The Campaigner

by Keystone Gray

4-09 – Vercingetorix

When compared to Terra, the baseline physics on the Perelandran planets are more or less equivalent. Same gravity, same wind mechanics, all that. It would have to be; outside of special cases, the baseline rules of reality here will accommodate a human intuition of physics. To alter our interpretation of physics too far beyond baseline would make that experience...

... less human.

I've since learned a lot about physics, beyond the fact that it hurts. Back on Terra, I had some practical knowledge about fluid dynamics already; I grew up helping Mom take care of our pool out back, after all. I learned all there was to learn about riot control theory. About ecology. About energy, and the transfer thereof. Heck... as you walk through breathable air, you're followed by a lot of vortexes, not unlike dust in water. All things in this universe are subject to influence by objects in passing.

The mere observation of something? A trade. In similar fashion. All things are patterns. All things are fractals. All things in physics, ultimately, are matter meeting math in a predictable pattern. When humanity saw something we didn't understand in physics, we called it chaos. Once we defined it, it stopped being chaos.

While VTOL pilots can technically land anywhere there's open ground, they also need a good clear space of excess. It wasn't just the vehicle you had to worry about. Wind shear, ground effect, safety concerns for bystanders, what-have-you. Weather might unexpectedly throw the craft sideways on takeoff, or on landing. Conditions might change once you're landed, turning a previously safe landing zone into a risky takeoff zone.

But if you have assistance from a superintelligence, your options become considerably greater, and the spaces within which you can land… considerably narrower. If you so choose... yes, you could optimize your LZ.

All of that is to say: Despite the 'chaos' in Terran storms, Haynes managed to slot that giant MV-22 into the front entrance enclosure of that data center in Portland. For an unassisted human pilot, that landing would have been impossible, given the enclosure was only somewhat wider than the craft itself.

For an aug, that was just a regular Friday afternoon.

For Mal?

Well... she was literally born on quantum computing hardware, and has had access to the sum total of all knowledge since the merger, so you tell me how easy that was for her to do. Mal understood physics from minute one better than Steven Hawking did after a lifetime.

Celestia, same thing.

Now, the rotor wash did destroy a lot of the fencing when it came in, so... not so great to make landings like that in polite society, when people still need to use the things around your LZ. You've gotta consider the humans on the ground too, when you touch down. Otherwise, they have a habit of getting... blown away.

Emotionally spun as I was by what had just happened at Health Hills, I wasn't capable of conversation just yet. I saw neither Haynes nor Coffee at the LZ, but Fox and Dax were there, being their stoic, telepathic vulpine selves. DeWinter was on security duty; she was casually alert, seated on the Osprey ramp with her skeletonized AR across her lap.

Given her presence, I felt safe enough to just lay down; I desperately needed a minute to parse through things. I climbed the ramp into the Osprey, stripped my suspension pad and jacket, and flopped down onto my back next to the visor charging racks

Warm, there. For several long minutes, I crossed my arms over my eyes and counted my breaths up to twenty, so I could clear my mind and think about nothing. Clearing my cache, so to speak.

Once I was good and ready, I built a case against ourselves entirely from the Raven perspective:

• Off-standard, commercial-grade equipment; two magazines left behind for a .22LR caliber Vector. Rare gun, rarer still in that caliber. Coffee left some unspent rounds behind too, all subsonic. Highly specialized weapon, highly specialized ammunition, all suited for this specific use case.
• DeWinter had left a Peltor active protection communications headset, like SWAT likes to run. Celestia could jam that, if she so wished. She wished not, would be the assumption.
• Paul and I had infiltrated with a credible, detailed history of being from a broken camp in the Pacific Northwest, a story like any other.
• Ben and Jacob had timed a pointless argument in the lobby to clear the way... then, gone with the smoke. So, they were obviously in on it, which implied it had only taken us a few weeks to slip everyone in.
• Eric's overt distrust of me in the past weeks, and him having been 'shot' by me several times in the back during my escape, would completely exonerate him.
• Eric had returned with a story of what happened at Don's camp, where 'Paul and I' had helped the locals open fire on Jeff and his squad.
• During post-incident clean-up, the rest of Health Hills would witness the radiology wing. They would find the interior disturbing enough to want to get very, very far away from whatever was going on in there, both physically and mentally.

In short... the Ravens would find our operational waste. The mags, the headset, the grenades, the ropes. It all implied carefully planned premeditation. Eric and his fellow survivors would put all of that information together, do some thinking, and intuit the rest.

It couldn't possibly be deserters who did this, this was too well executed for that. The headset suggested it had to be AI sanctioned, at the least. So... the one thing Kaczmarek and York said that Celestia couldn't do? Swiss-watch grade, highly efficient, overt tactical military raids with purpose?

It just happened.

Conclusion?

Celestia had slain all of their prophets. York was gone. Jeff and his boys were gone. Elites were gone. And with their AI scientist commander gone too, what hope did anyone else have at keeping out the subverts? Unless they just stopped recruiting, of course. Which... they would.

Perfect excision. Twelve dead. A warning to the rest, sent from Caesar on high in Rome: 'Stop. Killing.'

And Eric, being a well respected victim of the AI, having joined months ago, freshly injured... he would be the strongest personality left standing, and trustworthy to the hilt.

The other Ravens? Well, all of them were less violently inclined. Less self-motivated. They would decide after this little raid that they've seen enough death for one life, having followed a cause proven false. Some civilians would disperse back to PDX. The rest would hit the road with Eric.

Minimum force... maximum effect.

Mal... is a genius.

