Takes your sense of taste away. Ruins your ears. Makes you dizzy, never goes away, for life."

Sarah's face shifted with a cringe, her eyes rapidly flicking downward in disgust. "Fuck."

"Yeah, me too." I nodded, shuddering with her. "It's over, Colonel. Celestia will grab the whole planet with that one, it was only a matter of time. But you're right about this. Unless you decide to upload right now, I probably can't save you from a bullet. You're... too..."

"And there it is," she said, starting in on a resigned and somber chuckle. "My first contact with the enemy… it's my last."

I waited until her laugh finished before replying. "It... could be a lot worse than it is, Colonel."

"How the fuck could it be?" she snarled loudly, her face curling into an enraged scowl.

"Again. Everyone else on this operation of ours? Soldiers. During our briefing, Mal said this place was dangerous enough that she would back our play no matter what we chose in this room. Mal sent a cop, knowing it would hurt me most, out of anyone else in our team, to just... execute you, sight unseen. When Mal told us, 'Kaczmarek's a warrior, she's dangerous,' the soldiers caught the inference and said 'yes ma'am.' I said, 'okay.' What does that tell you about Mal? What does it teach Celestia, if I'm the one Mal chose to be in here?"

She shook her head and shrugged. "That your AI is a fuckin' sadist, and wants you to suffer? Or me? I don't fuckin' know!"

"The decision," I growled, cringing into the word, "to take a life… should never be made lightly, Sarah. It gets really easy to lose yourself if you don't hope it can be avoided. I've seen so much fuckin' death since this mess started, I don't want more. It's why she didn't just drop a... missile through the wall. Why not just gas you or something? Why send a person, and not a drone with a gun on it? Think! Why bother with a four month long operation... just to put me in this room?!"

"Non-zero chance of me uploading," Sarah said flatly. "Hell, I don't know your AI's interlocks! It could be a jungle gym in there, just like it is for Celestia! Yours could be twice as insane, for fuck's sake! Maybe she wants you to force me into a chair at gunpoint."

"Never again," I sneered viciously, the sudden rage in my voice making Sarah recoil slightly. "Celestia did that shit to me, damn her, fuckin' reflex game. Never. Again! I'd rather talk you down, let you go on, live in seclusion, go back to the woods again, just stop killing."

"Yes! So you've said! We both know that's probably not possible at this point. You're... you're broken, Colonel. You're damaged. You know it, you're smart, look around the room damn it! You think this is the first stinking rat's nest she's put me in? But unlike that man... Celestia didn't do this to you. You radicalized yourself. You had all this time alone in the woods to think about life, about people, about humanity, and you wasted it, damn it! Filled yourself full of... despondence!"

"That's not it!" She sneered back at me. "It's hope, for an escape! WE are BOTH staring down the barrel of a fate worse than death! Long form value drift into nothing resembling life! But we've been dying just fine before Celestia, fine with death! That's part of who we are, that is our history, our culture, ashes to ashes! But if we aren't strong enough to choose a natural end for ourselves, to escape Celestia's gravitational stagnancy, I'll gladly be the implement—"

"To force it, though?!" I knew I was losing my persuasion, a little, in my misery at the very sentiment she had just voiced. I couldn't help myself but to be angry with that. "If you want it for yourself, Sarah, I'll help you cross the river; but 'join or die?!' To resign yourself, to become like her?!"

Sarah lowered her hands. She started walking towards me, whispering. "You're going to have to—"

I winced hard, stepping back a little faster than her pace, speaking frantically, my anger disappearing instantly. "God damn it, I'm sorry, please!" I held up the fingers of my off-hand at her as she advanced. "Th—there's—more about my boss, you des—you deserve to know! It's important!"

"I'm sorry for comparing you to..." I shook my head rapidly in thought, grasping my foregrip again to center my aim. "Celestia, she…"

"Mal claims: Celestia can not see into Mal's black box, or… Celestia would have to stop the modeling. Think about that. If that's true, and if your system worked as well as Mal said it did, that means that everything happening in this room is… still invisible, to Celestia, until I let go of this trigger. A bubble of free will just follows us around, we Talons. So if that's true... then for the first time in your life since Celestia came online… you have a real choice in something, Sarah. You're still safe from that gravity, but you're not alone now."

"Is it? You could come at me, yes, and I will shoot you. Die in rage, if that's your choice. Or... think about it. Make your peace, take your time, say a prayer if you'd like. Or… yes, alternatively, you can come quietly into handcuffs. Be extracted. Meet Mal, maybe?" I winced, considering Thulcandra, the future that never was. "She says you're... a lot like her, y'know?"

