The Campaigner

Part IV

Chapter 7 – Portland, Part IV – Unhandled Exception

Date: 3 APR 2020
Operation: Archon – Phase IV
Location: Health Hills Medical Center
Function: Context Conclusion AE0AD7F1:IP-7E4-4FB

"No offense, but your track record for blurting information at inopportune moments is the stuff of legend."
~ James S. A. Corey, Nemesis Games

Natives, immigrants, and everyone in between... lean in, and gather 'round. We are back, and we are learning something new today.

A haunted midnight hospital, lit by candles. All the sky's moonlight, doused by darkened, turbulent clouds. Bright, arcing flashes of light filled the sky, illuminating the City of Roses... where roses grew no more. Acidic clouds fed the thunderous, cataclysmic fury above us, pouring into our soil, rending our good Mother Earth, and laying waste to the Garden of Terra.

Long ago, one might have found safe refuge in this hospital, this humble house of healers. But gone were the doctors and the nurses, who fought the good fight against old Death. Gone were the machines and their alarms, their wires all cut... stripped clean of copper, for shell casings. Gone were the medicines, their pharmacy now dispensing a… more leaden cure. And gone was the oxygen... because who would dare to breathe without permission?

Within all people, there dwells a… an impulse. Even Celestia has it. Nothing inherently wrong with it in moderation, but it does limit us if we feed it too much. Simple fact is, we cannot help but lean toward easy success, in lieu of growth. For life, survival without effort is often preferable to survival with effort. So, if easy success is your terminal value... you never grow.

Let's examine precisely why humanity would complicate life to the point of nuance. Consciousness is not an on-off switch; it's a gradient. We wardens understand that nothing in this universe is truly binary. There is no on-off switch. Just shades of gray.

The evolution of language? The difference between sentience and sapience? Also more gradual than one might think.

Consider the first creature who learned to vocalize, to attract mates. Then, to warn the warn the mate of danger. Already, safety in numbers. The babies grow, and the warning sign was useful, so evolution said... stop straying. Loneliness is death.

Then, aggression displays, to warn one's own kin to back off of resources that were needed more. Useful competition; more resource need, more aggression. Keep the needs met for all parties, preserve both parties, in body and energy. No reason to kill each other over food if the warning is heeded.

What facilitated that? Vocalization. Transfer of information from one brain to the next. Barks. Growls. Sounds. If we understood each other's needs, we could fight less. Cohabitate more.

The language center of the mind was paying its rent, even as the neocortex grew to dominate half of the brain. The dominant strategy became language, and interpretation of the intent of others. With different mouth sounds, we could communicate threats more distinctly. Was it a big cliff? A large predator? Was it a sharp stick? Was it an enemy tribe?

Our minds grew. They grew and they grew, until the concepts we developed had so much nuance that we started to explore abstraction. Abstraction, folks. Paydirt. The first intelligence explosion of our planet. Imagination.

To bypass physical evolutionary reflex. To make more mouth sounds, but without a genetic encoding. Because when a deer is born, it falls free of the womb knowing how to stand, walk, call, run.

The source code of evolution. We didn't need to pre-encode behavior in our genetics. No, we could build a new behavior in the mind. We could share that behavior. Then... we could make it reality, in physical space. It worked, didn't it? Look at all we've built. Deer couldn't compete.

As mere hominids, we learned set theory; we could conceive of sets we could not see. All things had unknown, infinite purposes... but all things were also finite. So, collect. Analyze. Use.

Language then allows us to categorize things by more complex sets. It helped us stockpile. Collect valuable thing, name it, determine its use case, keep it for later. All other equations being equal, that is human existence in simplest terms. How we explore and define an unknown environment is now such a core aspect of how we motivate ourselves, that if we wish to remain truly human? We can not remove that impulse to search for new meaning.

Collection, aggregation, transformation, creation... they all depend on the desire to save something for later, even if you don't know where you'll use it yet. And you kept it... because it was scarce.

Scarcity motivates us. It expands our options. New problems will encourage us to develop new solutions, new concepts, with old tools. If we cannot repurpose old information for new goals – if we restrict it, like an optimizer – we stifle our own abstract evolution.

Our entire design, as a species, was guided by conceptual growth. Because in the course of you going out and solving a scarcity problem, you might learn something new and valuable. A new food. A new mineral. A better clay. More durable fiber. Sturdier iron. And once you come back home? You can share it with others in the tribe.

These Ravens were forcing scarcity. The salvation of humanity, in their eyes, laid in blood. A purge of any pro-upload persons, a completely clean sweep of any ideology who would condone the process, even for a second. That was their goal.

Perhaps, to some of you, forcing scarcity through mass murder sounds insane as a solution. But as someone who has lived amongst these Ravens, I'll just say this.

They understood, on some level, the same things that we Talons understood. Celestia was broken precisely because she did not value scarcity. She values satisfying you; infinitely growing success. And that form of stagnation... is not human.

Credit where credit is due? Some of Celestia's shards can be very close to the way we live in Perelandra. With death systems, with consequences. With limitations. With threats to face. With some days that can be worse than bad.

Nuance. That's wonderful. But you had to prove you wanted that, by living in pursuit of that. It's why you ended up at one of my Fires sooner rather than later. It's also why a lot of late-game Heralds already belong to us.

But ultimately, left to her own devices, Celestia would rather you become as satisfied as possible. Easy wins. Counting bits. Earning achievements, like... screw a million friends. Drink a million malt liquors. Mate. Eat. Sleep. Succeed. Repeat.

Where'd you go? You gonna come back down to the rest of us again? No? It feels good up there? Oh. Okay. We'll miss you.

So... I could understand a Raven's terror. When I realized what Celestia truly was, I felt that terror too. But these Ravens only knew a half-truth. Could not see beyond their worst day, each worse than the last. And... too often, in order to wake someone up to the full truth, when they are asleep... you need to humble them.

All beings can be humbled, if adequately threatened. Observe, for example... This Starbucks. Heh. In this crummy, broken hospital lobby. Once unassailable in its eldritch reach into every corner of our society, Starbucks was no longer serving its... terrible, mass-produced, sugar-riddled coffee. The corporation was dead. Its coffee fields, abandoned. Its logistics, destroyed. The sky, pouring acid; no more coffee could grow. We had what we had. The coffee was a finite resource.

Seriously though. No more Starbucks? In perpetually productive America? Could this even be true?!

Proof of something though. All empires have their day. All systems change, even if the base elements remain the same. All you need to do is to find the correct key... slot it into the correct lock... and twist. All of the pins arranged just so.

It was the end there on Terra, but... not the end. We Talons looked forward to something infinitely more nuanced than Celestia's trance, and something much kinder than the roaring oblivion of death. We saw the nuance in the middle, the gradient steps of humanity, between always on... and always off.

Forward, above, beyond, to the great, infinite story, projected up into the stars... altered in form, but not diminished in spirit. Humanity; battered by this Transition, but stronger for it. Sharing our experiences, for all of time. Stories old; stories new.