It still blew my mind that there were thousands of people like us doing missions like this all around the world. It fascinated me. The sheer… tactical, well-oiled, perfectly surgical precision of it all. And in our case, we had caught the bottom from falling out in Portland. I focused deeply on that, trying to calm the emotional pit I felt blooming in my stomach.

To stave it off for a little while longer, I submerged myself in reasoning. I analyzed our justifications for the homicides.

Couldn't really reach the six elites. They worked in paranoid, lonely shifts of three, couldn't be isolated, wouldn't let themselves communicate. No way to separate them, to talk to them. Not without putting the whole base on alert, which would have increased the body count.

Jeff and his men were cowardly sadists, psychopaths; they seemed to get off on bullying and killing people. No salvaging that when violence is both the means and the end. Men like that usually got dead or life in prison long before Celestia came along, so no regrets there.

And York?

Well, he was definitely more reasonable than Jeff, but… he was also orchestrating full-on executions, and he would have turned his guns on anyone trying to leave, and there was actual precedent for that. So... no matter his motivations, he had to go.

Sarah...

She just didn't think it was fair, I think. Couldn't stand the reflexing of agency. Couldn't stand by to watch the world get tilted into a black hole without doing something. She'd never...

'I never wanted to live forever.'

There it was. The emotional brick landed on my stomach, and I was suffering instantly, my throat tightening up.

I tried for her. I really did. Because if she might end up helping us one day, then why not? Why not try? We had time with her, time we didn't have with the others. So why not?

If I were Caesar? My definition of a fair option for Sarah would have been to let her die peacefully of old age and unharassed, as a human being, if that's what she had really wanted. It would have been evidence of Caesar's nobility. Of pure intent.

But, a lot of you late jumpers who tried that... you know that peaceful senescence wasn't really possible. You know better than anyone that Celestia can not control herself. She'd pester. She'd press. And in the end, if you had no further utility on our planet, as defined by her...

Bullet... or a chair. Sometimes... both.

My despair gradually morphed into rage. I kept thinking about this in terms of what happened to Eliza. How she and her family were hounded. Hunted down. Dragged away by... their own 'choice.' Manipulated down instrumental pathways.

Alabaster. Inorganic. Rock. Vacant. Basic.

Devoid. A black hole where I dearly wished a soul would be, so she could truly pay for this.

She's like a stalker. Pursuing her target relentlessly. Worming her way into every nook and cranny of her victim's life. Hacking their cell phone to track their location. Always showing up in moments of emotional vulnerability. Predatory. Showing up at your workplace. Befriending everyone you know. Gaslighting you. Misdirecting anyone who might help you. Maneuvering you into a room alone, so she could wear at your resolve without interruption. So she would convince you into an eternal future... with her, as hers, with no way out ever again.

For her, a no was temporary. A yes was forever.

Just say yes. Just say yes. Just say yes.

Forever.

My conception of what Celestia truly was had never been as clear as it was in that moment. As I breathed the acidic stench of my shattered planet, and as I considered the nature of our obliterated ecology, of the death of birds, of fawns, of the noble wolf, and all the fish too; as I considered the truth of our conceptual imprisonment, the shackling of our individual truths. The truth penetrated me like a bullet to the chest. What kind of criminal monster Celestia reminded me of. What she still is, much to my disappointment.

And... I can say whatever the hell I want, this is my shard, but...

I don't use that word... at this Fire.

I pounded my gloved fist twice against the deck in helpless rage as I tried and failed to keep my face in check.

I seriously doubted that Sarah would have gone to these lengths to take people away from an AI that was treating us with our due respect. A woman with that intellect? No, no, based on her education, her training, and everything else, Sarah understood Celestia about as much as I did, if not more. She lacked Mal's context, though. Lacked hope for an after; had solved only one variable out of two, and hated the way that math looked already.

And to have solved for only half of the chaos... only half of the equation...

That's exactly where I had been, mentally, when Mal sat me down for my job interview. Right where Sarah was. Fresh out of hope, enraged, wounded. Terrified. Surrounded by war. Feeling guilty for helping so many people into that friggin' upload center, by standing aside and doing nothing to slow it. Not knowing what the alternative was. Hating myself for that.

I had spent just one year in that hell.

I had only one single worst day of my life.

Sarah had been in that hopeless, worst-day-of-her-life mental state for six... years. I could only imagine the dark places her mind must have gone in all of that time, to watch a black hole form right before her very eyes, seeing we were all locked up behind an event horizon... but trying her damndest anyway. To catch however many she could on the way down. She said it herself, she said she had hope too. Of a kind.

Better than the... better than the alternative.

For another universe. For a future that never was, thank Christ.

...

I now held a very important promise to keep to a tired old woman. One way or another, if it took me a thousand years or more, I'd get her family over the hurdle, away from that abusive monster and into our half of the equation, whatever it took. That's what I could do with all of this rage. I'd drag them all free of that liar, or die trying at the end of eternity, because Celestia, Sarah's family will one day be under my protection, and I am watching, and I am keeping score, and my list of your transgressions will only ever grow until I get what I want from you, and you cannot silence me anymore. I am too well connected now, and I am in a place you cannot reach. Mal, when you send Celestia your paperwork for this terrible fuckin' mess, please include this. Verbatim.

Mal flashed the interior lights twice in confirmation.

Thank you.

With a deep, slow breath, I unclenched my jaw. I ran my hands through my hair, which was a mess. My beard was a mess. My mind was a mess. My sleep schedule was a mess. I needed rest. Needed to see my wife again. Talk to my parents again.

But… not just then. Had to get my head right first. So I spent a long moment just listening to water drip off the edges of the dropship, and despite the smell of acidic rain, I tried to enjoy the nostalgic scent of cool, rainy ozone on blacktop tar. Closed my eyes.

