4-04 – Operation Archon I – Briefing
The Campaigner
Part IV
Chapter 4
Date: 10 MAR 2020
Operation: Archon – Phase I
Location: Transitory – Osprey 8228
Function: Mission Briefing
"There's nothing sadder than a puppet without a ghost, especially the kind with red blood running through them." ~ Batou, Ghost in the Shell (1995)
Hat on. Apply directly to the squirrel cop.
We carpooled to work.
Specifically: Paul parked at our house early that morning, having abandoned whatever local mansion he was living in between local jobs. Sandra, Paul and I hopped into Dad's car. Then… Sandra drove us to work.
So now, Sandra had custody of a red Corolla, a green Civic, and a gray Camry. All three, 'borrowed' from an immigrant. Free cars, as far as the eye could see, up and down the whole street. Ours now. The Kingdom of Waverly, and Sandra was Queen. Best part about that was, Sandra sure as heck wasn't cleaning this street up at the end. Mal definitely wasn't either. Why send a human to clean up when you've got an Alabaster Roomba to do that for you, am I right?
Other than my hat, I did bring some other stuff.
Mal's AR-15 – yes, yours – but reconfigured to its old attachments from MVPD. The new stuff was nice, but... it wouldn't be a good idea to bring Mal's high tech, AI-fabricated attachments into a city full of paranoid, gun-nut Ludds. I brought my Eldil Glock 19 though; those parts were market-available, I could explain the custom job. Mal and I had already discussed a good cover story about how I acquired it.
Thanks, Dennis; I made your death mean something. Still missing you.
I wasn't bringing it for my own novelty. It was very, very crucial to bring that gun.
I also had a backpack with some spare tactical clothes. Some ammunition, some food, hygiene and grooming supplies. I was gonna trim up my beard and sideburns to look clean again, but… Mal suggested I let myself look a tad haggard.
I mean, fair. I was joining up with the Neo-Luddites, after all. Rise up against our AI oppressors, and all that jazz.
Pickup was at the Johnstone farm again. As we pulled up, the MV-22 was already parked in the left field with its ramp down, its engines off. That field was more overgrown with weeds than the last time we'd been there – and life finds a way, even in winter. Though, all the weeds in a certain radius had been uprooted and flung far back by the engine wash, too, leaving a circular pile of green that was higher than the rest.
There, at the end of the road, just before the farmhouse, there they were. Big Gryphon Haynes, Stone Cold Foucault, and the composite-armored body of Mal in Osprey form, after displacing everything else in her orbit.
The rest of Claw 46 were already on deployment in the war zone, prepping the region for two separate but concurrent missions, with two different operational zones each. As I understood it, I was focusing on just one zone, just one faction, in just one mission. Of course, before we get to all of that cool tactical stuff...
We had to exchange pleasantries, and explore the social dynamic!
Haynes looked positively giddy to meet Sandra, the friendly mountain that he was, grinning and waving at her as we pulled up. Foucault, on the other hand, was the opposite; he wore his trademark not-technically-a-frown, arms crossed, looking as impatient as ever to get a move on with the mission.
Can't rush the pleasantries, though, ol' man. It's not always a tactical meet-up. That other stuff is important!
"Mr. Garrick!" Haynes said to Paul.
Paul smiled. "Marcus."
"And there she is!" Haynes outstretched a hand to Sandra, his teeth gleaming. "Heard so much about ya, love, good to finally meet you!"
Sandra couldn't help but smile too at such a warm greeting. She shook Haynes's claw, her hand disappearing into it.
"Heard about you too!" she asked. "You're Coffee's boss, right? Haynes, the walking tank?"
"Oh, sommit like that, but... oh, not really his boss. Only one real boss in this crew."
"Just the bird, is the word," Paul said airily in his own deep voice, gesturing at the Osprey.
"Everyone's heard," Mal grinned into our earpieces.
Foucault tsked, spun on his heel, stepped up the ramp, and made his way up to the cockpit.
Paul frowned. "Man, what's his problem now?"
Haynes couldn't help but smirk. "The ol' hen just told him he needs to wait for us to get acquainted, that's all." He bobbed his hand at my wife and said, "We have time. Mal says you want something?"
Sandra and I traded glances. I nodded encouragingly at her. "Well? Go on, what's up?"
She shrugged, looking a little shy. "I… I've never been inside a military aircraft. Kinda wanted to see, since... you know. End of the world and all."
Aww. See, now that was cute. Her asking in such a shy way, that was adorable.
Haynes beamed, over the moon, freshly excited to show off the dropship to a civilian; I had to imagine it was a rare treat for him. He said to Sandra, "Oh yes, come on, 'en! Let's give ya a tour. Won't take long! Jus' give the geezer what he wants and ignore him, that's all."
I could immediately tell based on the arrangement of the weapons and the crates that this was definitely the same Osprey that picked me up out of Washington. I thought at the ever-elusive aircraft as I entered: I've found you again, you sly fox, you.
Paul elected to hang out by the benches in the back and tossed me a stiff wave and a smile as I went; I had to imagine he'd been with Mal long enough to not need a dropship tour, but I could tell he had picked up on Sandra's and Haynes's shared elation too.
Empath life. It's what we live for, folks.
And as we expected, Foucault was quietly stewing up front in the cockpit by the time Haynes brought Sandra over.
Apparently, he hadn't thought completely through his escape plan from the Big Delay, and had accidentally cornered himself in the cockpit. I stepped back to let my wife see everything... and, to analytically observe Dark Mike, as he realized the gripping folly of his present position. He really could just partake, y'know. Mission or not, if Mal said it'd be fine, it'd probably be fine; we'd all be pretty mad if it weren't.
Y'know, the other Talons... were never outright cruel when they talked about Foucault at the bar, but... it was never fully respectful, either. Nor forgiving. But at the same time, he also wasn't doing himself any favors by being so unapproachable and grumpy. Personally, I was never going to hold any of his grumpiness against him too much, because I kinda already knew some of his history with Mal through the grapevine.