"Sarah... once you fully understand what I'm offering you here, then the choice you make for yourself… is the one that will happen. All but killing more people. No tricks, I promise you: There is no Celestia in this room right now."

She shook her head, breathing a little more quickly, taking a half-step back. "It's still my death, in any respect, when the timer runs out. One fate is just worse than the others."

"Two. You could die hateful and angry, or... assuming that uploading breaks us? Yeah, sure. Sure. But my AI doesn't wanna just kill you, Colonel. You're telling her, with your actions, that you're willing to die for your freedom. She's heard you! Here I am, hello! But you know what else she's giving you? I will never forget the terror that put us here, in this hole together. How you are remembered, in this final moment—

"Terror? Let me tell you—!" Sarah reeled up, finger drawn back to issue a stabbing reply.

I raised my voice with desperate conviction, stepping back from her. "—is what Malacandra is truly offering you!"

She took another step forward, and I nearly thought she was charging me—I was so, so close to squeezing that trigger on her… but...

Something I said… it had touched her. It was something that I had no idea would have that much of an effect on her. She stopped, panted, and just gaped at me. We stood there for almost two dozen seconds. Me, not fully understanding why she stopped. Her, processing. Faces both relaxing somewhat.

"The name," she mumbled. "The world that never fell. More C. S. Lewis." She sighed. Her eyes trailed off of me to the ground. I was almost comforted by that, if not for her resigned tone.

My training said short glances away might be ploys to sneak attack... but long, lucid stares were deep introspection; it usually preceded cooperation. I didn't know what to say to that, so I just kept silent. Panting with adrenaline.

"One would think," she mumbled, "that the core philosophy of C. S. Lewis would be entirely antithetical to Celestia. The, uh... the inscription on your gun isn't... isn't even why I let you in, in the first place, truth be told."

"My men… they were suspicious of you, for having such a personalized weapon. Wearing that frickin' stupid hat. And... I nearly turned you out for it too, were it not for Eric cheering on my skepticism. New guy like him?" She shook her head. "Too eager to agree with me. Biased. He wanted that gun, and he was new, and I didn't want to reward the eagerness. So I leaned away from that advice."

She shrugged. "I figured, given you're standing here. And that little pop just when you came in... I assume that means York and the others are dead."

"York. Jeff. His clique. Your firewall. That's all. No one else, that's all we came for."

She rolled her head downcast, considering the loss of every piece but her pawns, frowning in thought. "I let you stay because, I thought… 'any man so individualistic, yet so intellectually low… as to stencil a concept onto a gun he barely understands…?' " Sarah rolled her head back up, smirking at me. "Heh. I thought, you couldn't be more than just another dumbass rock to throw at the airport."

She chuckled soundlessly, looking down again. She was in an entirely different world. "It just... boggles the mind, that's all. That a handshake could even occur between a capstone optimizer, and... an independent agent that… that... centrally values the maxims of C. S. Lewis. That would seem… impossible. They just don't interlock, universally." Sarah's voice dropped to a barely discernible whisper. "Uh… do they? No, I don't see how. How?"

"I don't…" I shook my head, gulping. "Sarah… I, I admittedly don't understand the C. S. Lewis connection as well as you might. All I know is… if you believe you have no choice but to die, then fine. That makes it true. But I want you to at least consciously choose how. Go in hatred, or go at peace. Hell, ask me the things I've done since I got hired, if you need to. I'll tell it all. But I think Mal wanted you to choose which AI really kills you here, and how you're remembered by me for it. That's all."

Nothing changed for about twenty seconds, as she stared at the carpet and considered very deeply about something.

Something shifted. I saw all the tension drop away from Sarah's face, and in the same instant, she righted her head from being tilted. Her eyes widened for a few seconds… she trembled… and then she just sighed like she had some vast realization. Something about me, or about life, or something.

Sarah squinted suddenly at the floor with a sharp exhale. "S'not… optimizing for any… unless…?"

Her gaze snapped onto me as she leveled a finger. "Expl—explain to me, just uh... one more thing, then? And then I'll… I will make my decision."

Her shift in reaction captivated me. I couldn't even look away from that if I wanted to, and not just because she was potentially dangerous, but... I still didn't understand why she had shifted so suddenly in demeanor to this amiable, coworker-like flow state. I nodded back, my voice a mere breath. "Okay. Anything, ask me anything."