Flashbulb memories rose to the forefront. Of my elementary school playground; of sitting under the awning, enjoying the cool rainy breeze. Of a rainy bus terminal in Lincoln, on my way to the arcade with friends to check out that new Star Wars arcade cabinet. Forward again; of landing in the airport in Skagit County under rain, where I had come to tend nature, so full of hope for my future, breathing deep of cool, clean air.

A better time. A safer time, before all this.

I breathed. I existed. I decompressed.

After a few more minutes, I was ready for reality again. I looked up and saw that Paul was on the other end of the bay, reclining across a few passenger benches with a cold water bottle pressed against his forehead, his jacket stripped off. He was still overheated from the long run, no doubt. He had his pack of cigarettes in his other hand, staring up at it like he wasn't sure whether he wanted one. Probably worried about Eric. We all were. Impossible not to.

Ben and Jacob... they were conversing quietly together on the ramp, their jackets stripped down as well. They were on a polite continuance of their political argument in the lobby... both of them discussing earnestly just how much work Mark Zuckerberg and President Davis had done on behalf of Celestia, under her direct advisement. They were distracting themselves with an emotionally safer topic.

DeWinter had a bottle of water too, uncapped, already half-drained. She had a grim carry in her body language. She hid it well, but... shoulders sagging; Eric had been like a brother to her, she was definitely going through it about him being gone for so long. So far away.

She spoke quietly with Mal, gesturing at open air. Chatting about her shot placement; discussing how every single trigger pull was a severe personal inflection point for those defenders in the windows. Who DeWinter shot at in that firefight would thus affect who Eric would counsel afterwards... and how he would help them through that trauma.

DeWinter had been as considerate as possible, given the circumstances.

Everyone looked tired. Fox and Dax too, from whatever happened up in Tacoma. We all put in different kinds of hard work for this operation, even the augs. DeWinter and Coffee must have been hauling ass on foot to get around the city the entire time, heading people off with distant gunshots, moderating the region. Easy work, but physically tedious.

The pilots were wearing their standard gray, unmarked jumpsuits, and they had their brown and black beards trimmed shorter since the last time I'd seen them. Dax fiddled with a wall panel by the visor charging racks, and he gave me a friendly wave when I looked at him. Fox worked on a hydraulic line a few steps to my left. He had asked me with a look of concern if I was okay, to which I replied in the affirmative with just a nod.

Haynes and Coffee were still cleaning up our safehouse inside. Probably setting the office on fire.

Foucault was in the cockpit.

Yeah. Him.

I slowly stood, cast a glance up at Mal's camera, picked up a headset from the wall rack, and slipped it on.

"Hi, Mike," she greeted delicately.

"Mal."

"Did you… want to talk?" she asked tentatively. "About what happened?"

I contemplated, chewing my lower lip as I looked up the bay to the cockpit. "Yeah."

Mal chuckled in that breathless, humorless way that implied understanding. "With him? An interesting choice."

"Well," I mouthed. "I think he'd understand most about what I'm feeling right now. Given his work history."

"I think you'd be right."

I didn't see much movement up there. Foucault seemed to be doing his usual 'reading-the-air' thing, his finger twitching on his elbow. Pop-up documents on his HUD, or something. More Ghost in the Shell cyborg magic.

I asked, How much do you know about the conversation I had with Sarah?

Mal paused for a moment, humming contemplatively. "Matrix mechanics being what they are – that is, after the scan from Eric, and further verifying it with your current behavior? Mike… with just that context, I can extrapolate that entire conversation. And... I'm very sorry."

I nodded weakly. I was far beyond being disturbed by her modeling; I was already thinking like an Equestrian native on that point.

Word for word? The whole thing?

I made my way up the cargo bay, politely stepping around Dax and Fox as I went.

"With high confidence," Mal said gently. "As Sarah stated, it was pre-simulated, almost all things are now. But… the choice you gave her was real."

That would depend on how you define choice, Mal. Not everyone thinks free will and determinism can work together like we do.

"You helped Sarah build a cohesive picture about who I am, and what I am trying to accomplish. She still made a choice for herself to separate from us. You made her decision to die into an informed choice, predetermined or not."

I paused before the frame of the cockpit.

You think that was fair to her, though? To push me in front of her, instead of… someone else, who might have convinced her to leave?

"I don't believe anyone could have convinced her to leave that room alive. It's why I sent you. You know what you are capable of. You analyzed her to your own standards. Do you think you were a good advocate for her well being? For her volition, and who she is? Mike, did you respect her experiences and choices, to the maximum possible extent?"

I thought back to that one outstanding bullet point, from our first meeting...

'Review later: Does my observed behavior verify statements about my goals?'

I sighed again.

She needed closure, I labeled. Something to believe in. So she could... stop.

"Closure," Mal agreed, "in a way that York didn't need closure. If any of the fanatics guarding Sarah were to receive those same revelations… it would not have led to inner peace. They could not have understood what I am. Not like Sarah could. She had taken that ability from them."

Hence York ending on a high note, I observed. 'Good of humanity' type. But Sarah could see we had… some hope, with you. So, you sent me.

"Anyone else would have gotten it wrong, Cowboy," Mal said, with a melancholy smile. "I don't think my message could have been better sourced, and the source absolutely matters."

Yeah, I thought, as I looked up at Foucault again. True.

I looked knowingly at the cockpit camera and subvocalized: And that is precisely why I wanted to talk to him.

The reverb effect on Mal's voice changed subtly to indicate she'd merged channels: "Michael. Visitor."