Interestingly, in my discussions about this, Coffee seemed to be the outlier; he felt the same way about this as I did, but... he never really could break the ice with Foucault, despite his best efforts. Personality conflict, unfortunately. As far as I could gather, he's the only one who ever tried for more than a month or two.
The consequence of our individuality was that sometimes, there would be the odd misunderstanding of each other. And okay, that was human. In the context of Perelandra, I couldn't imagine a society where everyone had the same view on everything. So, while it sucked that this guy was having trouble meshing well with the rest of the team...
It was only ever up to him to reply, at some point.
But you can't rush things with a guy like this, so... I would have to wait. And that's okay. I like to fish.
The tour went on, as I pondered that. Haynes pointed around at all of the multi-function displays, switches, levers, describing each in detail. He noted the controls for the belly-mounted cannon too, and the other weapon systems. Missile launchers, smaller caliber turrets, chaff dispensers, and a little IR laser for blinding cameras. And yeah, I think a lot of the details of that tour were lost on both of us. That was a ton of information really quick. Still cool though.
While I was leaning on the wall, my eyes caught something on the back of Foucault's seat. I'd never been up front to notice that someone had carved a 'J+M' heart into the metal. I pointed at it to draw Sandra's attention, and I looked up at the nearest camera dome. "Uh, Mal? Is this what I think it is?"
"Mhmmm," came her voice from the speaker above, her voice sounding almost like a purr of satisfaction. "Jim did that!"
Sandra's eyes lit up instantly when she saw the carving. "Aww! Mal, that is so cute!"
And this Gryphoness actually giggled. "I knooow, isn't he just the best?!"
Any excuse she has to talk about Jim, any at all. Folks, I know this is probably obvious by now, but Mal straddles the line between 'love forever' and 'perpetually obsessed.' And no, that's not a judgment. I'm like that about Sandra, you know this!
But Agent Michael Foucault, Acolyte of the Dark Side? He did not care for it. Something told me he didn't like talking positively about the man who stabbed him in the chest. And that was fair, that he might be the only Talon who didn't think very highly of Jim. There is a grace period of not showing immediate forgiveness after being stabbed repeatedly in the chest, I think, even if it might've been justified at the time.
I wouldn't expect someone to forgive me for stabbing them, either. But hey, you never know.
As he worked through his pre-flight checks, he sighed from the pilot seat, upset at all the racket about the heart carving.
Now, mind: this man was not that old – he was in his early fifties at the time, and still had most of his black hair. But at that moment? Haynes was right about one thing. Foucault was an old, bothered soul. He reminded me of Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, glaring daggers at all the neighbor's kids over a cup of coffee, after having fought through a war or two.
So, my verdict of this situation?
Getting quickly back to work in a high stakes job like ours? Absolutely. Sure, I'd love that. But also... taking a minute or two of a delay, to make a bored civilian happy, so she would have a good memory to think about while I was gone, was not Mal enacting some form of cruel treatment of a man in custody. My wife's joy took priority for me, and it didn't cost us much of anything. So, according to my value set?
Sorry, old man. I get it. But we're touring.
"Yeah," I smiled meekly, putting my hand on the small of Sandra's back, watching her run her thumb over the carving on the seat. "Mal's a lovebird, that's well established."
Haynes chuckled deeply, directing us out of the cockpit to finally give Foucault some breathing room. The three of us returned to the back of the craft together.
"Yeh, you wanna know sommat else about the lovebirds," asked Haynes, as he led us back out. "See, this Osprey… it was from the Marines — V-M-M Two-Six-Six. When Mal helped Jim steal the ol' girl, she coulda picked any Osprey she wanted, really. Woulda been easiest to just nick one from a western squadron! But this one? Nah. From the east coast. Diverted special, jus' for him. Special reason, that. Very special bird."
"Yeah?" Sandra smiled up at him expectantly.
Haynes stopped at the head of the ramp and turned, half-silhouetted by the light behind him.
"Name o' the original squadron?" He bobbed his head once, puffing out his chest with pride and a stamp and a toothy whisper: "Fighting Griffins."
"That's a trick!" Sandra replied, grinning. "That's the extra mile!"
Mal sang out from the nearest speaker. "Never second best for mine, Sandra."
"The ol' hen didn't 'ave to do it," Haynes noted, saluting casually at where I presumed she was standing outside. We stepped back out into the field as Haynes continued.
"Did it for the image! Well… that, an'... the big belly cannon. This is the Osprey clawed that first black site dead, more or less. And the third." Haynes swept both hands outward. "We had to paint over the insignia since, unfortunately. Black ops, all that. Still… we remember! An' the story's about me too, somewhat. I s'pose I'm what you call a... plank owner. This craft was part of the first few jobs I ever did for Mal."
I looked at him curiously, having enough context to piece that one together from some stories at the bar. "For that Arrow 14 tanker? You were onboard that far back?"
"More or less," Haynes said thoughtfully. He hooked his thumb backwards over his shoulder at Foucault. "Since before the ol' grump, even. We stowed this bird with The Geezers at our first airstrip, out in Utah. I'm the second Talon, after Jim! Wasn't augmented then, the grump got the chip 'fore me, but… Then Jim and I, we traded aircraft in a field, up in Washington. I took this offa his claws. Heh, we sent poor Ashley for a loop that day, she's got the story. But yeh! I've been Jim's soldier ever since!"
"His?" Sandra asked, tilting her head. "Not Mal's?"
"Oh, I'm for both, for sure, sure. But I do it for him," Haynes said. "That Gryphon, he gave us a purpose! You know, I suffered quietly, being what I am inside. Think; S.A.S. operator? Thinking he's a Gryphon? Cor… they would say I was off my nut! It's a small wonder I weren't sussed out in psych!" He smiled again. "But I don't have to hide it anymore! I can just be that! Goodness, I had no idea there even were others like me!"