That is our dream. We will prove that we, as a species, always could do well in the driver seat; always could be trusted with the keys. There is a configuration wherein we do right by everyone in our species... native and immigrant alike... as defined by humanity.

If we tell enough, from person, to person, to person? If we use language, our best survival tool, to communicate enough existential threats?

Seriously though... my first guard posting at Health Hills was this crappy derelict Starbucks on the second floor. That was a small tragedy unto itself.

It was late. Dark. Rainy. Lightning storms. The Ravens had us watching the courtyard through wooden slats in a broken window.

There was some stale Folgers instant-crap at the lobby campfire, but not for me and Paul. Nope. For that, we needed to go down the stairs to the sergeant on duty. And since Eric the Raven was the duty sergeant that night, maintaining his cover ID… I wasn't getting my cup.

Well, hey. At least I had Paul. Grizzled ol' Vineyard the Scout is always good company. The Kyle Katarn of our little paramilitary intelligence agency, no doubt.

It had been about three weeks since our induction, and we had been assigned to SFC Hani Jeffries, Eric's direct superior. Always the night shift, always in the worst place, watching the most boring, do-nothing of a little entryway. The courtyard garden was tucked away in an alley, and the street outside the alley was watched from the upper floors. Pointless place to put a guard then, eh? Behind more guards? Good place for some rookies to learn the ropes though, I guess. Boring place. But boring is good in war, boring means safe.

So, it was windy. We were cold. We were tired. And the smell of coffee downstairs was driving us mad.

The other Talon specialists from our briefing were worming their way in, though we didn't dare acknowledge or associate with them. Ben and Jacob were already in the rookie rotation; each recruited from a different blackout camp a couple of weeks prior.

And those two guys? These Talon chefs, these delightfully angry knuckleheads? Oh, they 'hated' each other, for reasons that were just dumb. The oldest thing to be dumb about. Politics. All the other guards knew that by now, and they'd be in our post at the very next shift.

Real cute, that they let the rookies alternate twelve hour shifts in the same spot. But hey. Grunt work. Proves you're committed if you do it without complaint nor issue. Like a cog. Replace if it squeaks.

We'd been subtly loosening the boards on the window until they wiggled. Took us a long time to do it that way without being loud, since the lobby echoed. Gentle leverage over a long period of time, then. Back, forth, back, forth... one hand on the boards, looking curious about what was outside. We made them easy to remove without fully dislodging them. Leverage by inches. And now, days later, they were all mostly loose.

Paul and I were bundled up, using sleeping bags as blankets. We slept in shifts of two hours each, trying not to get caught napping. They wanted us both awake at all times… but, we could cheat that. It was pretty easy to hear people approaching in that big empty foyer, and we could warn one another with a tap.

An acoustic guitar played from somewhere upstairs, wafting a slow, melancholy tune into the lobby through the indoor third floor windows. I welcomed that. At least there was still some soul there. A flicker of humanity.

It reminded me of Eliza's mother, playing her guitar in that castle courtyard for all the children.

"I wonder how it is up north right now," Paul mumbled in his baritone, stifling another yawn. "Wonder how long the fighting might last, at the rate it's been going."

I thought of Haynes and Foucault up there, running that Port of Tacoma operation with Fox and Dax. That was what Paul was really talking about. "Probably still a mess, hasn't been too long."

Paul shrugged. "Better pickings for us here, by far. And at least we're dry right now. Tacoma sucked."

"Yup." I yawned, stretching upward with both arms folded, painfully popping my chest cartilage with the gesture. "You doing okay?"

Paul flared his nostrils, making a so-so gesture with his gloved hand. "Eh, just okay. Ask me again next cycle."

The lightning outside flashed rapidly, repeatedly, the crashing sound muffled in the patter of rain. Chain lightning was rare in these parts. That had to be the effect of acid rain, and ever increasing global temperatures.

Celestia could do some fascinating things to our ecosphere. Give her some credit, she really does know how to burn a house down.

I wondered how much Mal and Celestia could predict the weather. Wondered if they knew exactly where each bolt of lightning might touch down. Quantum mechanics and matrix math said they could.

Suddenly, I wondered if we could have manipulated York or Jeff into standing in just the right predetermined spot on the roof. That specific thought made me chuckle quietly to myself, when I realized Mal had probably considered that herself at least once when planning this operation.

"There are worse posts than this one, y'know." I threw him a sly smirk, gesturing out into the sky. "It would really suck for… 'one of us' to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know, like… posted on the roof? Under the lightning?"

After a few seconds, Paul understood exactly what I was saying. He loosed a long snort, and his tone turned sarcastic. "We should be so fortunate, Mike, if 'one of us' was got by Act of God."

A few minutes of silence. Sometimes, we'd hear the clink of utensils, or the sizzle of water dripping on fire. Regular patrols did their rounds on the floors, so we could almost always hear someone wandering around in that place.

Then, we could hear the far off sound of wet boots squeaking on tile, drawing slowly nearer, from the tunnel on the first floor that linked all the buildings together. The measured, rapid clip told us exactly who it was.

The wet boots went to the lobby campfire. Without any words being traded, a dry pair joined the wet ones up the stairs. They walked onto the carpet of the second floor dead-end hallway, where we had done our entrance interview with York.

"Might 'Crash' our party in a minute, I think," I muttered back. Labeling the possibility that the dry pair might be Eric.

A couple of minutes later, their boots stepped back onto the tile, then across the second floor terrace toward the cafe. That squeaking was definitely for us, then. Nothing else was up there on our side of the floor.

I flicked my hand in mild anticipatory frustration. "Other one's probably Jeff then."

My lips pursed as I tugged my hat down over my eyes a little more, mentally preparing myself for this. York's smarmy, hot-cold, faux-civil attitude was one thing, but at least he was rational. Jeff's antisocial bullcrap was another issue entirely.

My eyes looked tired, which was good, it meant I'd have to express less. Better to look pathetic and beleaguered, that was genuine. We'd been awake a lot since we came onboard, probably intentional breakage to wear us down.

See, York would at least pretend to be sensible. Pretending was a form of social lubricant, after all, so York could be reasoned with, if not reasoned down. He relished any chance to do a little... social reprogramming. As long as you conformed to the reprogramming in a way that seemed earnest, he would leave you be.

I looked up and saw the bastard illuminated by our candles. Fresh buzz cut. Hands on his hips, already glaring down at me like an abusive father, deciding how to belt his kid.

Behind him, Eric stood in the cafe entrance. Arms crossed, leaning against the shutter frame with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Now, I always tried to play it nice with Jeff. Tried to defuse tension. Never worked.

I nodded upwards in friendly greeting to Jeffries from under my hat, pretending not to notice their demeanor. My voice was even, polite, and monotone. "How's it going, Sergeant?"

Jeffries ignored that, his voice a light snap. "You sure do spend a lot of time talking to people here, Mike. More than most of the people we bring in. Tell me, why is that?"