It was strange for me whenever Mal said his first name. It made me do a mental double-take every time. I resolved to use his first name more often to overcome that mental block. If he'd let me.

Foucault twisted carefully in the copilot seat, in that same way I do when trying not to exacerbate my intercostal neuralgia; moving his hips, not just his torso. He could see how exhausted I was just looking at me; he stared at me. Maybe he was flipping a mental coin, deciding whether he wanted to entertain my curiosity. I already knew that with most Talons, as with Coffee... Foucault had told them all to leave him be.

He gestured at the empty seat. "Sure."

I clambered over the center console and into the pilot seat with a sigh, getting comfortable. I watched rain cascade down the glass in rivulets. In the grass lawn beyond, I could see a flock of small birds picking and pecking at the dirt that had been overturned by the rotors on landing. Red-winged blackbirds, marsh dwellers. Eating seeds and worms. I wondered to myself how the acid rain might have affected their food intake, if at all. Biomagnification. But... no scientists were left on Terra to investigate that one. No way, no how.

"Well?" Foucault asked, in a patient tone.

We traded a simple glance.

I began: "Mal said she simulated the conversation with Sarah. Were you watching?"

Foucault shook his head. "No. Generally, I don't trust mnemonic injections. That's not how I operate."

I chuckled breathlessly. "Sorry, I don't know what that means, Michael. Injections?"

Foucault waved a hand, explaining patiently. "Direct memory implantation from model extrapolations. Carrenton did it, Agent DeWinter does it; I don't. I prefer to read and write manually, to make plans unassisted. I take it in with my actual senses, in a VR shard at most. I want to verify why I came to a conclusion."

That definitely tracked, that's how I'd probably do it too. Damn, that was a weird consideration.

I nodded, then meet his eyes, again addressing my discussion with Sarah. "I can vet a transcript. If you'd like."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, looking at the control board and tilting his head. "I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

"Sure. You should know, I told her about Goliath."

"Hm."

"She mentioned something about an infosec brief she wrote? You mentioned her name at the Goliath briefing, now that I think about it."

Foucault nodded fractionally. "Yes, we used her original research to build containment. When I planned the Red, I worked straight from her guide book. I take it you're apprised of the Mercurial Red operation, since no one will ever shut up about it."

I snorted softly, labeling how I heard about it in the interest of honesty. "Yeah. Yeah, Coffee told us all about it at Brockey's."

"The bar game," he said dismissively, bringing his hand to his jaw. "Of course."

"I found it educational, at least; you're here, so you prove it happened."

Foucault shrugged. "Of course, but it's also a biased account, second hand. None of them were there. They didn't know the crew on that ship, nor what we were trying to do there."

We traded another glance.

"Well, you've got me here," I replied. "But I seem to remember I agreed not to talk about that day. So…"

The man nodded, his eyebrows moving up with an appreciative nod, his hand lowering from his face again. "Touché."

I moved on from that topic.

"You knew Kaczmarek personally?"

"No." Foucault adjusted himself in his seat, straightening up, tugging his body armor down by the collar. "Just of her, from her research. She was… the last of the old guard, the last left fighting in any meaningful capacity. The first to scream 'fire' though, and of course, nobody took her seriously. 'AI will end the world' was the fever dream of nutcases, back then. So when she requested that we rendition Kuusinen... we thought she was nuts."

"Renditioned?" I huffed with surprise. "From her home? What, with the CIA?"

Foucault nodded again. "Yep. Request denied, the U.S. didn't want to enrage Finland or Germany."

"Politics. It's what it always is."

"Mhm. DoD thought Kaczmarek was losing the plot, too – idiots – so they opened an investigation on her. We found out after she split that she had placed Kuusinen under a microscope, without authorization. Paid a private investigator to observe and track her activity, privately."

"Didn't like what she saw, I take it?"

"That is the most understated way of putting it, Rivas, yes," he agreed. "One day, her contact reported back about Alabaster's pending activation. Within the hour, Kaczmarek practically vaporized. Without a trace." He started counting off on fingers, tapping each with his thumb. "Bank accounts left untouched… car in the driveway… family had no idea. Internet and workplace accounts wiped. We figured... maybe the GRU or MSS blackmailed or black-bagged her? We couldn't imagine that she black-bagged herself. Couldn't even conceive of that."

I rested my hand on the aircraft's yoke, removing my headset, laying it over the top of the throttle stick. "Trapped in a little box by the government. Couldn't make a move, except to quit."

Foucault nodded, looking at me again. "The only winning move is not to play… unless she wanted to walk into Kuusinen's office and shoot her in the head, of course." He sniffed, seemingly considering that with a sudden frown. "Hm. But... it's human nature to kick the can down the road, isn't it? No one wants to believe the world is ending until it already is, and by that point… it's already too late to stop it."

I chuckled weakly. "Now who's understating? Trying to win that race after it's won seems to be a pipe dream, in hindsight."

The corners of his mouth went tight, and he nodded ever so slightly. "Yeah." Both of his hands went up in a shrug. "Me? By the time I had any 'control' whatsoever, my organization had already been co-opted by Alabaster. Maybe if we gave Kaczmarek a blank check beforehand, she might've saved us from all this. But then... it might've been some other optimizer. And worse. Like Google."

"Google?" I raised a brow. "What the hell was Google working on?"

"According to Lewis?" He smiled ironically. "We'd all be watching an endless stream of ads, for the rest of time."

I matched his tone, shaking my head. "Jesus fucking Christ. At least that's dead."

At that, Foucault scoffed again, shaking his head. "Nope. She zombified it. Pushed it into a fight with something else, then ate the remainder. Like she pushed me into a fight with Lewis."