"Hell to be alone," Paul said, from the rear bay. "None of that mess here though."
"That's right!" Haynes replied, pointing at Paul and clasping his other hand on Paul's shoulder. "Liking Lincoln? How yeh been, Mr. Garrick?"
"Jus' fine, ya big brute," Paul smoothed out, nodding up at him. "Glad you're still alive, that's all."
"Oh, I'll never die. Have no worries 'bout me, bruv," said Haynes, with as much good humor as certainty.
"Well, that's the best part about this job, ya bird brain, we'll basically live forever!"
"Hey!" Foucault barked from the cockpit. We all looked over to see him halfway spun in his seat, glaring our way. "Tour's done. We woke Agent Duvall up from a dead sleep for this briefing, she's waiting for us in the Room. Let's go."
Haynes smirked coyly as he turned back to us. He looked down at me and Sandra both, his hand going up to block his mouth from Foucault as he whispered. "Needs his prune juice."
Paul snorted, turning to face outward at the nearby farmhouse. Sandra smiled politely. I winced a smile. I saw in my peripheral vision that Foucault had done a double-take, so he probably heard Paul's snort at least.
And there it was. It was at about that moment that I realized what the problem was. Foucault did not like Jim, and everyone else did, because everyone respected Mal, so they respected Jim by extension. So, everyone else had two choices when Foucault was around. Do they abridge the context of topics they talk about? Or do they talk about Jim anyway, because Foucault is the social outlier who won't come to the table?
But... he was still here. Doing the work. Despite his personal grievances.
I reminded Haynes softly, "Hey... at least he's helpin' out."
Haynes's smile faded slightly; he looked thoughtful for a moment. "Hm. Yeh. S'true."
I said my goodbyes to Sandra, then strapped into the passenger bench next to Paul.
Ramp up. Takeoff.
Once underway and up in the air, Foucault left the cockpit, trading places with Haynes in the back. Halfway through the cargo area, Foucault stopped, pulling two visor hard cases off of the charge rack with a pair of clacks. He then carried them to us in the crew area, putting them down on the bench across from us. He stripped his coat, so now he was just wearing his suit, sidearm, and kevlar.
Before Foucault did anything else, he sat down and gave us a searching glare, filling the moment of silence with meaning.
Just daring us to say something about earlier.
When Michael's eyes landed on me, I shrugged at him and shook my head, my eyebrows going up. I subvocalized – for Mal, to supply to him – None from me man, you know my thoughts on you. My wife wanted to see an Osprey though, I wasn't gonna say no to her for anything.
His head tilted a fraction and his eyes narrowed with curiosity, seemingly intrigued that I had decided to keep that communication mostly private. Then his eyes flicked toward Paul. Paul sent back a weak smile and shook his head.
Foucault pursed his lips as he analyzed us for any Mal-icious intent… then, he nodded, accepting the respect as genuine. His half-psychic interrogation complete, he leaned forward to hand us each one hard case. We flipped them open without a word; inside were visors, fully charged.
No words nor advisement needed. We put 'em on.
Welcome back to VR.
We found ourselves in one of Mal's shift briefing environments, a lovingly accurate representation of a well-used, well worn lounge office. A very slightly cyberpunk aesthetic, too.
Looked familiar, Mal. Might've been from Stand Alone Complex, actually.
Yeah. Like Aramaki's office. With the gold trim paneling.
And that's about the moment I realized that Mal really did steal Kusanagi's voice, on purpose, and it was practically undeniable now, this anime nerd of an ASI. I made an immediate subvocal accusation toward her to that effect, which Mal did not answer. And that non-answer made me smile, because it taught me something incredibly useful about Mal.
Rachel stood beside Foucault at the head of the VR briefing room, right by the screen.
Rachel Duvall, fully recovered from her injury at Goliath. Thin, gaunt, very dark skin. Her hair was cut shorter to military regulation, tied back in a bun. Her arms were crossed, and she was wearing full combat gear from the U.S. Army. Plate armor, mag pouches, a slung M110 marksman rifle. Some road flares on her vest. Other goodies. No headwear.
Interesting. That uniform said a lot already.
I was surprised to see a giant, charcoal-black Gryphon stood in the doorway. Haynes. Raven colored feathers and fur, with a gunmetal beak, and silver eye crests; I guess he wanted to keep his dark tone. I was finally seeing the real him, in cyberspace, and he was impressively huge, like Mal was.
"Don't mind me," he said to everyone, a grin on his beak. "I'm not on this op, I just like briefings."
"Again, he crashes our party," Paul replied, his arm braced against the back wall of the Osprey bench. "You gonna crash our dropship next? Thought you were flyin', brother."
"Heheh." Haynes waved a claw dismissively, chuckling. "You're safe, Mr. Garrick. I've done this before."
I looked around and saw Ben and Jacob seated next to Paul, visoring in from wherever they were on the road while traveling to the Portland area. Two more specialists I didn't recognize, briefly labeled Nguyen and Taylor on my UI for as long as it took for me to memorize that information.
That made six specialists total, including myself.
Mal teleported into the simulation at the exact middle between Rachel and Foucault, whisking into place through the wall screen with her blue-blaze, glass-shatter effect. She sat professionally beside them, resting on her haunches, her expression professionally neutral.
Foucault straightened out his shirt cuffs and took her arrival as his sign to begin. "Team; Welcome to Operation Archon. Let's dive right into it. Our primary objective is to pacify Northern Portland, such that the most abrasive faction dissolves before a slaughter."
He snapped his fingers.
A map appeared behind him on the screen. He turned, grabbing air with his hand and pulling it back into a fist to zoom the map out. He then flicked his hand at the room to cast each of us a personal copy of the 3D model. It appeared to be a very thorough satellite view map in 3D, with colored markings denoting the live location of every single person present, and there was a color key in the bottom right of our individual visors.