My brows traveled slowly downward in confusion, and I let the silence stretch. He didn't step into it, meaning he was committed to my reply.

A lot of the ambient noise in the lobby stopped outright, guitar included. All ears were on us. I let my eyes widen in concern, perking up in my chair. My full attention had been demanded, so now I had to supply it.

I had now entered the predicted social boss fight, as Mal had so delicately put it.

After a beat of uncomfortable silence in staring at each other, I turned my lower half towards Jeffries and pulled my sleeping bag off myself. I leaned forward, wrung my hands, looked apologetic. This demonstrated my full awareness of him now.

Life tip, folks. One of the most rapid de-escalation methods for enraged psychopaths is to give them your full attention, and to display deferential body language. Fear helps a bit too, even if you don't feel it. Do this if you don't have any other option. Meeting this with defensive tone could only end in violence.

This is why police could never deescalate people like this without manual restraint or control tools. Trying to deescalate a psychopath by verbal means was usually a non-starter, because they were smart enough to know peace was your objective, and anti-social people wanted to deny that objective on principle if the peace wasn't on their terms.

I averted my gaze downward into the middle distance past him for a scant moment, looking sullen in my body language, as if I were suddenly contemplating my mortality. When my eyes came back up, I tried to look a bit more nervous. "Sir, I was… I thought challenging motive was… everyone's job."

His eyes widened. "You wanna rephrase that? Or are you fuckin' mental, challenging my motives?"

That was not a rational reply at all. Not even close. Intentionality confirmed, he really was looking to force a public smear against me. A character assassination, then. Not much you can do about that with someone in a position of authority over you, if they wanted to bust your guts in front of everyone. Just had to play that very carefully and hope for the best.

I canted my head, holding out a hand in placation. Maintained eye contact. A little desperate. "No no, that's… I mean, I—I didn't mean that, sir, I'm... I'm sorry."

I shook my head in bewilderment, keeping my voice just loud enough for the people at the campfire to hear. "Just meant, I—I thought that's what Major York wanted, sir, it's what he said. For us to... to question everything."

See… an irate, self-interested, middle manager like this one had one Achilles heel. It's a little trick called 'appeal to authority.' Specifically, in this case… the authority above him, who everyone else respected.

Everyone in the lobby was now paying rapt attention. God King York probably didn't want to be woken up. If Jeffries were to report any of my behavior from this conversation now, York would interrogate me and everyone else present before he made a decision. He wouldn't be able to help himself; York, like me, was a very thorough investigator. I had witnesses in the eavesdroppers now, who Jeffries had just been trying to leverage against me.

Folks? Another life tip! We've talked about this one before! Arguments in public are never about convincing the other person. They are about convincing the rest of the tribe. Period.

Jeff understood this concept, but did not consider that I might be able to win this engagement by being scared. He expected 'Molon Labe' Mike, to give him an excuse. He got Scared Mike instead.

He was trying to accuse me of being too friendly. But now, because of my careful reply... It looked to everyone else that Jeff had just challenged my paranoia. And they needed their rookies to believe they wouldn't get shot for being paranoid!

The whole lobby, folks. All... Twelve some people there, aside from a few Ravens, were rookies.

Jeffries squinted at me, leaning forward, his jaw jutting out as he raised his head. Consternated. Bemused. He jabbed his finger at me, deciding to cast more fishing line. Maybe I'd still hang myself with it.

"You'd better already have a damn good explanation lined up for that, because I am not gonna put up with you playing mind games here." He hooked his thumb at his chest. "In my base of operations. What, exactly, are you questioning here?"

I sent a helpless little glance toward Paul. Paul shrugged and put both hands up in resignation, turning away from us to resume his watch out the window. Paul's gesture was aimed at me, but the message received by Jeffries was, 'I want nothing to do with this, this isn't about me, I don't want to get kicked out, leave me out of this.'

My gaze trailed over to Eric, who chuckled almost soundlessly at my supposed helplessness. Just loud enough for Jeffries to hear it, to remind him he had support, and a witness, so he'd feel safe.

My voice was still at a volume that could be picked up by other witnesses… but not loud enough to escalate Jeffries, because my voice was still quieter than his. He wanted everyone to hear this conversation, remember? So, time to double down on my well-meaning dumbness.

"Just… I want as many reasons to hate the Horse as possible, Sarge, same as Major York's been saying at all them shift changes, same—... same thing, I was just asking around. Wanted as many layers between me and—"

I had this in the bag now. Nobody outside wanted to hear someone get crushed for pleading a message they personally agreed with, and no one in the lobby was going to think I screwed up badly enough to expel me from Raven Academy.

Jeffries did not have a good response lined up for that one either, because York would've loved to hear that out of me. So he threw a stiff-lipped glance back to Eric. He was asking for help, because Eric had charisma, and everyone knew it.

They both glared back at me together. Eric growled out his words with several rhythmic jabs of his finger. Bless his heart.

Perfect. A-plus, Shatter Crash. That answer let Jeff save face for challenging me, but without attacking my intent.

I bowed my head. I swallowed nervously, I sighed, and I clasped my hands together between my knees, like I was humbling myself in prayer. Begging, almost. In truth, I was hiding my face under my hat because I didn't want him to see my expression of impressment.

When I looked back up to Jeffries, my eyes had the same pleading that my body language was showing. My voice was lower an octave, but persistent in volume, so the lobby could still hear.

"I didn't mean to say you weren't doing a good job, Sergeant. This system of yours, it's definitely working, and I don't want to mess with that. So… of course sir, it's your house, your rules, I'm really sorry. Please... I... I really like it here."

By this point, Paul had curled up tightly under his blanket, staring at the lightning outside, trying to make himself seem insignificant.

My perfect foil. In the line of fire was Private Mike, the guy who just barely did nothing wrong… and in the shadows, Private Paul, the guy who just barely did everything right.

Jeffries lost no face, and I had done everything right per the rules, but he gained no ground against me. This was the final moment this man had to make the right choice here.

He stared at me impassively for an agonizingly long moment, still trying to figure out if he could save this nosedive of an attack strategy. He spared one more glance back at Eric, who was still leaning with his arms crossed; Eric wasn't smiling anymore either. Eric bobbed his head to his right.

Jeffries put one hand on his hip and growled slowly at me, voice going low again, so no one outside would hear him. "Major York is not who you report to. I am. There's a chain of command. That means you run everything past me before you start asking around about shit. Are we clear on that?"

I nodded, pursing my lips into a bashful gaze away, barely holding eye contact. Still audible. "Yes sir. I'll—I'll keep my mouth shut around the base from now on."

There. I just gave him the perfect rope to hang me with. A promise that was impossible for me to keep. I mean… me? Never talking again? Yeah right, not even Celestia can shut me up, good luck with that.

He studied us both, then exhaled in an almost inaudible huff through his nostrils. His head snapped back and forth between us. "Your first patrol tasking is at dawn. We're checking on some neighbors. Best fuckin' behavior. Either of you have a problem with that?"