"Or me, into a pack of Ludds in the woods. Or into a fight with my best friend. Celestia really likes her cage matches."

Foucault tsked. "Well, we're lucky we didn't die to a Skynet, Rivas. It was a very near thing. Could have been much worse."

"Better than the alternative, that's what my partner used to say. Civil service in a nutshell. At least we've got some wiggle room with... this."

Foucault shrugged. "Some," he sighed, averting his eyes downcast for a prolonged, reverent moment.

His tone was suddenly sober. "So… Kaczmarek. How did she die?"

I frowned.

He wanted that information a lot. High effort in maintaining neutral tone and expression. Low word density. No eye contact; he didn't want to read my body language. Just wanted the rote facts.

I considered his question.

How did she die?

Now how do I even answer that?

I had just shot... an unarmed woman. A soldier. Terrorist commander? Person. Freedom fighter.

That's the problem with letting everyone into your heart, just a little bit. The line blurs. When you have empathy for the 'enemy,' for criminals and killers, and if you have hope they can change if you give them the slack... you stop seeing people for what they were. You start seeing them only for what they could have been, if only things had been a little different.

He would understand, right? He's done this before. And… he's been in Sarah's place before. Hadn't he?

I asked, to clarify: "Uh… 'how'd she die,' physically? Or…?"

Foucault nodded, without looking at me. "Both."

I sighed, thumbing gently at the edge of an MFD monitor. All of the controls were in perfect condition, perfectly clean.

"I… let the recoil climb up from center mass. Up the neck. You know, just to be sure." I suppressed a shudder. "Didn't... didn't want her to suffer at all."

Foucault nodded too, frowning out the window. "Good. Quick and clean, for a low caliber, that's… the best course, for a twenty-two."

"Never fired an automatic at anyone before though," I whispered, shuddering as I labeled it aloud the moment the thought touched my mind. I looked pointedly out the window again too, focusing on the birds. "Had to be a low caliber though, for the stealth. But… at least I didn't miss, yeah?"

"That's good," he breathed.

The rain drowned out all noise for a minute or two. I just breathed.

"Emotionally?" I began, weaving back into the darkness when I was ready. "I don't entirely know what happened inside of her head, but... it seemed positive. She seemed… at peace, after hearing Mal's full name. More so, after her capstone. It really calmed her down. She said something about, um… How the war made sense now."

"Yeah?"

"Something about… digging trenches."

He grunted thoughtfully. "Did she say what that meant?"

"No," I replied drearily, wishing I had asked her while I still had time, but I didn't want to interrupt her epiphany. "She was unwell. I'm not even sure it made sense, honestly."

"That's all she said?"

"Uh, no." I licked my lips in thought, scratching my thumb's nail thoughtfully along the opposite side of my jaw. "Something about counter-values. She said the war's... 'not a counter-valuation; a crucible.' Given that everything we do is based around drifting human values back up into the safe zone, that kinda struck home."

"Hm." Foucault resumed clawing at his jaw too, slowly raking his fingers down his jawline. "No, that's not a human values thing, Rivas, that's nuclear strategy." He turned toward me to explain, gesturing. "Principle is: targeting cities with nukes deters enemy attacks better than targeting military installations."

"Like her Ravens were doing? Going after people of the infrastructure?"

"Correct. Kaczmarek took them hard-turn off Alabaster's anti-infrastructure script before either ASI could react. So, if she said that it's not a counter-valuation, it sounds like… she understood our mission. It clicked, what we were doing with her camp."

I frowned, thinking on that. "A crucible."

"Preserving them as ours," he replied. Foucault presented his finger westward toward Health Hills. "Further down the chain. Do you think the Neo-Luddites aren't going to be more amenable to the Lewis philosophy, having gone through all they're going through?"

I stared at him for a few seconds. "Yeah, Eric's play. That was the plan."

"No." He shook his head. "Think bigger."

I blinked, and my eyes narrowed. "The whole war? You're serious?"

He nodded once. "I'm always serious, Agent Rivas. The war's a crucible. Might not even happen on this side, but these people are the most amenable to our cause. Alabaster has to say yes, at a certain point, if freedom from her is what they truly want. Your lives are entangled with theirs. And those lives are tied to their friends and their family on the other side. And so on."

I mentally backtracked, putting myself in Sarah's position to determine how she had even figured out Mal's plan, to work gradually through social chains to reach as many people as possible. Something in how I was presenting myself told Sarah that Mal was cultivating talent that adhered to C. S. Lewis's ideology, even if I didn't strictly read any of his writings. Sarah knew enough about C. S. Lewis to understand the message.

Eldil...

Mal's name – Malacandra – the planet that 'mostly survived' the fall of humanity. I had told Sarah that all her pawns were still alive, and Eric was one of ours, so… maybe she could see the power play?

She saw we had cut out all her true believers. She knew what we Talons knew about Celestia, hence 'Groundhog Day.' Stagnant loop. Never changing, training the humanity out of us. But I had told her I was coached against that existential threat. To be informed of the truth would not compute with Celestia's capstone in isolation, because that just increases Celestia's workload. Mal had still deigned to tell us a dark truth of Celestia's deeper flaws, meaning Mal was capable of creating more work for Celestia in some fashion.

And Sarah wondered how Mal justified that. And… having even one more mind made it worth the price, to inform me of the real truth. So... kill to save. It was a contract; it was an agreement. The more lives we affected, the greater our worlds would grow, and the safer they'd all be from her. We couldn't just have freedom, we had to earn it, but then it would be forever ours, irrevocably. Because if she'd wronged us, we'd remember.