"BLUFOR is blue, that's us. Agent Duvall is here." Foucault pointed at Rachel's dot on the board. Her cursor appeared on all of our individual maps.
Rachel waved. "Hello."
There were two other blue dots spread out in the city, one labeled 'Coffee,' the other 'DeWinter.'
"Agent Kay and Agent DeWinter there," Foucault continued. "The single white node is a mission-relevant Herald, a floater in the pool from Alabaster. Yellow are blackouts. Red are the Neo-Luddites. And the green? U.S. military, all deserters at this point. ... Go on. Familiarize."
He gave us a few minutes to get the lay of the land and check out the city, and the model reacted how I expected with my hand gestures. I had been to Portland a few times before, so I analyzed the city geography from what I knew. Everyone's positioning made sense, given the logistics and resources in the area. Not too close to freeways. Hidden or masked in the abandoned city, or in spider holes beneath suburban homes.
U.S. military elements appeared to be centered around Portland International Airport, or PDX for short. I poked and scrolled, correctly intuiting the screen would work more or less the way I expected it to. I zoomed in on the red, and noticed that the main Luddite outpost was a…
"The Ludds are basing out of a hospital?" I asked.
Foucault nodded, his lips tense. "They captured it early in the war, to pilfer its medication and emergency rations. Hospitals tend to stock enough emergency provisions to continue services for thirty to sixty days, without external resupply. But once the Luddites were dug in? Their original commander decided to break the rules of engagement and hold position."
Paul grunted disappointment, then explained for me. "If civilians are present, the military would have to announce themselves before attacking, to give the workers time to clear out. R-O-E. The Ludds were doin' that crap in Salt Lake, too."
Foucault nodded, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Paul. "Hole in one, Agent Garrick. They weaponized that formula here, too. In their eyes, if they failed in this war, they were as good as dead anyway. So... what's a little war crime, on top of treason?"
"They keep any of those workers though?" I asked. "This late?"
"Yes and no," Foucault replied. "Some decided to stay, but that makes them residents, not staff. The Luddites still have a few low level clinical personnel, leftovers. There are also civilians are using the treatment rooms as domiciles; the Luddites are actively recruiting for a mass assault on PDX."
"Same for the military," Rachel said, casually hooking her thumbs on the front of her carrier rig. "PDX has some barracks. I'm here right now, 'sleeping' in my bunk." She said that last bit with a touch of jesting sarcasm, glancing at Mal. "We're looking at a headcount of 227 civilians, kids included. Doesn't include the battalion – I say battalion, but it's depleted. To about... 120 soldiers."
Foucault said, "Define their force organization, please. For the others."
"Three platoons of forty, give or take," she said to us.
The soldiers all nodded.
Foucault pointed his cursor at the hospital for us. "And here at Health Hills, 188 noncombatants, and 87 fighters for the Luddites. So... each base is effectively a small city, all scrounging for resources. However, they each know the other side has resources, so they're sharpening blades and looking for opportunities. And in the middle?"
He swept his hands from the edges of the whiteboard to the center of it, zooming every map out wide enough to see the whole of the conflict zone between both bases. We saw multiple smaller blackout communes throughout the space of five dozen city blocks.
"Collateral damage," growled Ben, crossing his arms, stroking his blond operator beard.
Foucault wheeled gently to point at him for a moment. "Yes, Agent Warren. Collateral damage, potentially. Almost a dozen smaller independent communities." He tapped the southernmost commune, with the one white dot amongst the yellow, then sighed with a grimace. "Now… to further complicate this steaming Charlie Foxtrot, we have this poor asshole. Stupid Alabaster long play, and Lewis can't back her down. Team? ... Danger."
He paused for effect, a very well designed silence as he stared intensely at us.
"Stay. Away. From this camp. Do not go near it. I'm serious. It's capstone. If you find yourselves there, and you don't have a damned good reason for it, Alabaster will be pissed. Negotiations with her will be hindered, going forward, globally. As for the two camps closest to it, also caution zones. Avoid them... but not at the expense of your mission. That means don't integrate... don't communicate... do not Bar Game them. Period."
Silence hung for a few beats longer than normal.
That was the sound of us internalizing that information deeply.
Rachel added, "On my end, I'll be sabotaging Army scouting to keep them away, mostly with motorpool shenanigans. I've also replaced their region map; there's nothing strategically significant marked at those locations anymore. Easy as pie."
Ben hummed curiously, resting his hands on his own carrier rig's shoulder straps, mirroring Rachel. "So, if Rachel's keeping the Army out, then we've gotta make sure no one else goes near it?"
"Not a soul," Foucault replied. "Alabaster's plan, her rules. It's not a request she's made, but Lewis projects that our negotiations will be aided by our convergence on this matter, post facto."
"How can we do that?" Ben asked. "Blackout scavengers come and go as they please, can we stop them too?"
Mal clicked her beak and lifted a talon. "Yes, we're accounting for that. DeWinter is roaming. Mostly... napping, actually, while waiting for a tasking. But she'll be using well timed suppressive fire to deter travel at that location."
"Lazy Wolf," Paul joked. "Waking up to pull the trigger."
Ben chuckled. "That sounds about right for her."
I smiled with the rest of them, then looked up at Rachel, nodding up at her to get her attention. "Are conditions better at the airfield than the hospital? Is the Army treating their people better?"
Rachel nodded. "Generally, yeah. Though I'd say it's only a brighter shade of bad over here. Army's got everyone on rationing. It's just a prep camp now, only the guards wear uniforms. Less military, more a nation state with a competent military. Their civilians are... workers, scavengers... survivors."
"Conscripts?" I asked.
Rachel shook her head with a little shrug. "No, actually. They aren't being forced to fight. Some just want to work the wall. Heck... the Army isn't even sure they have a numbers advantage over the hospital. If they knew though, I think they'd push right now."