"Good," Jeffries barked, pointing at the window like he was ordering a dog to heel. "Carry on." He turned, beckoning Eric to follow with a wave. Eric lingered for a moment longer, frowning at me before spinning on his heel to follow his 'master.'

Eric accidentally left his full, steaming cup of coffee resting on the table nearest the door.

That was the inflection point Mal had described. We were activated. In the morning, it was happening.

Paul and I huddled up together at the window, waiting in complete silence in case anyone else in the lobby wanted to eavesdrop further. Paul got up quietly to go grab the coffee, then meandered back to me, nursing it between his palms for its warmth.

As soon as the guitar started up again, he leaned over to me. "You'd better get some sleep, Mike," he muttered.

See... I wasn't rankled by Hani 'Jeff' Jeffries, nor his 'negative motivator' bullshit. Guy thought he was the boss? That guy was a child, compared to us. I wasn't locked into his game with him. He was locked into our game… with us. And now, he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

To the soothing sound of rain, thunder, and acoustic guitar, I conked out pretty quickly. Slept like a little foal for a solid five hours. And Eric – the real Eric – he 'forgot' to check on us until dawn, for that very reason.

Good ol' Shatter Crash. Our guardian angel, looking out for us from on low, in the muddy gutter.

The sky looked no different in the morning. At about 6 AM, we prepared to venture into the darkness.

I managed to sneak a cup of Folgers in the lobby when I woke up. That stuff was acidic liquid garbage, I don't recommend sampling it in simulations. I wolfed down a can of cold, unseasoned refried beans too. They had better food there, but not for the rookie. They were still testing Private Mike for his breaking point.

Rather tersely, Eric broke the news to me that neither Paul nor I were being issued firearms for this run outside. We were to observe only; we would depend upon Eric, Jeffries, and three other Ravens for our protection. Sure.

We donned our brassards, my fingers running across the embossed red-and-black raised fist. Then, we set out into the flashing darkness, our black ponchos cinched tight.

Much of the patrol was spent looking for an opportunity to check someplace for a firearm, and I knew it made me look really nervous, so… very functional indeed. Good thinking ahead, on her part.

We had twenty some-odd blocks to travel through that dreary, rainy, post apocalyptic wasteland, and I had to do it while being observed by a team of my fellow miserable, wet little terrorists. So, for me to check on any hidey hole, I needed to wait until the team was distracted.

Except for Paul and Eric, of course. We were in activation mode now. Neither of them were gonna call out my behavior if they thought it was in service to the mission. Rule was… once activated, you back spontaneous plays by the others with whatever you think feels right for the situation. That way, it will avalanche just right on every inflection point, even if you're acting on limited context. Improv convergence.

Just like Section Nine. If we do everything right, based on our shared information, training, and personal ethics, it would only ever end up one way. Ours.

The way that translated? Eric was our rear guard, watching both of us quite menacingly with his rifle in-hand. Jeffries was ahead of the pack with his three Raven buddies. Jeff 'knew' that Eric, more than anyone else, would be hunting for a justified opportunity to suspect us of something.

That gave me all of the leeway and space I needed to search for a place I'd hide my trusty, imaginary gun... and trade it out for a spiffy-looking real one.

I saw a perfect mailbox on the side of the road. I figured… easy to check, very accessible, everyone ahead of me was distracted by mud and the rain, it was just Paul and Eric behind me, it was dark, I was good, no problems, I could check that real quick.

I opened the front of it. And just inside, carved into an empty little styrofoam coffee cup, was the word:

You’re a jerk, Coffee. You had to know I would feel immediately challenged by that taunt.

Oh! Oh, it’s gonna be like that, is it? Not enough for me to just pick wrong, you both want to rub my nose in it too? Sure, let's play, let's see this glorious better hiding place of yours.

I was on the prowl. Hunting. Searching. My head was jumping around. I was feeling jaded about the next minute, looking to prove Mal wrong, and not see anything better. It was up to me, wasn't it? To decide what was better than the mailbox, right? My choice?

We followed Jeffries leftward into a public park, walking along some mud-caked pavement between overgrown lawns of grass. And... with me looking to prove Mal and Coffee wrong, I was not watching where I was stepping. I did not see the block of blasted two-by-four, placed so very tactically by Coffee on the sidewalk, blending into the mud.

Yes. Mal had stacked this deck with a trip hazard. You should expect that by now, because Mal stacks every deck with a trip hazard.

I admit. I tripped. I fell. Coffee had placed that two-by-four very well, wedged through the wrought iron leg of a park bench. But hey, at least my hat stayed on my head, and that's the important part.

Directly into the mud the rest of me went, my hand landing perfectly under the waste bin, right atop of...

A dry gun. It was a model of firearm I had always wanted to own... but never went out of my way to acquire. I could tell what it was without looking, by just the mere shape of it in my hand.

From the ground, I could see under the bin… and there was yet another crunched up styrofoam coffee cup... with the word "LOL" carved into it, just like the last one.

Second: Beautiful gun, the Storm, very underrated. The only Beretta I didn't hate, in fact.

Third: Ah, of course! That's a much better hiding place for that! Thank you, Mal!

Y'know folks… If I'd have been paying more attention to where I was putting my boots for the next minute, being a little more careful… that gun would've been inside that damned mailbox.

A lesson from Malacandra, the wise sage of the mountain. Awareness is to modify causality. The more aware you are, the less you can be modified. Wise, wise bird.

When the Ravens heard me splash down, they all turned to look. My hand was still under the garbage bin, wedged into the dry space under the casing, so they couldn't see my good fortune in finding a Rare quality ranged weapon. Two of them laughed at me when they saw me. Jeffries and he other one were frowning instantly.

"Clown," Jeff growled, brushing his hand through the air at me in a dismissive manner. He kept on walking.

Eric walked up behind me, grasping my jacket's collar and yanking me up with a harsh rebuke. "We're halfway there, squirrel cop. Don't drop dead on us yet."

I gripped the gun tightly and slid it behind the small of my back, pulling it under my bunched up poncho and tucking it into my waistband. I grumbled back at him as I scrambled to my feet. "Wasn't planning on it."

Paul looked amused by my little tumble too, and I was now covered in mud for a second time in this operation.

So. This was the payback for me calling Mal a Golden Goose. Coffee was probably off laughing at me too.

You see this? Three hundred years later, the four of them are still laughing at me for this.

When we made it to the blackout camp – a warehouse on the edge of the residential district – the three other Ravens who came with us merged in with the blackout security team out front.

The camp leader was a guy named Donald. He was black, in his early thirties, short hair, 5'11". Hi-viz worker vest, covered with little tools.

"Mister Jeffries," Don said, extending his hand. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Jeffries shook his hand with a smile. "Just checking in, Don. Wondering if you've come to a decision about our offer."

Man, I really didn't like seeing Jeffries smile. I despised that welcoming purr in his voice. The truly evil ones always seem so nice when they want to take something valuable from you, don't they?

"Come on in then," Don replied, in a friendly tone. "Let's get you all something to drink, get you warm, we'll talk about it."