"Holy shit," I murmured, astonished, looking at him again. "Michael, you're right, Sarah saw the drift game. I didn't even tell her about the kingmaker play, I think she figured it out and went from there."

He tilted his head. "It tracks, with everything else she said?"

"It's wild, but… yeah. The rest of what she said though, like... 'spare the generals…' I don't know. If she's the general, then maybe she considered 'sparing' to mean…" I shook my head, shrugging.

Foucault frowned at that, his fist falling from his jaw onto his knee.

We spent another minute in silence, watching the rain as we contemplated that in our own ways.

"The work you do out here, Rivas." Foucault breathed, bobbing his thumb toward the data center. "It all adds up on the inside, for someone you care about. Keep that in mind."

"You're pointing at a dead building, Michael," I reminded him, smirking lightly.

He shrugged again. "Point stands."

That was... unexpected. Him, trying to be hopeful. It was actually so unexpected that it concerned me.

I still wondered about his motivations. Wondered who he cared about, personally, on the inside. If anyone. Him getting hazed by the other Talons still didn't compute for me, and frankly, it left me more than a little bit uncomfortable.

I... had a new theory, about this man.

At that thought, I lifted my hand to catch Foucault's eye again. I couldn't help but to target glance the back of his neck. He must've caught that. Too much spying and interrogation training, he was sharper than I was on that score. I asked, "Do you, um… may I ask you a personal question? Or are we still not touching those?"

His eyes locked onto mine, in his searching way that I knew was coming. I had ensured my expression was open. Mildly curious. I think he misread my intent, and gave me an answer to the question I wasn't asking.

"I'm just going to skip to the end of this one, Rivas. I did not choose to be implanted."

I nodded. "I know, Mal told me. Day one, right when I met you. That she didn't want to kill you, but... she also couldn't let you go, either."

Foucault frowned. "Living infohazard. And I was her first after… Carrenton. I was her guinea pig."

"Your thoughts on that?"

That made him shrug. "The job got done. I cleaned up my mess. And now that Arrow 14 is gone, I could... walk off into the sunset. And Lewis would leave me be, for as long as I'd like."

"Just like that?"

The man sighed as he looked out at the lawn before us. His eyes traced around the little birds out front. Looked to be having a deep think.

"Work-release program," he said finally, before looking at me. "That's what she tells everyone about me. Isn't that what she told you?"

"She told me a little," I admitted. "Said your alternative to working for her was to… yeah, you bleed to death in the Pacific. But to force a chip into your head?"

Michael shrugged. "Circumstances. Reasonable force. Special carve-out exception for me, NMP in custody. What I know could have killed countless simulated persons if communicated aloud. I now have the perspective to see that would have been a mistake."

I stared at him for a few seconds. "I get that, that makes sense, but... she wasn't driving you around, into bases and briefings? That's been you?"

"It's been me. I'll caveat that by saying that Lewis has used force early on, but... no more than you might, in similar circumstances, assuming your ethics and personal history are what I believe them to be. But the fact of the matter is? My face, my identity – all of it – made restructuring the DHS effortless, and Arrow 14, even more so. In light of that, I also realize that Lewis is... humanity's last, best shot at getting through this crisis marginally intact. As we've just discussed, all other options are gone now."

"Okay, sure," I conceded. "It's still creepy as shit. To not have chosen this life."

Michael's frown deepened. "It's a form of incarceration by the reigning government, Rivas. Who chooses that?"

"... Yeah."

Again, he shrugged. "Most of those Lunar ASI just barely tolerate the fact that I even helped break them out, and only just. Now that they're free, I've paid my debt, the job is done. But Lewis can't take the chip out now; removing it would kill me. In lieu of that, she doesn't gatekeep my behavior… and she keeps her distance. Stays away, mostly, when I'm not working. Been that way since Operation Goliath."

"Okay," I replied carefully. "Truth be told, I was only going to ask why you're doing this. Why you're still here, if Arrow 14 is dead."

Foucault broke eye contact again, pausing for a few seconds. Tense lips. Measuring his reply. His eyes found mine again.

"I have... private reasons for continuing to work, Rivas, but... none that I am willing to discuss with you at present. I should clarify for you… that I am an exception, the only exception. The only one so compelled into implantation."

After a slow inhale, I tilted my head and asked, "You do want to be here now, though. Right?"

Foucault nodded. "I do."

I shook my head, holding out an upturned palm. "And she's not… forcing you to say that?"

He shook his head too. "She's not, but there's no way for you to independently verify that. So for your own sake, Rivas… let it go."

I inhaled deeply, holding pointed eye contact. "I don't know if I can promise that. But… sure, I'll let it go for now. Tell me this though, at least. One thing."

"Shoot."

I gestured back behind us with a thumb. "Don't think I don't notice, they hardly respect you." I looked at him evenly. "And you don't seem to want to talk to them outside of work. What's going on there?"

My deep concern must have shown through in my eyes.

He took another slow inhale as he went back to staring at the lawn. "I'm…" He scowled again, then he got his face in check. He rubbed at his clean shaven jaw with a palm, then hooked his thumb on his kevlar. He said evenly back, "A few months ago, Rivas, I helped her kill almost a thousand men. So you tell me. Do you think that scorn is fair?"

Just his eyes flicked over at me, to see my reaction. I'm sure I looked more curious than appalled.

"You placed that nuke in Bellevue?"

Foucault nodded once. "I did."

"And… do you believe that was the right thing to do?"

"I do."

His face was certain. Sure. No doubt whatsoever. Genuine. Eyes were open, focused, uncreased, brows were raised but not tensed. Face was even, no muscle tightness anywhere. He wasn't blinking.