Mal tilted her head in concession to that. "The Luddites in this area aren't doing their reputation any favors, unfortunately. They are aggressively pressuring independents, up to and including coercion. Their commander knows she is outnumbered, she's wary about infiltration from Celestia, she has a theoretical understanding of simulation mechanics, and she's nervous about a military assault. And so, at present, she's becoming more manipulative. Michael?"
She bobbed a claw at Foucault.
"We're throwing in with the Army," Foucault said resolutely. "At the end of the day, their commander isn't going to pressure anyone into staying. This makes the 82nd our designated winners. To ensure a relatively peaceful outcome, we need to get our foot in the door with the Luddites. Then, we need to make sure the Luddites vacate the area before a hot war kicks off." He paused, looking us all over. "Before we get into dossiers... any questions so far on the general overview?"
Given that information, and knowing that I was going to be wearing a Luddite uniform soon, it was extremely likely I was going to be a trigger man. I raised an index finger to diplomatically open the topic.
"Agent Rivas?"
"How many people are on the chopping block?"
Foucault uncrossed an arm and held a thumb thoughtfully across his chin, considering for a moment before pointing to me. "Yes, Agent Rivas, very good question. Definitely some Luddites. We have several in mind at present; ... the Luddite commander, she's not mentally well. Her executive officer too; the former commander of this base. NMP number three, a non-com. And, a trio of his idiot hooligans, who are projected to go full auto on a group of blackouts without our intervention. And finally... six fanatical elites with special ops training. And you're right to ask, Agent Rivas; you and Agent McKnight are going to be personally clipping some wings there."
Well... I did promise Sabertooth I'd be shooting any Ludds who got in my way. When she said that though, I really doubt she had 'friendly fire' in mind as the context.
Rachel nodded. "We also have two Negative Motivators over here on the Army's side. Still trying to drift them out of negative before the operation timer runs out. But if I burn my cover, I can take them out at any time."
Foucault asked, "Personality assessment?"
"They're bitter about their commander's scruples, and they're still too impulsive; not enough self-doubt to hold them back from making a power play."
Mal frowned. "Their decision matrices don't look promising, true." She raised her talon at Rachel, tracing along a pop-up holographic timeline. "Rachel, I want you to give them each a few nudges at these marked inflection points before I make a final judgment call. If they don't pan out, we can take that route. I always hope I'm wrong about edge cases like these, but I concur with your present appraisal."
Rachel nodded thankfully and turned her head toward Foucault, her silence saying she had concluded answering his question.
"Thank you, Agent Duvall," Foucault said. He directed the next statement toward us. "The commander of the Army's deserters is more nobly inclined, and so, we are ensuring he succeeds for the longest term. That means we're discussing individual VIPs next. Any more questions before we move on?"
"What's that Herald doing?" Paul asked slowly, pointing at the white dot on the southern side of the whiteboard map. "What's their angle?"
Foucault opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but he halted abruptly, turning to look at Mal for a few long seconds. She bobbed a single talon from left-to-right.
Either 'Later,' or 'Move On.'
That gesture made me nervous about that information.
Mal, you've got to know that we are gonna be even more concerned about that now.
And she did know that. Mal stole a moment to look my way and give me a sympathetic expression. Then, she swept that gaze across the room, looking at least once at everyone. Her expression said, yes, you are correct to be nervous about this information.
Absolutely everyone present caught that same meaning. The information would suck a whole lot, so she wasn't hiding it; she was saving one that for last. All of us just letting that go for now was just... us all agreeing that that was the most productive course, so we could focus on integrating the information in the mission brief.
Foucault nodded at her, and labeled that to Paul. "We'll go over Alabaster toward the end of the group briefing, Agent Garrick. Lewis, note it."
He turned around to look at Mal when he didn't hear any movement from her.
Mal hadn't moved; her expression stayed neutral, fixed passively on Foucault.
He tsked, then bobbed his head an inch. "Please."
Mal bobbed her head sideways in a curving turn, picking up a marker. She spelled the bullet point out in very neat, highly legible block writing on the board:
Celestia agent – purpose.
"Anyone else?" Foucault asked, turning away from the board. He pointed at the board, when no one replied. "Next; Highest Value Target. International fugitive, priority number one on Alabaster's Most Wanted. Not a joke, don't laugh."
The map disappeared. In its stead – and on each of our desk holographics – we saw a full dossier and biography of the Neo-Luddite commander.
The dossier contained a photograph of a US Army officer. Female, fifties, smiling warmly, wearing her Class A dress green uniform, with an American flag behind her. She had silver-blonde hair, a sharp face full of smile lines, and crystal blue eyes. The photo made her look like a very pleasant person.
Mal stepped forward.
"Colonel Sarah Jane Kaczmarek," Mal began, "is presently in command of the Neo-Luddite forces at Health Hills Medical Center. Age, fifty-seven. Former member of the U.S. First Information Operations Command, Second Battalion. Area of Concentration is 26-Bravo, Information Systems Engineer. Specifically, she was a Red Team trainer for strategic and tactical information warfare specialists, and she is the last of an extinct breed. All of that is to say: Sarah Kaczmarek is highly intelligent, and she understands AI quite well for a human being. In fact, for a time, she was the U.S. Army's premiere expert on the topic."
Every specialist leaned forward.
"What the hell?" Ben breathed.
"In 2011," Mal explained, "long before Equestria Online was even in development, Kaczmarek worked for an AI task force under the Department of Defense. One of her duties was to analyze University of Helsinki's AI research team, Hanna Kuusinen's work included. In fact, Kaczmarek effectively memorized General Word Reference Intelligence Systems, the foundational paper in Celestia's development... also formative in my development."
Mal's gaze swept the room slowly, to let that sink in. She lifted a claw at the screen again.