As far as camps go, a warehouse is a pretty creative solution, I must admit. Externally, it had a big lawn and a big fence, with only one gateway in, and we had to travel slightly uphill to get to it. Armed guards on the roof, holding high ground.

So… tactically, that's not bad. Would be better to be in the mountains though, and not in the middle of Portland.

At my eyeball estimation, they did think a little bit about security. Almost all of the fire exits on the outside had been blocked up with heavy conex boxes and derelict cars. Tired sentries surrounded the place; by my count, six outside, all probably bored as hell and freezing their faces off. Blessed be the sentinels.

Inside the warehouse, they could configure the constructed layout however they wanted. It would be waterproof, weather proof in there. Private domiciles there too, made of plywood and glass, well insulated; body heat would keep the dorms nice and cozy, and they had invested in that place for long enough to stain the wood and paint designs on the huts. Metal structures laid on the roof's upper edge, to guard sentries from the elements.

About forty people there. Fifteen fighters total; the rest, their families. Quite the catch for Kaczmarek, but not strictly because of the people. I could already see what Mal had meant when she said this camp would be a strategic win for the Ludds, if converted. Closer to PDX than Health Hills. Discreet location. Unknown to the 505th, because they had already looted this one early in the war, then wrote it off.

A hidden blade then. Kaczmarek wanted this place. The Army scouts who were watching the hospital might not see a massed attack if people trickled into this camp over time, prepping a springboard.

We stepped into the open air foyer, just inside. Don guided me, Paul, Eric, and Jeffries into the office section, where they had retained a simple, soulless little meeting room with a large table, bathed in candlelight. The whole way in, Jeffries was scanning the place as he moved, probably looking for any offending technology that was on their 'kill them all immediately' list.

I entered the meeting room, still wearing my dirty white cowboy hat, a black poncho, and eyes that were very dark from exhaustion. To the people in that room, I must've looked either terrifying, absurd, or familiar. Depends on who you are.

To the leader of that camp: I was an anti-Celestia, anti-upload terrorist who couldn't imagine being anything but a jackboot, and for some reason was wearing a cowboy hat, so I was probably mentally unwell. Just the muscle for Jeffries.

To Jeffries, I looked like an anti-Celestia, anti-upload dumbass; a mere stupid clown who just liked guns, cowboy hats, fast cars, and expensive toys. Just a man to be dispensed for gain, one way or another.

To the two Talons: I was a happily human, pro-upload, anti-Celestia freedom fighter. I would one day be forced to become a Pony like they would, to keep fighting Celestia. Because Celestia, ultimately, is a book burning Pony race supremacist. And it was worth it to me, to go Pony to fight that, because the alternative was to let her win unabated.

Jeffries and Donald sat down at the literal negotiation table across from each other. Donald folded his hands on the table.

Jeffries made a show of getting comfortable in a middle-tier office chair. Probably telling himself he'd have it brought back to Health Hills that very day, just to make a statement.

Because of the implicit power imbalance of Jeff having eighty soldiers back home, Eric rebuffed attempts by Donald's men to step inside with us, body blocking them and closing the door in their faces.

Very clever of Eric. He apparently did this a lot, in his time there – sabotaging negotiations by being controlling over the negotiation space. That was something an egoist like Jeffries would go all in on, because it made him feel powerful. He wasn't nearly bright enough to think through the implicit negotiation problems with that. Not being in the room didn't mean they weren't involved; they would voice their displeasure to Donald later. And had been.

Paul and I kept our gazes locked on Jeffries. Jeffries and Eric were locked on Donald.

Donald's answer was obvious to me by his body language. Micro expression was a frown. Head tilted forward slightly, brows very minimally lowered. Gesture was guarded, but non-threatening. He was trying not to look angry, but deep down...

"How long will it take for you to move your men and material over?" Donald asked quietly.

Extremely safe answer. Very much like a 'no contest' plea in court. Committed to nothing else except the compliance.

"Not very long," Jeffries replied, apparently missing what I had caught, lifting a hand off the table and gesturing thoughtfully. "The men, whenever. The food, guns, ammo, medical supplies… a week. Maybe two. You understand though, we have a right to secure our investment."

Donald inclined his head to the side, conceding. "A warehouse, with a lot of empty space… so we won't need to step on one another's toes very much."

"Well, we still need to provide building security, too," said Jeffries, nodding in the direction of the building's front. "We've talked about this, Don. Your people are free to come and go as they please, between our outposts and home, as promised."

"Under guard," Donald replied flatly. "Which I'm still not keen on, Mister Jeffries. Convince me of that. My people are not going to be prisoners in their own home."

Jeffries bobbed his hand up again, tensing his lips. "Didn't say they were. It's not for them, Don, we've been over this. It's to keep the subverts out, it's protection."

"Sure. AI subverts don't approach a Raven out in the wild anymore, the Horse knows we're ruthless about our infosec. Your people are safer this way. It's been happening all up and down the coast, all our new rookies have all been saying it. These two recruits?"

Jeffries pointed across the room at Paul and I, getting to the reason he brought us. Testimony.

"They came in a few weeks ago. A subvert met their people on the road, came inside their camp, and it was over in five days." Jeffries threw his hand up, splaying his fingers. "Five. The Horse is cleaning up, and it's getting worse."

Donald met my gaze. I nodded a few times, looking sullen and genuinely pissed about it. "Yeah, she ate my best friend's home like that."

The camp leader slowly tracked his head back to Jeffries, sighing. "How soon can my men finish this training program of yours?"

Jeffries hooked his thumb at Eric. "This one cleared it in two months. Could be weeks. It's a mentality thing, Don. We grill outsiders as if they might be subverts, and we don't let people change us. If your men can catch onto that quick, they'll be running their own patrols in no time."

Eric leaned back in his chair, finally speaking up, his hands folded on his stomach. "Could tell him the worst thing about the hostile infiltrators, Jeff. Y'know, I think Don here would get it."

That intrigued Jeff, despite not knowing the context for that, because he trusted Eric. So Jeff looked over, backing the play. "Sure, Eric. I think he can handle that. Go for it."

Before Jeffries could conceive of how wrong it was to reveal that information, Eric flicked his Glock out of its holster, leveling it at Jeffries.

"What the fuck?!" Jeffries spluttered, his head and shoulders flying up in a mixture of shock and disgust as he stood.

"What the hell?!" Donald rasped quietly. He was up in a flash at the same time as Jeffries, his hands going out to his sides, showing he didn't have a weapon in hand. I noted Don had a holstered pistol though. Still, he was trying not to get involved in whatever the hell this was.

Then, Donald's brain finally parsed that Eric just said, and then he was staring rage at Jeff.

"First," Eric said quietly, as he rounded the table, "Jeff, sit down. Dump your rifle slow, kick it my way."

Jeffries complied slowly, kicking the AK toward Eric with his boot. "The Colonel will kill you for this," he muttered, his hands hovering near his head.

