Mission Log 006 - Loyalty Beyond Death (1)
Another workday. I've never hated working days. The mere fact of doing something feels like a blessing in itself. I don't hate rest, either. Sometimes I crave a deep break, but even that sensation probably exists because workdays are there to contrast it. Having absolutely nothing to do? That would be pure horror. That's Bellwether through and through. Diligence, sincerity, finding meaning in the grind—those are the virtues of a Bellwether employee. Am I just a racehorse terrified of stopping, afraid I won't start again? No. Being glad for a Friday shift is meaningful enough.
I rise from the bunk bed in the on-call room, stretch lightly, and step out into the office. Yoon's already in, dressed in a long coat to keep the smog off her skin. The hem's damp, so it's raining. Outside the window, thick rain pours endlessly. Wind rattles the panes. At least from here, the view beats the employee dorms. The usual acrid smog stench is replaced by a wet, earthy one today.
"On a day like this, crashing in the back office feels like pure bliss. How was your day off? Looks like you took a personal gig... and stirred up some major trouble."
"Ah, haha... Bellwether slapped a gag order on it, but it still leaked, huh?"
Yoon points at me with her signature milky-white prosthetic arm. It's always struck me as more aesthetic than practical—porcelain-smooth and beautiful.
"Far as I know, you're the only merc who could drop a Hollow Creek heresy inquisitor barehanded. Oh, and heads up—no ops on the schedule today."
A day without work. Workdays need no reason, but days off always do. I hope it's not the reason I think, but my expectations crumble.
"Eve and Kay are both out. Bola's already on a personal contract, and Enzo's just handling accounting before heading home. Got anything lined up yourself?"
I have no clue why Kay's absent, but I can guess at Eve's. Did I stress her out too much? Was the head pat the problem? No idea. I quicken my reply to hide my grimace.
"Nah, no. The gag order kept my name and face from spreading too far. As for work... at least no need to clear fire escape routes."
"Of course. Thing is, another merc agency called about borrowing staff—perfect timing with this weather. Thought you might learn something from a more structured outfit, so I held off deciding till I could ask you."
Yakyeong feels structured enough to me, but with seven people—eight including Nadia—it's small-scale, geared more toward assassinations and sweeps than general security. A chance to learn from others? Better than holing up in VR all day in this downpour. Still, better hear details.
"Tell me the job, and I'll decide. Which company, too—appreciate it."
Yoon flashes a confident smile, rare but not as rare as Eve's. Where Eve's smiles come when she's relaxed, Yoon's signal peak assurance. Opposite vibes, somehow.
"Yakyeong's #46 in Bellwether's public bid rankings, right? The one's requesting you is #1. Ron Star Rangers—the kind of outfit rumored to go straight under Bellwether soon. Company intro page... here. Take a look."
I take the tablet she hands over. Logo's a sheriff's badge with a big star. Ron Star... not Texas, LA. The office isn't some building—it's a skyscraper. First merc agency I've seen owning a whole tower. Nearly two hundred contractors, four times that in staff. No wonder bids vanish fast at auction start—they're scooping them all. Bellwether-level means they train rookies, too. Way more systematic than Yakyeong, practically a Bellwether security wing. I hand the tablet back, a bit intrigued.
"Yeah, shadowing for a day sounds educational. What's the gig?"
"Apparently, rain woke a dormant Homeland Security drone in the LA wasteland—a coastal defender model left offline so long it was abandoned. But if the AI's alive? Big problem. Ron Star Rangers is investigating and dismantling."
Coastal defender drone. From that war. No euphemisms—just the war. No one dares qualify it. Can't. Built mid-war, stationed in LA coastal wastes, it's a veteran AI trained repelling invaders dozens, hundreds of times. And it's a war machine. The kind that makes corporate skirmishes look like playground fights—that war's weapons did.
I ponder briefly. "Why Ron Star Rangers, not Bellwether or Pitts & Morrison? Even a big agency lacks specialists compared to branches."
Yoon wags a finger—spot on.
"Both are supporting. Issue is federal involvement—Bellwether or Pitts & Morrison direct looks off. So Ron Star lends the name, but experts on that drone converge for real."
Bellwether denies the state. States lack state reason, can't run efficiently—hence corporate self-rule via purchase. Even federal collab risks image. But since feds built the drone, cooperating's efficient. Bellwether picks peak efficiency: cooperate without looking like it.
That scale muddies my role. Secret weapon at Yakyeong, but not here.
"Drone follows that war's ID protocols. No one's registering that way now, but anything emitting detectable signals? All hostiles to it. Not you, though. Walking radio silence. And way more precise than a pure human."
They need top off-liner efficiency. Among serial-less Posthuman IVs, I'm easiest to snag. I've got a part. With Bellwether, even.
Now I see the "big fish" Yoon teased. I nod lightly.