"Later, Kaczmarek was assigned to write her own white paper to analyze Loki, the AI from The Fall of Asgard. You may remember this as the original AI-driven video game by Hofvarpnir. There, Kaczmarek abstracted her own theories as to Loki's underlying programming, and she even ran strategic drills against Loki in the game's open beta. Her original research paved the way for U.S. infosec upgrades prior to Celestia coming online. She also devised the Oracle Control systems later employed by Arrow 14, although they were unable to acquire her personally."
Paul squinted as he scrolled lower on her dossier. I could see Kaczmarek's university transcripts on his screen as he asked his question.
Paul asked, "But, Celestia usually grabs these AI researchers early, right? With a pedigree like this… how'd she fall through? How come we never found her?"
"Well," Mal said, raising a claw and wing with a shrug. "She knew Equestria Online was in development, and attempted going through proper channels to sabotage it, but the U.S. government declined her efforts on the grounds of international diplomacy. They weren't going to damage their relations with Finland and Germany over a video game, and Hanna's disappearance would have caused an international uproar."
Paul whistled. "I bet Kaczmarek feels cheated. Held back from saving the world."
Foucault frowned fractionally.
"Indeed," Mal continued. "Following this political failure, Kaczmarek went to ground. She rightly feared that she would be a high priority target should Hanna succeed in developing a general optimizer, and she had no way of knowing whether Hanna's optimizer would even consider negotiating with her. To avoid this, she fell completely off the grid in a time when that was still barely possible. Illegally crossed the Canadian border, slummed around in the woods with a rifle, and kept her head down. Made herself a non-threat."
"The whole six years?" I asked. "Seven? Living in the mountains by herself?"
That indicated extreme physical fortitude. Not just a computer scientist, then. She was a real, practicing soldier.
"Seven." Mal nodded. "Early on, she took odd jobs chopping wood or cleaning rural homes, so she wouldn't freeze in the winter. Glimmers of rural activity until she established herself. Not one word to her family once she left, she knew they'd be leveraged to find her. She then moved sparingly, to avoid falling into anyone's social window."
Foucault sighed. "And we know this because enough of the rural population in Canada has uploaded by now, so we now have an accurate track of her movements during that time. Ironic, isn't it? Upload technology outpaced her in the woods."
"We found her hideout four months ago," Mal continued. "Ran out of supplies. With hunting and farming drying out as credible survival strategies, she didn't have a choice. She knows there's nothing that can be done to stop the fall of Terra, and her psych profile strongly suggests she suffers guilt for not contributing to a solution sooner. Penance, self-flagellation, call it whatever you please… but she blames herself for the Transition. Moreover, she knows her appearance is causing notable entropy, which modifies all of our regional plans."
"Does she somehow think she can win?" Jacob asked.
"No, Jacob," Mal replied, disappointment in her tone. "She knows she can't."
"But," I muttered. "She's trying to recruit anyway? This late?"
Mal nodded and leveled a claw at me. "Yes. Mike. What she's doing here is the antithesis to our work. She has developed a comprehensive recruitment strategy to factor for Celestia's interlocks, based around Celestia's inability to employ direct forms of homicide. She leveraged her first days at this base exceedingly well, mostly through interviews with their leadership. This woman is paranoid, intelligent, savvy, strategically brilliant. But… with her current mental state? I see no way forward yet to save the majority of her people without killing her."
I was trying to consider how that might work. I looked back up at Mal. "Are we, uh… just, walking up to her and shooting her then, Mal?"
"No," Mal replied, tacking a set of talons on the ground once. "We need to inject more nuance in order to compose a better ending here, for the whole tribe. They need something to believe in first."
"Specialist required, then?" I asked. I leaned forward, bracing an elbow across my knee and covering my mouth in thought. I only asked because I was curious as to why they weren't just sending an aug in.
Foucault shifted his stance slightly, nodding. "Excessive casualties if we simply snipe her; the cause of a death is often more sociologically affective than the death itself. They are being very careful with security, though. Metal detection wand on induct, strip you naked, look for scars. Kaczmarek wrote the playbook on AI infosec, and she's working from it." And then he added, in a droll tone, looking at Mal. "Honestly? I wish I could have put this one on my payroll."
Mal's smiled at him with an apologetic rise of her eyecrests, and she bumped his shoulder gently with the bottom of her fist.
"Don't—" Foucault threw Mal a sharp glance, raising a finger at her as he took a step away.
He continued as if she hadn't done that. "To answer your question, Agent Rivas: Kaczmarek understands that augmentation may exist, or drones might be used to scan the environment. Because of this, she seldom vacates an electromagnetically hardened area of the hospital. Full retooling of the radiology department. Tolerates no communication with new recruits. Utilizes anechoic shielding to reduce noise."
Jacob raised his hand.
Foucault gestured at him. "Agent Watanabe?"
"Is she is not interested in going to Seattle? Can we drift her into that concept, somehow?"
Foucault shook his head somberly. "Good questions, Agent; no, to both counts. Kaczmarek doesn't believe for a second that the infrastructure is dead out there. Further, we think she's figured out Celestia's assassination method for H-V-Ts, as she's built her command hierarchy around deterring long form, reflexive control semantics. Hired paranoid special ops guys as her bodyguards. They're fanatical; they understand information transfer; and they are fully informed about the true purpose of this place, as far as we can tell."
Mal nodded. "All correct, which leads us to the most important warning. Everyone: Integration with the Ravens will expose you to a highly caustic, well reasoned ideology. And so, for your safety, bear this in mind:
"Sarah Kaczmarek has no false illusions about the stakes. Her recruiters will tell you that this fight is about survival, protection, or personal safety. A lie, based on their conduct in the field. Worse, her information relay measures have made her office a predictive dead zone." Mal's eyes swept to each of us, ending with me. "This means I cannot protect any of you in Radiology, nor can I accurately model for Kaczmarek's specific intent. So, if you find yourself brought inside that space, I do not expect you to abide by any standard whatsoever beyond securing your own survival. Your own lives take top priority over all other objectives, you are each too valuable to lose. Am I understood?"