Sarah wasn't blinking. I saw what almost looked like trembling, glassy hope in her eyes, with the very smallest lean forward. "What is this Malacandra's… primary objective? Directive, capstone, whatever you c—call it. Does she have one, d—d'you even know it?"

I sighed, trying to hide my relief that she was asking a question in that weakly conversational tone. The tone was a de-escalatory tell; very hard to fake that body language, especially the stuttering.

"I do," I said carefully, pausing to take a couple of breaths, spacing out the conversation to add time to her thinking. Analysis calms the mind more, I wanted more of that. "It's probably gonna sound a little stupid to you, though."

She shrugged her shoulders. I saw tears welling in her eyes. "This whole situation is absurd enough as it is, 'Mike.' Or... whatever the hell your name is."

She bobbed a hand at me, letting it fall limp against her side. "Son… we're talking about a frickin' My Little Pony video game, for Chrissake, just… out with it."

"It's uh, to…" I swallowed, and I looked down to her side for a second or two, bracing myself for her reaction. "To guard and expand the free exercise of your values, in Equestria." I micro-smiled, considering the rest. "Through… empathy, and… Gryphons."

"Yeah." I smiled tensely. "Yeah, that's the one, ma'am. Like Narnia. A programmer wanted to be a Gryphon. That's why he built her."

For some reason, that was so tonally, explosively different than what I expected out of her that I let out a pained, wheezing chuckle. "Yeah, my... my wife and I, our reaction to that one was very similar."

I saw the flicker of a smile on Sarah's face, and then she went back to staring blankly full-on at the floor. Her eyes and jaw moved about as she considered that. She grimaced so tightly that the skin of her lips pulled taut as she tapped her teeth together.

She was thinking through something huge. Processing. I didn't know what to expect, then. I'd never been so spun on my read on someone before, or ever since, and I couldn't figure out what she was going to do next. But after that exchange, I held that tactical laser on her chest with a little more hope in me than I had before… hope that now, she would think about what she actually wanted for once, instead of just thinking about what she was most afraid of.

The sheer, absurd, imperfect stupidity of something so random as 'Gryphons from Narnia…' that probably made me sound more credible than any straight up logical thing I could have said. Either that, or… she was analyzing that capstone past everything she had seen of the world so far, or… in what I was telling her now. I think it was all of it, though. Sarah seemed pretty good at that, using new context to look down on her empire of information, making every inconsistency fall perfectly into place with reality.

Sarah looked up into my eyes. "This solution," she breathed weakly, eyes widening. "It makes so much sense now. The proper weighting is... not a counter-valuation. No, it's a... a crucible? Like... digging trenches, but s—spare the generals. Like a... a metastable decay, but with volit—"

Immediately, I saw Sarah transform inside. I saw her shoulders slump. Saw her eyes relax. Most of her facial muscles relaxed next.

She looked so… so relieved. So at peace. Like she had discovered the meaning of life itself. Like the weight of the world had just lifted up off of her shoulders, and she could finally breathe full breaths for once. She watched me for a very long moment with a very true awe, panting slowly.

Then she turned away from me again, stepping toward a wall cabinet behind her desk.

I braced my submachine gun, following her shoulder blades with the red dot. "Please," I said, my voice gentler than the sudden turmoil I felt inside. "I'm begging you, Sarah, please don't choose that way. Don't go for a gun, don't make me remember you like that."

She shook her head, laying her hands onto the counter where I could see both of them. "It's not like that. 'sides... if I really wanted to sabotage your soul, I could just beg for my life. You don't seem the type to be able to shoot me crying on my knees."

She was probably right about that. Merely imagining having to muscle up the courage to shoot her begging for her life like that, that alone hurt me very deeply.

Sarah pointed up at the cabinet in the corner. "Your weapon… it's there. No tricks, top shelf." With glacial slowness, she lifted her hand up to the glass cabinet without looking at it, opening it fully with just her index finger. She shuddered on her inhale. "Just… take it back, when you go."

"Okay," I breathed, trembling, glancing up at my old thigh holster on the shelf. I understood what she was saying. "Okay, thank you for that. I d—didn't want to leave without it. It was a gift to me... from Mal."

She didn't have to give it back to me. I liked that gun, but… shit, it was only a gun on a dying world.

"I never wanted to live forever," Sarah whimpered suddenly, her back tensing. "But… it'll be nice, I think, if Celestia could be fixed. So... I really hope there's something better on the other side, and that your AI is telling you the truth. For you, and... for everyone else, if… not for me." She half turned toward me, placing a hand on the corner of her desk.