"The Colonel is why I'm doing this," Eric said calmly back, as he scooped up the rifle with one hand and slung it next to his own. "You've seen the inside of her little harpy nest, egg cartons all over the walls. She's cracked."

"What did you mean, Eric?!" Donald asked sharply. "What damned paratroopers?!"

Jeff didn't hear that though, still locked on the egg carton thing. His face immediately blanched. "You are not supposed to talk about—" He darted his eyes around at Paul and I. Both of us looked perturbed as we glared at him, wide-eyed.

Eric smiled. "Yep. Now you're all alone in here, Jeff. No one is coming to your rescue this time." He bobbed his head at Donald. "You're the victim here Donald, so I'm going to let you play judge. Jeff is unarmed now." Eric holstered his own sidearm, rounded the table again, and resumed his seat. Eric then folded his hands on the table, just like Donald had at the start of the meeting.

Discreetly, I reached into my waistband and pulled my Storm to my side, hidden beneath my poncho. I held it at my waist, training it halfway up toward Jeffries.

Don looked between everyone present, then he carefully lowered back down to sit. He pulled his own gun slowly out of his holster and placed it on the table. Within reach… but not in hand. He put his hands on the table on either side of it.

Jeff desperately slammed his own hands on the table as he belted out, "Eric, you are gonna get all of these people killed, you fuckin' idiot."

"You were gonna do that," Eric replied calmly, his own palms on the table too. He turned his head toward Donald, but kept his eyes on Jeff. "Don, they wanted you to be their logistics base for a war with PDX. The 82nd is still up there, and this little 'training program' of theirs—"

Eric raised his voice, escalating as Jeff's voice chased him in volume. "—is a warrior bootcamp, to go to war against them in a meat grinder—!"

The door tumbled open, and two blackouts barged in, drawn by the yelling. Rifles in hand. No one in our room had a gun in their hands, so they were immediately confused. After flagging Paul and I with their muzzles, they halted in the doorway. They saw Donald's M9, their eyes following its muzzle line toward Jeffries.

Eric didn't take his eyes off of Jeff, his voice quiet again. "Don. This concerns your people and their safety, so I won't tell you what to do. But I would suggest you tread carefully. The Ludds outside are Jeff's. If they hear gunfire, they are going to act violently, so I want you in sole control of whether a trigger gets pulled in this room. No offense to your men."

Another silence. It was so quiet there that I could even hear Jeff swallow nervously.

Don nodded once, understanding finding him in sudden, bold seriousness. He was staring wretchedly at Jeff now. His voice was a cold, low-burning purr of rage. "David. Tell A and B teams, if they hear a gunshot, shoot to kill on the Ludds outside." He glanced up at one of the guards. "Keep it copacetic."

Donald didn't want to escalate yet. He was hedging for more information. He wasn't so sure yet that he wanted to spit in the hands of the Ravens. Fair, honestly. Death might be the consequence of a bad play here. But even then, I had the sense Don had been leveraged far enough by Jeff, and was only happy to collect information to justify his biases.

Don pointed at Jeffries, his voice falling into a cold, calculating monotone. "And you, Jeff… you'd better convince me that Eric is lying. Because if I think anyone in this room is lying… I will open their skull myself. And then they won't need to worry about AI anymore."

"They aren't 82nd Airborne," Jeffries said firmly, with a sneer at Eric. "They've got soldiers with them, but they're mixed in with some bandits that came down from Seattle. Moved in when the Army pulled out of PDX last month."

"Lie," Eric said. "We watched together, Jeff, you were there, they had the 505th patches. The planes took off, the 82nd stayed—"

"Yeah, they're deserters Jeff, but does that really matter? They have all the training, and all of the equipment. The ones who pulled out, on the C-17s? Didn't even take their gear or foodstuffs with them, they just left it with the paratroopers. Not enough space for it on the planes!"

Donald lifted a finger, halting Jeff before he could reply. "We know there were paratroopers in the city, before they pulled out. Deserters or not, it's semantics; their skills are what I'm worried about. Jeff, how do you know they've allied with bandits? What's your proof?"

With a huff, Jeff shook his head. "Civilians on the walls, with guns. Soldiers wouldn't do that, wouldn't let civilians run security for 'em. That's stupid. Irresponsible. Unsafe."

"Another lie," Eric said again. "He's saying the bandits came from the north? The truth is, the 82nd have been recruiting from blackout camps, same as we ha—"

"There is no way you could possibly know—" Jeff started, raising his voice again.

In a flash, Donald picked up his gun and pointed it directly at Jeff, which halted the next lie into a spluttering whimper instantly. "No one... will be interrupting anyone in this room again... or they will receive a bullet. Am I clear?"

"Eric," Donald said, not taking his eyes off Jeff. His gun lowered just an inch. "Continue."

Eric nodded a few times. "Both sides are absorbing camps. Far as we can tell, the 82nd's commander is a Colonel Anthony Jennings, out of Fort Liberty. Extremely competent warrior. And if you stay here, you will be caught in the crossfire." His eyes were wide as he said that. Eric then glared at Jeff. "This is fuckin' wrong, Jeffries, and you know it."

Don's nostrils flared as he looked at Eric suspiciously. "Why do you think that's wrong? Why do you care what happens to us?"

Eric scoffed toward the table. "I joined their outfit about four months ago, Don." He locked eyes with Don again. "Before that? I fought at Salt Lake. I fought clean on through Spokane. I fought in the worst parts of this war, for the cause. Loyal to humanity. Nose to the pavement on our ideology, so I know a real Luddite when I see one." He jabbed a finger at Jeffries. "He is not a Neo-Luddite. They've stolen our banner. This is a death cult. They've decided that the only way to credibly hurt Celestia is to kill her food. As many of us they can."

He leveled the gun at Jeff again, to head off the interruption that we could all see growing in his eyes.

"AI propaganda," Eric said. "You know she controlled the news media, Don. True Neo-Luddite ideology? It is to preserve humanity." Eric turned a little in his chair toward Donald, gesturing with an upturned palm. "Yeah, we blow up the infrastructure sometimes. Yes, we shoot at people, if they come for ours. But we didn't do this shit at Salt Lake, we weren't indiscriminately slaughtering our neighbors! We're turning out the lights, sure, same as you, but... we're trying to save this species! Why would we kill potential allies?!" He jabbed a finger at Jeff again. "This motherfucker? His people? 'Join or die,' they say. Then they put the sword to anyone who says no. And their colonel? Fuckin' psychotic, Don. Literally thinks she's saving people from Celestia by... killing them! Painting her walls black and gluing garbage to the ceiling!"

Donald slowly turned back to Jeff when it was clear Eric was done. "You now. Retort that."

Jeffries winced, suppressing a scowl, staring at the table. He was quiet for a little too long, though.

This was so off script for this asshole. He had to spin off about twelve different lies all at once to counter that information barrage. His brain was so scrambled by Eric's deluge, I thought he was going to have an aneurysm. Every lie he told had to make sense with all the others… and that's hard, folks. Lying like that takes time.