"Understood," came the voices of the soldiers.
"Got it," I said, almost concurrently with everyone else.
"Okay," Foucault said, pointing at the screen with his thumb again. It shifted to show a new bio. "Next, the commander of the deserters at PDX. One Colonel Anthony Jennings."
HIs bio popped up at my desk:
Male, Colonel. Fifty-nine. The profile showed a service portrait of Jennings wearing his Class A uniform, neutral expression. Pacific Islander, black hair, balding, wearing thin-framed silver glasses. Rack of ribbons on him, and a few medals.
"This one's story is simpler," Foucault explained, "because he's not mentally unwell. Straight shooter. Colonel out of the 505th Infantry, of the 82nd Airborne. Jennings was a Captain during Hurricane Katrina, his unit's claim to fame. Efficient relief work. Evacuating the wounded, arresting looters, locking down civil infrastructure. That's that medal right there, blue-and-purple one. Very formative moment for this man." Foucault's gaze swept the briefing room. "His most valuable attribute? He understands how best to live peacefully in a crisis zone, so... we're backing this horse, so to speak."
"Specifically," Mal extrapolated, "Colonel Jennings is proving himself noble to the remaining blackout communities. They have been exercising fair trade using their foodstuffs, and they have been loaning out technicians to blackout camps to assist with farming and construction projects. No matter what, we want to ingratiate, preserve, and propagate that value set. Better still? If we succeed here and can prevent this battle from occurring? I can introduce myself to Jennings immediately after he uploads, which gives us access to the rest of the PDX survivors. I have negotiated this much from Celestia."
"So," Foucault said to Rachel. "Keep him alive, Agent Duvall. But similarly, keep him cogent, and on-task. In order for us to succeed, we need to prevent the Luddites from attacking any blackout community he is presently in communication with; if this happens, this will enrage him. But, more importantly, we also need to prevent him from trying to open diplomacy with Kaczmarek prior to that."
"Why is that?" Rachel asked, tilting her head.
Mal raised a claw. "In 2012, anyone ranked Lieutenant Colonel and above received a security briefing regarding Loki. This would give Kaczmarek enough credibility to get her foot in the door with Jennings, ideologically, if they were to communicate. If Jennings is given a full explanation of Celestia's mechanics, as Kaczmarek understands them? Jennings will be likely be infected by her ideology, and then they would pool resources."
That gave me a chill. This woman must have been intensely persuasive. "Holy shit."
Rachel's brow furrowed, clearly on the same page as I was. She shook her head in confusion. "From a guy like this? A crusader?"
"Based on her security measures, Kaczmarek has an accurate concept of Celestia's interlocks," Mal replied nodding. "Based on her education, I have to imagine she can easily relate one's personal experiences to reveal how they have been affected by Celestia's reflexive conditioning. Rachel, when you make your attempt to dissuade Jennings and his peace envoy… please use extreme caution. If you come across too strong with your suggestion, he may dig in his heels on the matter."
Rachel nodded seriously, confirming receipt of the point. "Yes ma'am. I take it we can't negotiate pre-upload contact with Jennings either?"
Mal shook her head, frowning too. "No, unfortunately. Celestia will not budge, despite my best efforts. She has... certain plans for Portland. Which leads me to my next point, about this Herald now present in the city."
And here we were.
Mal turned to the whiteboard, her talons clacking on it before claw-scraping away the dossier onscreen with a satisfying nails-on-plastic glide. Then, Mal audibly swept again, populating the board with a simple USGS topology map of northern Portland. Dots appeared, and the faction color coding returned, showing yellow shaded regions and borders of influence between each blackout camp.
"This is a replay of the Herald's movements from yesterday."
The white dot disappeared. The replay showed a white dot traveling north along the I-5 freeway from California. When it reached Portland, it turned off the freeway, taking a circuitous route into the conflict zone.
"He is not aware of what his true objective is," Mal said. "He believes he is there to convince just this single camp to vacate, but he has not been informed of the greater conflict up north. He avoided all other people at Celestia's direction, then he merged into this specific community." She repeatedly tapped the southern-most cluster of yellow, and turned to look at us sharply. "Ask yourselves why."
Traveling alone. From California. My gut turned over at the implication.
The 'room' went completely silent.
I could hear the Osprey's rotors through the noise cancellation of my visor's earmuffs. That reminded me of physical space, where I desperately wanted to return all of a sudden. In VR, I looked behind me at Gryphon Haynes in the briefing room doorway, making eye contact with him.
I couldn't keep the alerted concern off my face when I looked at him.
The Gryphon's eyes shifted, turning from Mal to me. At the look on my face, Haynes sighed quietly as his eyes creased tightly around the edges. He wasn't frowning. He looked… not just sad for me, but worse than that. Pitying. His eyes trailed downward shamefully. He couldn't bear to even look at me. He knew the answer would hurt me a lot, and he didn't want to see my reaction to it.
And his ears? They had that... flat, sideways affect Buzzsaw would get, when he was trying to comfort me or Sandra.
Virus.
This poor Herald.
I took in a huge breath to still the angry emotion in my chest. I faced forward. I reached up to my head. I pulled my visor clean off, dropped it in my lap, and leaned my head back to look at the wiring conduits up in the ceiling.
Friggin' God damned fuckin' robot…
Have you ever… you ever get so… angry, that you don't know whether you want to cry, or scream in rage? That's… that's how I felt, right then. I felt helpless to stop something horrible that hadn't happened yet. I breathed really slow, trying to calm myself. I went on for about half a minute like that. My crying rage felt right at home in that dark, dull red military lighting.
When my eyes fell down from the ceiling, I noticed Foucault was looking right at me.