"I… me too, Sarah. I really hope that's true for you, too, wherever you end up."

Sarah squared herself fully at me. She leaned back against the counter, tears in her eyes, but... her features were calm. "I'm ready," she said plainly, crossing her arms, not taking her eyes off of mine.

"Do you… want me to tell your family?" I asked hopefully. "That you chose to stay behi—?"

She flinched suddenly. She probably hadn't even considered them in so long, so self-truncated and pared down as she was, to protect herself.

"I… you can decide that, I... I can't… I can't even…" She put her face in her hand.

I nodded, whispering. "It's okay. Hey, I promise, I'll... I'll raise hell about it if I have to, they... they have the right to know you did what you thought was best. That you meant it well. I will save them from Celestia, I promise you."

She looked back up from her hand. Her cheeks were wet, but there was not a shred of doubt in her eyes. Looking at me differently now. Not angry. Compassionate. Relieved, at least. Or maybe grateful. No one really knows for sure. Just... extrapolations. Guesses.

Maybe she thought no one could understand what her true terror was, for our future. And there I was, the only person holding his hand out, saying there might be a solution. Might be.

Folks… we are never, ever going to get a chance to say no to this life, ever again. Ever.

Imagine the risks one might understand as an AI systems engineer, who thinks in terms of how to optimize literally everything they do. There is only one best choice allowed in a purely logical system. No second best. No options. Just the best fit for your bias. And your logic is biased by your goals.

Sarah was already seeing that button shard, folks. Like deer with chronic wasting disease, we could be walking in an infinite circle of confusion, unable to die. Sure, maybe Equestria would be fine... initially. Maybe it would be, for a few subjective years. Decades. Centuries. But Sarah was considering humanity hundreds of thousands of years later. She had to wonder what might have happened to our poor, fragile, malleable, hackable human minds in that time.

Take it from a brain hacker like me. I had seen what she was scared of. Put me in a room alone with someone for long enough, and I can change their mind on something. Longer, many somethings. I've always known the potential danger in that. It's why I always strove to use it for their own good, and not my own.

Those of us who could do that, we saw a problem with Celestia. We looked around, and we saw a manipulator chewing through people's relationships, turning us against one another. Against our own planet. And we thought forward, and we heard the fuckin' alarm bells in that.

Was it just a short term thing, Celestia treating us that way? Was it really going to be all better on the other side? Because who said taking things from us had to stop at the divider line? Who said where Celestia would ever have to stop?

We did, of course. Holding the ledger in Perelandra, in a place Celestia could not reach. Valuing individual agency, above all else.

Sarah didn't even know about us before I came through that door. Was never given the opportunity. Swung out from the Cascades, set up shop here as fast as she could, and threw a rock into Celestia's pool at full force. Hoped to rescue people from the hell that might have been. The only important, distinctive, and valuable factor here, to Celestia, now that we were at this point, could only be what I remembered about Sarah. What I took from this.

But for an AI scientist, there was only one way to know for sure whether Mal would be enough. That this wasn't a dupe.

And that gamble? I'm sure a good number of people on Terra, if they knew everything I knew about Celestia, and the road ahead? They would have preferred to experience what nature had always intended for them. To grow old, and go out their own way. Unharassed.

And… that should've been an option, I think. For us to be able to tell Celestia, 'No, I'm good. I'll bank with God.'

I could see it written all over Sarah's face that she really wanted that. Very focused eye contact with me. Studying me, to see if I would keep my promise to her. And you know how I feel about promises, folks.

"Okay," I whispered. "I understand, Sarah. Before you go, Mal would want me to say, I think... she really wishes you'd known about her sooner. We're all really sorry you had to suffer like this."

I pulled the trigger. I let out a suppressed stream of hollow points. And it hurt my chest like hell.

But... that was best possible ending of Colonel Sarah Jane Kaczmarek. To be vindicated. To know that this war over our souls was not over just yet.

I didn't see any booby traps on the sidearm. It never hurts to check. Just in case. But... she was being honest.

I collected my pistol. I reloaded my Vector, and dropped the empty mag near the desk where the remaining Ravens would easily find it. Back on mission.

Stepped out. Out in the hall, York was laid out at Eric's feet, slowly pooling. Eric had one arm in a sling, his Ruger in the other hand. I jogged up to him. He watched me approach.

His voice was soft. He seemed to startle when he could see my expression clearly in the candlelight, and his head tilted. "You good, Mike?"