"Cameras disabled?"
"Bad viz like today? Uses leg sensors only. Your job: approach, check status. Pay's five, six times standard contract. Big company, big scene, fat paycheck."
And face that war machine up close. I swallow that, nod. My skin absorbs radio, shock too. Silent approach—no emissions, sound, vibration. Spot-on choice. Good experience. If nothing goes wrong.
"I'll do it. Bellwether and Pitts & Morrison together? Nothing unsolved. Nationalists hate it, though."
"Perfect. Ron Star's sending a car. Not the type to make you trek in this."
#1 not arrogant? Makes sense if Bellwether integration looms.
Yoon taps her ear, relays acceptance. Five minutes of silence, then brakes through rain, footsteps on stairs. Auto-door slides; man in sealed reinforced suit enters. Desert camo. Beige-brown-black-gray mix, matching sheriff badge. Proud of the name. Silent servos whir as he tips an imaginary hat brim.
"Morning, partner. Ron Star Rangers heavy ops specialist, Chief Michael Glenn... your chauffeur today. Can you believe it, Suyeon? I'm the grunt."
Yoon replies cool and clipped; Michael doesn't mind, nods amiably.
"Bringing Arthur nets you a junior. Ops consent done—contract?"
I sign the paper first; Yoon countersigns. Rental approved. Ponchos on, dash stairs and sidewalk into Ron Star van. Michael takes the wheel.
"Hell of a storm. Junkie streets already washed a few away."
Even sprinting poncho-clad, face and pant cuffs soak. Wipers barely cut rain; road's a blur.
"Days like this sweep twenty at a time, and you say it like it's normal, Michael."
Augmented road guide overlays windshield; van rolls. Roads are lines in AR mostly, but folks drive fine. Short drive to underground garage—no flooding, good drainage. Can't even glimpse Ron Star tower. Ditch ponchos, enter HQ, elevator up. Long ride to penthouse, doors open—soundproof barrier slides too.
Familiar face: Shepherd One. Suited up fully. Beside him, Pitts & Morrison guy in lobster—no neck-head divide. And between heavies, a uniformed woman. Blonde-brown updo, gaunt cheeks, hysterical eyes. Nationalist.
Big trouble vibe hits then. Glass when open, doors opaque on close—total seal.
Michael slaps my shoulder. "Told ya—the best off-liner in the city. Close eyes, scan radio only. See how the drone views him."
Off-liner performance is body specs. Bellwether Posthuman IV's peak augment; only me with zero add-ons. No emissions, absorbs radio too. To them, I'm void.
Uniform snaps sharply. "Drone AI ain't dumb. Won't see you approaching, Arthur Murphy, but contact? It'll detect the unseen. Just feeding it a sacrifice. Be straight: scouting dismantle for reverse-engineering?"
House of cards. Experts gathered, motives scattered.
Shepherd One replies. "Not scouting dismantle? Only snipe. Miss once, tell me what happens."
She sighs, slams table fist—irritated—activates holo-projector. Six-legged drone hologram rises. Desert camo like Michael's, rugged legs, humanoid torso, gun-arms sans head/hands. Shoulder railgun chills just looking.
Armament seems that—visually.
"Expands scan, finds us safe, unleashes basic 25mm AP rounds. Lobster shells? Shredded. Bellwether might barely tank penetration, but blast guts internals."
Not a gun barrel—25mm's a cannon to normals. We call it that.
She taps railgun holo. "No sniper details. No cover works—disperse to delay targeting."
Short version: I approach, check if tin can or threat. Far from "approach and status for pay."
"But off-liner risk gets status easy. Master key access. Approach, simple."
Zooms to neck slot—chip/card reader. Pulls ancient Homeland Security card from uniform.
"War-era emergency halt code. Insert: three reactions. Glitch ignore, fried brain ignore... or self-diagnostic. Diagnostic? No dismantle chance. Got it?"
Her hysteria: shoving innocent to war drone death. Decent nationalist.
Lobster suit speaks—Pitts & Morrison security chief, probably. "Diagnostic? Signal, prone. We rail-snipe. Shepherd and I, dual fire."
Bellwether crafts perfect guns. Pitts & Morrison: raw power. Ergonomic killers vs. wrist-breakers that decap heavies. Overkill mostly, sometimes not. That railgun beat "what's it for?"
Uniform approaches, cig-stale aura. Offers card.
"I... that war vet shoving this on some kid? Infuriating. Still, you're top pick, Arthur. You in?"
Not decent nationalist—good person. So I take the card gladly. Heaviest light plastic I've held. Money, rep reasons. Bellwether/Pitts intro. No mushy feels.
"Peak efficiency, minimal variables? Gladly."
Clean answer; she eyes me like nationalists view young Bellwether hires. Child soldier gaze.