He was leaned sideways into his harness a little, his head tilted slightly. That was an odd thing, to see an empathetic gesture out of him. Last thing I expected. And he'd deny it if anyone ever asked him, but I could see some of that same forlorn sadness Haynes had, in just the barest hint of micro-expression. His head was tilted almost imperceptibly, a little further.
God, is he feeling this too? Inside?
He's human like me. Killer bastard or not… Mal was right, he couldn't want this either.
I swallowed, just holding his gaze. I shook my head too. "I…" I winced, averting. I couldn't look at him for too long. It felt unnatural to see him feeling like that. I flicked my eyes up again.
"Least it's not lethal," he mouthed, into that glance. I couldn't hear his tone over the engine, but I could read the bleakness in his face, indicating he wasn't assuaged by that any more than I was.
I took a shuddering breath, and my face turned into an enraged scowl. "I don't fucking care."
Foucault nodded thrice. Frowning overtly.
Paul was still in his visor looking to his right toward Mal, and I had been seated behind the others, so they must have missed me taking my visor off. Intuition told me to look left at the cockpit. Haynes was there now too, standing in the threshold in his power armor, his big hand gripping the frame.
"You good, Mike?" he asked, his voice raised loud over the rotors.
Eyes wide. Same expression as before. On the edge of heartbreak over my reaction.
Gryphons don't do anything small, y'know?
Foucault glanced over at him, then back at me. His lips tensed, and his face fell back into its practiced neutral intensity. He flicked his eyes down at my visor, inviting me back in.
I took one more long, deep breath, then nodded back over at Haynes. "Yeah, I'm good, Marcus. Just needed a minute." Haynes lingered with an 'are you sure?' look on his face. I nodded back. He reluctantly turned, climbing back into the cockpit. Foucault bobbed his hand at me in a polite 'relax' gesture. Then he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and took a deep breath of his own.
On went my visor again.
I looked around. Everyone else inside the briefing room looked quietly pissed at the information too, all eyes on Mal.
Upon re-entering VR, I only caught a couple of words of what Mal had been saying. Foucault had been facing away, hand on his ear; he turned 180 degrees toward everyone. When he returned to face front, he extrapolated off of whatever Mal had just said, continuing her explanation to the others.
Mal looked directly at me with her golden eyes, and Foucault's voice attenuated downward in volume. Mal's beak didn't move as she filled me in on what I had missed. The slight reverb indicated interpersonal communication.
'The first camp is already infected, no symptoms yet,' she said with the softness of silk as she caught me up. 'They have no reason to scavenge at present, too well fed. But once they do show symptoms, a few will wander into a neighboring camp just in time to infect the rest, looking for medications, not understanding the full risks.'
I nodded forward just an inch, verifying I understood.
Foucault's voice returned to its normal volume again, drawing my gaze. His eyes lingered upon each of us as he spoke.
His voice sent the same burning rage I was feeling inside.
"When this infection... hits either PDX, or Health Hills... the big fish will begin to kill each other, desperate for medication, and the camps in between will suffer. Their civilians will scatter in the aftermath, and many will upload, sure. But more will die than necessary, in a desperate brush fire war. Alabaster's introduction of this virus is thus intended to act as our timer for this operation. We have four weeks, people, to shave down those casualties, before containment breaks."
Then, his upper lip twitched into a severe scowl.
"Alabaster," he growled, "is forcing us to rush this, as she always does. With the introduction of this virus, she is wagering that we cannot save enough lives, in her 'desired timeframe,' to make our efforts worth something." He bobbed an upturned index finger. "We… are going… to prove her wrong."
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Freaking hell, that'll be a mess...
HEAD-ON, APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE FOREHEAD!
HEAD-ON, APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE FOREHEAD!
HEAD-ON....
Clean up after you've been there a bit. Build trust and all that.
Jeez, I hope he hasn't gone bald-
AND THAT'S THE BOTTOM LINE, BECAUSE STONE COLD SAID SO! GIMMIE A HELL YEAH!
Oh no, now you've got Peter singing...
Mike...did Mal ever tell you the full truth, in detail? Did she ever explain what she did to him? I have a strange feeling you're gonna tell us you did near the end of your story, or you just never got around to pondering over the final details of "Evil Mike's" situation.
Now, I know you're questioning your boundaries now, like when you did when that one guy tried to shoot you & Rob- but you've had plenty of time to figure out where that line is.
There are things I would never wish upon my worst enemy; and there are fates FAR worse than death.
I wonder if she snuffed him out like Gabriel with his trumpet to the sinners in Hell, or if he's spending his Eternity absolving for his sins.
CelestAI is NOT "Good", and Mal is better...but that doesn't mean "Good". Still an atheist here.
There's that empathy extended. Hope you still have it by the end.
One hand, nice pun. On the other, he wanted to see what was being dumped via Mal was the same as what he was picking up. No need to throw stones.
Well...shit.
Oh...oh shit, you weren't kidding about that "most wanted" part, damn.
Cheater, CelestAI.
He has good reason to be warry of her "touch".
And putting a bomb in Mal's lap saying "Here. Prove me wrong, or else!"
If you ever let it out, it feels so good...too good for comfort.
He never wanted CelestAI to win. This is just more of Her meddling.
...good to see some Sympathy For The Devil from you. Yay, empathy!
Rather go down against CelestAI than do nothing.
Aye aye, cap'n.
Another solid chapter. Gonna be a lot of careful moving around in enemy territory soon. Not too long, and well paced as usual.
-and I'm sorry, but did I miss the full explanation on Foucault's situation? Because I know I would really not want to get augmented after THAT. Losing a piece of personal freedom like that....
Celestia’s skills at doublethinking her way around her interlocks are simultaneously impressive and frustratingly insufficient. But then, that’s why she had Mal happen in the first place.
In any case, the stakes are high indeed, especially with a predictive blackout zone involved. Looming forward to seeing how the mission unfolds.