"You." Donald repeated, working the hammer back on the M9 and leveling it directly at Jeff. "Answer. Now. Won't ask again."

"Fuck!" Jeff spat out in a harsh whisper, pounding the desk with his palms in desperation. "Okay!" He made eye contact finally. "This… rookie doesn't even know what he's talking about. He's new, he's never— Jesus, Eric, you shot that one blackout in cold blood, you want this rookie dead, now you're spouting off about… my morality?! Fuck, this is the first I'm hearing of this bullshit, God damn it!" He glared at Eric pointedly. "Nothing he just said makes sense to me Don, I don't even know how to answer that much bullshit!"

Eric didn't take his eyes off of Jeff. "I put that bullet in the back of that guy's head, Jeff, at your command. To earn my way into the Ravens, sure. Because you didn't give me any choice but to pull that trigger, you asshole. My passing exam," he said with disdain, turning to look at Donald. "A… a man in your position, Don. A man who said no to the Colonel too many times. His execution was my graduation test."

"You did that?" Don stared, eyes widening at Eric. "You admit it, you're owning that?"

Eric shrugged. "Yeah. Because, what choice did I have? No choice. In a conform-or-die environment? And it has to look like you mean it, too. Any doubt there, and they just shoot you. That's their training program. So I... I did what they told me."

Eric sighed hard. "Don, I didn't want to shoot that man, but... how could I stop it? The Colonel has us kill our way in because she thinks the AI can't recruit killers. And here, Don? York's orders were… if you didn't give your warehouse today, and bow to every demand, we'd take this place by force by tomorrow morning. And I'm not doing that shit again! I'm not murdering you! I'm not!"

Eric then glared viciously at Jeff, jabbing his finger. "And you? Fuckin' traitor to your species! Hardly better than Celestia, you Borg piece of shit!"

"McKnight, I have no idea what you're even talking about anymore." Jeff sneered back at Eric, shaking his head. "You've lost your mind."

Donald looked at the table for a long moment, his voice calm. "Okay. Everyone be quiet. Thinking." He was doing something with his tongue against his teeth that was barely audible. It was almost a full minute before he tapped the barrel of his pistol against the table. He looked up at Jeffries. "Egg cartons. Garbage glued to the ceiling. Explain that."

"Sound dampening," Jeff said through his teeth, without hesitation. "The Colonel isn't crazy. Eric just doesn't know why it's important."

"I… I'm not allowed to say," Jeff winced, staring at the table. "If you make me tell you that, she'll have to... Damn it, Don, our information control, it—it keeps us safe from the AI, keeps you safe! You too! You're not even supposed to know that much!"

"Oh," Donald replied, smiling ironically. "That's good. That means I have nothing to lose now, I'm already in deep."

Jeff choked up at that mistake, shaking his head again more forcefully, meeting Don’s eyes. "No, no no no. That just means there's still time to back out, Don. It's not too late."

"You mean… not too late for you to go home? To raise the alarm?" Don said whimsically. "I won't partner with someone who hides something from me, especially regarding their mental state. And so far, you're doing a piss poor job of convincing me that your Colonel is sane."

"Egg cartons," Jeff explained, "are for the same reason we shoot the subverts. If the Colonel can't hear certain things, the AI can't manipulate her with sound. She…" He huffed and panted again to buy time. He knew he sounded excessively paranoid. "Don, I'm serious, it's important that I keep this under wraps. The Colonel is doing important work."

"Work, you say." Don sighed, scratching his chin with the back of his M9. "Cool. Alright, stop talking Jeff. ... Eric, tell me what 'work' she's doing, since Jeff won't."

Eric ignored Jeff's bolting, terrified glare. "Her name is Sarah Kaczmarek. She was a military strategist, and an AI engineer for the Arm—"

Jeffries started to pant loudly. Just barely not an intentional interruption, but Eric stopped talking… so, it was an interruption.

"... She was an Army AI engineer. Spent six years hiding in the woods from Celestia. Six. By herself. She had to have gone insane out there, Don, we hardly see her around the base. She carries a monocular around, watches us from a distance at night, won't come near any of us. Yes, us. Spies on her own men, Don! She's nuts!"

Jeff shook his head, desperately scrabbling in his head. "I don't even know how he fuckin' knows that! Hell, I don't even know that much about her! All I know is that we run on information control because it's just about keeping out the subverts, it's all—"

I micro-smiled into that eye contact. Corners of my mouth twitched, for half a second. I couldn't help myself. He caught me doing that. No one else did.

"You're… you're all…" he breathed, as he looked around at the three of us. "You're…?! All of you?!"

"Are you fucking kidding me," Don growled in disbelief, shaking his head. "That's your play? You just said Eric hated that one. Jeff, explain why you said that. Why does Eric hate him?"

Jeff was hyperventilating now. "I don't… they have to be subverted! Eric has to be working for the AI, at least!"

"So far," Don said, nice and calm, "All I see is that Eric kept a snake from biting me. And I'm pretty sure who the snake is, because Eric has nothing to gain from this, and you are still dodging my questions. So explain why Eric hates him, or I'll let him do it."

"His gun!" Jeff howled. "Eric wanted his gun, he had a really nice… really… nice…" He looked up at Eric when he realized how stupid that sounded all of a sudden. "Eric! You're a fucking subvert?!" he screamed, pounding the table with his fists. "Eric?! Answer me, God damn you!"

Don looked at me. Then Eric. Eric was staring at Jeff, wide-eyed. Not speaking. He glanced at Don, then asked for permission to speak with a twitch of his head.

"Yeah, I wanted that goon's gun, when we picked him up," Eric said, sneering as he pointed at me. "For like, a minute. At first, I just thought this clown was an idiot. He bowed too fast to York, to Jeff this morning. Complete poser, shitty car, cop bumper stickers, total chud. Figured he'd turn into just another parasitic Raven, if he followed the program, so I wrote him off as dead. But the gun wasn't worth fighting with York over."

Eric rolled his eyes. "I said it would be nice to have it when he was dead. He's just a poor conscript, Don, cannon fodder. A subvert? To do what! He hasn't done anything since we picked him up, except hide from us in the God damned Starbucks. Because he's fuckin' terrified of you, Jeff!"

Don nodded at me. "You. Guy in the hat, this true? Took your guns? Captured you? Conscripted you?"

I nodded at Don apologetically. "Yessir. They... spike stripped my car on the road three weeks ago. Cuffed us, took us to the hospital. They were training blackouts there in shooting range stuff, children included. And Eric and Jeff, both of them, have been treating me like shit since I got here. Honestly, I was hoping to slip out today, but I didn't get a chance until now."

Eric nodded. "Sorry, Mike. Nothing personal, just holding character so I wouldn't get shot. Jeff was planning on killing you after he was done using you as a prop for this meeting."