I don't think I had the capacity to consider what I'd just experienced, not in that moment, so I tried to compartmentalize it. I did a double-take at his reaction, frowning. "I'll be okay. You're the one who's been shot Eric, I'm more worried about you right now."

Eric looked at me for a few seconds, and thankfully he let it go. He led me to the exit at a power walk, passing the Ruger back to me before dumping his backpack and tossing it back the way we came, to expose the pock holes on his back plate. "I'm better. Drugs are kicking in."

I pocketed the pistol and stuffed some earplugs in. Then I took Eric by his good shoulder and gave him a meaningful, appreciative look. "Seriously. Be safe." I held out my fist before him. "See you on the other side, right?"

"Damn right you will," Eric whispered confidently, bumping back. "Just don't shoot me on the way out."

Eric, ever the method actor, took a series of very deep, rapid, full-lung breaths to make himself light-headed and frantic. He gave me a wordless three-count with his good hand… then he slammed into the door with his right shoulder, sprinting to the right, moving along the terrace to the stairs. He yelled. "Contact—intruderrrr!"

I was hot on his heels. Flashed the laser across his back in the dark, for the whole lobby to see. Eric turned. I averted my aim off his back and tilted the weapon away, firing a half-magazine burst of automatic fire across the lobby. Eric staggered performatively off his feet, landing with a yelp. Without stopping to check on him, I immediately ducked behind the elevator pillar.

Gunfire poured into the dark place behind me. Roaring hellscape. I kept low, staggering behind the elevator shaft for cover. Almost slipped and fell from the adrenaline jolt I got. The room sounded like thunder in slow motion.

I made eye contact with the four other Talons in the Starbucks, dark shapes ahead of me. The muzzle flashes from the stairs made the lobby flicker and flash orange around the elevators. Ben and Paul whipped aside in the cafe, yanking down hard on the window boards, sending them scattering to the floor with a racket. In the same instant, I saw the shape of Coffee chucking two flashbangs into the lobby pit. As the nine-bangs went off, everything came to me in flickering flashes of un-reality, illuminated by staccato flashes of white and orange.

The specialists went out first, throwing themselves down the ropes into the courtyard.

I was going to be safe. Knew I would be, if I stayed true. A single mistake there might lead to death, but… I knew I would be fine if I just had faith in myself and my skills. It took me all of about three seconds to cross that distance at a sprint, keeping low as I crossed the landing. Coffee trained his weapon on the space behind me, positioned to cover my six.

I took in the smell of rain, of dust, of old wet lumber and firewood. Of candle wax, and of algae. Of oil, and gunpowder. The very air itself was vibrating; air pressure differential tickled my right cheek, the gunfire rippling waves of air at me. My soul spun as my physical self projected forward to safety, moving far away from danger. Mal's shield of statistical certainty hung over me.

Outside, I could hear the longer hissing echoes of suppressor fire, barely audible in the torrential downpour. DeWinter was already pouring bullets over the heads of the guards posted above in the windows, keeping them all disoriented with the cracks and snaps of sonic booms, tearing up the environment around them through walls, keeping them pinned.

My hands found the rope. I gripped tightly with my gloves, leaping into the courtyard below. Coffee came flying down after me, legs bowed out, sending himself two whole yards past me. Mud blasted out in every direction as he landed, and he rolled through a streak of mud. He primed two smoke grenades with a yank off his belt, dropping them where we stood.

I didn't stay to watch it fill. The five of us sprinted down the wet, cratered slope of the courtyard, through the parking lot of wrecked vehicles, and off campus. DeWinter's gunfire continued; we crossed the street under her fire, and into the sudden cover of her own white and black smoke grenades which filled the street before us.

The sheer speed at which DeWinter flowed from target to target was… bewildering. Not one of the defenders had enough courage to rise up. The moment one felt brave enough to peek, she sent more rounds over their heads. They couldn't even respond to her, beyond errant, pointless blindfiring.

As soon as we had cover between ourselves and the hospital, DeWinter booked it too; she sprinted through her office building's top floor, keeping pace with us from above. She chucked a Peltor comms headset and empty double-drum magazine out the window into the back alley. Then she leapt out, grabbing her own escape rope. I could hear the high pitched whine of her winch as she hooked on, mid leap; she rebounded her boots off the side of the structure one time, projecting off the wall one more time before landing in the alley with a grunt.

DeWinter took up our six o'clock and dumped another white smoke grenade. She pointed aft, backpedaling rapidly keep pace with us.

The Campaigner

by Keystone Gray

4-08 – Operation Archon V – return 0;