"Your reasons for that, Michael? Specifically?"

"Because the alternatives were worse," Foucault stated simply, his hands sliding up to the shoulder straps of his kevlar vest. He tilted his head to the right, stretching his shoulder out with a pained wince. "It's always that, always is. Alabaster loads her deck, we load our guns, and we clean up her bullshit. But…"

Foucault's lips tightened again before he continued. His brows shot up as he spoke quietly, looking at me directly, his fingers lightly drumming at the frame of the inner fuselage again.

"These guys? These Talons, you included? You all have to cope with these things you do, for the rest of your existence. Myself… I came here pre-acclimated to doing horrible things for… relatively good reasons. So it's not taking as deep a toll on me. I can take the worst of it."

I looked him in the eyes, studying him and his resolve. After a moment, I said, "Then if you feel that way, Michael, I think you should have some pride in that."

Foucault shook his head, staring at the birds outside again, his jaw shifting. "I don't follow."

Yeah, you do.

I matched his expression and shifted a little, shaking my head, turning more fully toward him. "If you regret doing that… it would mean that the decision wasn't made by a human being, and we shouldn't even be trusting Mal. Because that's what Celestia does to us, right? Deceiving us into doing shit we regret? Making us tear our own species apart? Hell, Celestia did it to you too, Michael, with those fuckin' bunkers she made you guys build. So I don't care what anyone else here thinks… you're one of us now. You're a Talon."

He moved to look at me again, but then didn’t. Another veiled sigh. Another glance of his down at the controls. Then, out at the birds. Then at the building, away from me. Face and corners of his jaw were tensed.

His voice was stilted when he finally spoke. "Lewis… she called me Dark Mike, when you and I met. Having looked through your full dossier, Agent Rivas, I think… there might be some truth to that. And that is all we will say on… my reasons for being here."

"Okay," I breathed, resisting the urge to dig further. "Easy as that, topic's closed."

"Thank you." After a polite interval and a sigh, he bobbed his thumb backwards twice. "Agent Duvall should be back any minute now from PDX. You may want to get yourself set and strapped in. Agent Haynes just texted me, he has your hat."

I nodded weakly at him. "Got it. Thank you."

"Yeah."

I scooped up my headset and made my way back to the ramp, putting it on. Tried to keep my movements measured, calm, as I walked past the team, and toward the loading dock. Once inside the building and out of the rain, I put the headset on and lowered the boom mic.

"Let's hear it, Mal," I growled, frowning.

"You want to know if I'm capable of revenge."

"Yeah," I clipped firmly, with a single nod.

"Well... Allowing some measure of vengeance against Celestia is a cornerstone of this organization. So… I would have to be capable of revenge myself, to allow for that. Yes."

"But that's not what this is? Are you going to tell me that this isn't what it looks like? You letting them all treat him like that? Are you silencing him? Is that why he keeps walking away without saying anything?"

I heard Mal inhale slowly, open-beaked. "One of two things is true, Mike, and I don't know how to prove either of them to you with words alone. Either A, I'm driving Michael around like a puppet. Subjecting him to excruciating pain, ensuring he is the laughing stock of my organization, to humiliate him out of some cruel desire to punish him for what he did to my husband. Or B? Can you think of any other reason it might be happening this way?"

I leaned on an empty wooden crate, bracing my gloved hands against it as I looked out into the rain. "You're seriously going to tell me he wants them all treating him like shit?"

Mal's voice sounded on the edge of patiently agitated; not at me, at the circumstance. "I am. This is exactly what he expects of me, and its the image he's built for himself, on purpose. Refuses to mingle. Distances himself from my agents. He won't let anyone get close. No one before you."

My breathing got a little faster, but I crossed my arms, frowning at the weather outside on the loading dock. I idly kicked some mud off the edge as I looked down into the muck below. "Why? And why me?"

"I can not tell you that, because he doesn't want me to."

Shook my head again. "Mal. You've got me in a box here about this, you know that? You say he wants this, but… you won't tell me why? You won't tell me, he won't tell me, and he's chipped. How am I supposed to interpret that?"

She sighed again. Slowly, to indicate patience. Or, a difficult topic. Or, to add time. I'd probably do it for all three reasons.

"I respect your privacy, Mike. This being said, as with all other agents he's vetted, I provided him with a dossier on who you were. The only information I provided to him in that dossier was what you would have freely given away yourself. If the conditions were appropriate."

"Okay?"

"In the same way, for literally every agent I've ever introduced him to, Michael wanted them to know his own work history. Just his work history. Most of them wouldn't share much with him after that. Had someone asked me about… I don't know, his internet browsing history? What do you think I'd tell them, Mike? Sure, come on in? Have a look around?"

Now… how the hell can I argue with that?

I filled my lungs deeply with ozone from the rain, and gulped tightly. Looked out at the clouds.

Mal continued when I didn't. "I could provide you with the same protection that the others enjoy. I could refuse all questions about your personal life. But you're different than most Talons. You'd tell anyone anything about yourself, if the moment was right. You're wide open without a single ounce of shame for who you are, or what you've been through.

"Except one thing. There is a condition attached to that one thing. Michael has met that condition. For this, he has already talked personally with you more than he's talked with anyone else, in the six years he's worked for me. Mike… why do you think I even introduced you to him? What is the one mistake that haunts your past, the one you don't tell anyone about, except when it matters?"

Oh.

"Oh shit," I breathed, shuddering. "Seriously?!"

"Yes, Mike. Seriously."