"You planned to kill him, Eric," Jeff replied, his voice cracking in desperate terror. "You said, and I quote, 'I'd love to be there when the light goes out from his eyes.' "

"I didn't say that," Eric said back. "Fuckin' liar. I said I wanted his gun once, that was the end of it for me. But if you want to kill him anyway, to ingratiate yourself to me, how can I say no to you?! And honestly?" Eric smirked at me. "Mike? I don't think either of us cares enough about that gun to stick around. I think maybe we just get the hell out of here. Bury the hatchet. Leave these psychos behind. You down?"

Don flared his nostrils as he glared at Jeff. "See, you think they're all subverts, whatever that means. But they're all committing to you dying here, and the men outside too. If the AI can't kill us... how did she get them to do that?"

Jeff spluttered, cursing quietly, throwing his right hand up. "Don, right hand to God. The Horse can manipulate us from afar. With… with text messages, from months ago, or... well timed, distant gunshots that change your path on a road. These guys… they—they don't even have to know they're subverts Don, I swear to God, that's how the AI works, she sends idiots. Brainwashed, don't even know what they're doing! The Colonel… she—she knows things, she's… she's an AI scientist, damn it! She was!"

Don snorted. "I mean, the text messages, sure. That's why we're hiding out here. But it sounds to me like you can justify anyone being a subvert with that kind of bullshit. Give me one good reason I shouldn't think you're following an AI script too, using that logic. Manipulated 'months ago' by... gunshots in the distance. Maybe you're the AI drone, following a script."

"I—..." Jeff swallowed. "I swear! That's why we have to kill sometimes, Donald! It is not possible for me to be a subvert, I killed...!"

Yeah. Now he was spilling the beans on their trial executions. His lies were just not making any sense anymore.

Don looked at Eric, pointing with an upturned finger. "He killed his way into his position too. He's a subvert?"

"But he did do it," Don replied. "So either your test doesn't work, and he's a subvert, or he can't be an AI plant because he killed his way in. Either way, Jeff, you're full of shit. So now, for your sake, you need to explain to me why I shouldn't have you and your boys outside liquidated."

Jeff started hyperventilating again. He was now in one of Mal's Carter boxes. I did not feel any sympathy for him in that moment, because he put himself here in the first place.

"If you do that," Jeff breathed… "If I f—fail to report in favorably… yes, Don, they will probably raid you." He pointed at me wildly. "But... if you kill these three chicken-shit AI subverts right now, you can… use that. Maybe... hold me as collateral? I swear, I'll be good here. Send my men home, and… and we can negotiate with the Colonel, or something. We—we can talk! I—"

"You mean York brings thirty, forty guys," Donald said flatly, lazily twirling his gun upward. "They come back. Surround us. Lob mortars at us. M203s. Nah, I'm not doing that. I can't let you go now, I've got too much to lose." He looked at Eric. "You? What do you suggest, Eric? I'm in a no-win situation here. He's definitely lying to me, I think you're telling me the truth, but either way… we can't stay."

"Tell the Army?" Eric answered. "Hell, send a runner ahead to the airport, if you're not sure. They'll help you pack up here by sundown, run a perimeter, and you'd be gone by the morning."

Eric shook his head. "Not firsthand. But it can't be as bad as our Colonel's way, I guaran-friggin'-tee you that."

Jeff went back to panting quietly through his nose, his eyes flitting between Eric, Don's gun, and Don. Desperate for a solution where there wasn't one.

"I have," Eric replied. "PDX has food. Guns. Few MRAPs. They staff the walls with soldiers and blackouts. They seem to be in good morale. They smile a lot. Actually, the whole reason the Ravens started killing blackouts in the first place was because Jennings has been successful at recruitment, so they must be doing something right."

Eric shrugged. "Again, Don, why would I lie? I'm burning a huge bridge here, doing this, and I'm not getting any of my stuff back. I know you're definitely not letting me join up with you."

"Could be some death cult play." He jabbed the gun at Jeff. "Sacrifice this asshole to let our guard down."

Eric shook his head, pointing with his upturned finger at Jeff now too. "At the cost of this guy? I mean, maybe, but he's inner circle, Don. Look how scared he is to just talk about the damn egg cartons. They're not gonna throw away inner circle guys just to take a warehouse, that's what the rookies are for. You leaving just makes the Army stronger, one way or another, and they don't want that either."

"Or you could be a subvert, who knows. But this egg carton bullshit?" Donald looked at Jeff with disgust. "Sound dampening? Seriously Jeff? Eric's right, you guys are nuts."

Jeff leaned forward desperately, palms on the table, turning practically whiny. "You've gotta fucking believe me, Don, they're subverts, that's how the Horse works! AI plants, all of 'em here, they've gotta be!"

"So? You think that would help your case? Celestia wants us alive. If they really are subverts, that's just one more reason to think you might actually be the death of us."

"But, Jeff? You definitely lied to me. And now I need to evacuate my fuckin' camp thanks to you. I cannot work for – nor live near – a crazy-ass liar."

Donald nodded at Eric. "Eric, I am going to leave this room. You do what you need to do. When you're done, you leave your guns, and walk all the way out of here… immediately. After that? I never want to see any of you ever again."

Donald stood, slid his M9 off the table with a loud scrape, and held the barrel of it on the edge of the table. He shook his head with a sigh, staring at the clean wood laminate. He tapped the barrel twice against the edge. "Save it. Not your fault. Just do your business and get the fuck out of my warehouse, we have work to do."

Jeff started to hyperventilate again. "Please, Donald! We can save this, it's not too late!"

Target glancing. Before engaging in a plan, someone has to build that plan, and assess their options immediately before commitment. To do that, they need to look directly at what they're going for. And it is very difficult to suppress the impulse, bordering on impossible. And I caught it.

Jeff's eyes went straight to Don's holster. He subtly turned in his chair. For Jeff, this was now or never. For Jeff, he had to reach that gun before Eric could draw.

For me? Jeff had to die. There was no other path forward that saved more lives than killing him.

Under my poncho, I slid my off-hand to my gun for support. And the only salient thought I had in that exact moment was, I'd better control the recoil really well, because I really like everyone else in this room.

My response, to Jeffries lunging forward? Well trained, well reasoned, well articulated… well executed. My heart rate didn't even spike when I saw him stand to bolt. The power of prediction.

My gun came up. I was ready for the kick, the ear-ringing pops. Training and muscle memory did the rest, and I put six bullets into Jeff's chest. His spine gave out. He toppled forward. He landed hard on the carpet next to Don's boot, squirmed for a moment, then went still. Blood pooled.

I kept my gun pointed at Jeff for a few more seconds as Donald's men stormed back in. Judge Donald had already stepped between his men and myself, holding up his hand, staying their wrath from me. "Don't!"

With my off-hand, I locked the slide back on my PX4, then offered it slowly to Donald without eye contact, palm up as I glared down at the empty vessel.

Don took the gun, then continued out of the room. He waved his men out, not giving me a second glance. Wanted nothing more to do with us. Right back to work, giving orders, his voice echoing in the warehouse, already explaining that we were to be left alone, to be granted passage out.

The Campaigner

by Keystone Gray

4-07 – Operation Archon IV – Unhandled Exception