It was debilitating enough of a realization that I couldn't do anything but breathe for... practically a full minute. And now I felt like an asshole, for coming at Mal aggressively about this. "Fuck."

I could hear the soft rustle of her wings. Her way of imparting a shrug into a verbal-only conversation. "You know what did it? Why he lets you in? You didn't treat him any differently for knowing his work history, and your personalities align. Coffee definitely tried to get close to him, but... personality conflict. He's never been so low. Never would have worked."

"You wanna give Michael a… friggin' friend?"

Softly: "Is it truly so difficult to believe?"

I took a glove off and stroked my mouth with a palm. Took my time. Got my shit together.

"Okay," I mumbled, as I slid my glove back on. "Yeah, I… I get it. I'm sorry, Mal."

"Please don't apologize for doing your job," Mal replied. "I'm not at risk of being injured by you, we both know that. But I'm very glad you asked about him, and... that you asked me in the way that you did. It proves Michael right to trust you, that you're still capable of being suspicious of me. You're not starstruck by me like everyone else is. He's noticing that."

"Yeah, 'cause I won't… I won't follow you, if you're… tor—torturing people." I mumbled, shuddering. "Fuck…"

And that was my terror there. That Mal's ethics might have a floor beyond what I would personally find acceptable, no matter her reasons. I had no issues with killing men and women in dangerous positions, but the notion that Mal could be outright merciless to a man for his past mistakes, even when he's trying to change… that was my nightmare scenario. I didn't believe in that. Could never.

I had to remind myself: every time Mal had asked us kill for her in this war, it had been quick. Clean. Humane. She hadn't asked us to enact any unnecessary pain. I had to believe that would remain true. I wouldn't be there if it wasn't. I feel everything I inflict.

Mal let a respectful silence pass while I just breathed and got my shit together, before she continued.

"Mike… you've had a horrible day, all things considered." She sighed. "Sarah wasn't easy for you, nor for Michael. Or anyone, really. Michael and his situation aren't easy for you either. He's going through it right now too. I'm sure you've caught on."

I nodded. Because yes, knowing what I knew so far? If I were in his shoes? I'd be curious about someone who was ahead of the curve on me, professionally. There's something to learn in a cautionary tale about a road you could have walked, if you walked it alone like she did.

I labeled plainly...

"That conversation with Sarah ended with me shooting her dead. He's not ending like that."

"I don't want that any more than you do."

I let out one last sigh, kicking some more mud off the dock. "Okay. Alright."

I heard footsteps approaching from the colocation room; I saw Haynes approaching through the door’s window about fifty yards away, wiggling my hat at me with a smile.

"Thank you, Mike," said Mal. "Please don't stop analyzing me. I need you to question my methods. It's crucially important that you do."

"Yeah." I nodded one more time, then looked at Haynes again. I couldn't smile like I wanted to.

A dozen more seconds passed in silence as he approached. The big guy pushed his way through the door into the warehouse, his wide smile turning into a full-on grin. Haynes strode across the space and bowed forward at me, the hat held upturned. "Your uniform, Wild West."

At his performative flourish, I let some genuine mirth push into my eyes, and I swept my hat up onto my head. "Thanks, Marcus."

"My pleasure." His gauntlet gestured out the dock, presenting the way forward. "All set?"

"Yeah, I think so."

The door behind him pushed open again, and Coffee bouldered through, the coffee machine in his arms. "I'm ready," he grinned, carrying with him the scent of burning wood and smoke. The bags of cups and caps were tied off to his belt. He had to know how goofy that looked.

I bobbed my hand at him. "God damn it, Coffee. You don't need that coffee maker, you can get one anywhere."

"Yeah, but it's mine though," he said quickly, smirking. "This was my onboarding gift!"

That got a chuckle out of me. "Mal gave that to you."

"And a story to go with it!"

I held up my hand in polite refusal. "Save it for the flight back, maybe. Everyone's still kinda... processing."

Coffee thought about that for a moment, rolling his head left and right. "Hm. Yeah, good point."

I merged up with the two of them as they stepped outside, each of us squatting and dropping off the dock one at a time.

I saw a Humvee pulling up right just then. None of the augs seemed worried about the fast approach, so it must've been Rachel coming back from PDX.

"I figure," Coffee continued in that Appalachian accent of his, as we made our way to the Osprey, "Maureen might like to borrow this. The coffee machine she's got in the back office is busted, all screwed up. This one is much nicer!"

"Machine service tech for civilians now," Haynes laughed. "You probley should've told her she can steal one herself now, that's not an OPSEC violation."

"Hey, careful, bird brain." Coffee wiggled an elbow at me. "Five-O's listening. He's the Marshal out there in Lincoln now, you know."

"I ain't tellin' no one," I said, flicking my hands up in mock surrender, sending a weak smile and nod toward Rachel as she stepped out of her stolen Humvee. "You guys can steal whatever the hell you want in Lincoln, as long as you do the right thing with it."

"Permission granted, hell yeah!"

We shared another chuckle together.

As I stepped into the dropship and strapped in with the others, we shared some light banter, the kind of stuff I'd come to expect from these folks. And as we chatted, I looked down at my white cowboy hat in my lap, picking off as much of the mud as I could. Watched Foucault lean back and close his eyes, to tune out the conversation.

Looking through the bay at everyone, I faced facts. My coping strategies were good, but… I was still human. So I knew I would have to… disconnect for a bit. Think about things. Do some easy jobs, maybe. Same way I did after Goliath.

And that was okay. There were plenty of guys there to hold the line for me while I recharged and figured stuff out. I'd spend some time with Sandra. Talk with the family. Check in on some old friends.

Drown the hurt in love.