Mission Log 006 - Loyalty Beyond Death (2)
"Don't look at me with that expression. When someone from Bellwether's security training university talks about efficiency, it means everything—success rates, my survival rate, all of it combined."
Smiling does no good. She lights another cigarette, shakes her head. Only a third of my words got through.
"The U.S. government calls that attitude techno-authoritarianism. Just like how Bellwether labels democracy as nanny-statism. Do you have family?"
"The company I work for is all I have. Not like the nationalists worry about—company over family or anything. Literally."
She looks like she wants to yell at Shepherd One to come see Bellwether's cities for himself, but she holds back. She bows her head briefly, turns away, exhales smoke.
"That was unnecessary. Sorry. Let's proceed. If we leave it, it'll reach the city for real—and that's dangerous."
Talking about parents to returnees isn't rude. Whether it's buyer's remorse or some other reason. No memories means no trauma.
She returns to the hologram screen, pulls up a wasteland map. Wasteland is wasteland. Nothing there. Just charred black scars and dust.
"We'll split into three vehicles. Lead vehicle from Bellwether, tail from Pitts & Morrison. Mr. Arthur, you'll escort in the middle with our Homeland Security vehicle. Spread out wide. Security chiefs from each company take railgun rifles and secure sniper points. Then... simple. Horrifying, but simple. Mr. Arthur walks up and inserts the card."
Russian roulette. Gun to the head, spin the cylinder, pull the trigger. Don't die, that's it. Simple. But when it's real, horrifying. No need for a briefing.
The heavy air carries cigarette smoke—less choking than the smog outside. I watch quietly as they talk. Shepherd One gives detailed orders to the gathered assault teams, but Pitts & Morrison's Blue Lobsters outgun those drones in firepower. Rules of engagement: weapons free. No need for words. Mutual trust.
Bellwether security follows plans precisely, adapts to variables on the fly. That's the trust. Lobsters trust individual skills. Not like my Bellwether days, seeing Pitts & Morrison as cannon fodder. Trust wears many faces.
I resist the urge to take notes.
The two security teams wrap their brief meeting and head to the Ron Star Rangers office underground garage. Not armored vans—proper APCs. All Bellwether gear. Better protection than bulletproof vans, but useless here. That drone could crack them like fortune cookies.
Most inside wear no aug suits. Only four at the corners don compact sealed aug suits—smaller than Bellwether or Pitts & Morrison models. Even theirs show near-pure human faces on visors. Nationalists don't embrace mods that much. Hidden, probably.
One agent in a sealed suit places a hand on the visor and reports. I've got a new codename.
"Casper aboard. Will shadow lead vehicle on departure."
Ah, right. Little ghost invisible to drone eyes. No laugh, but tension eases as the APC rolls out. Silence follows.
The woman ahead chews tobacco—no smoking inside. That's addiction. In this situation, no better stabilizer comes to mind. For calm vitals—no pinging drone audio sensors—I ask.
"Does that drone have a callsign or codename? Can't communicate, but... better than 'wartime relic abandoned in the desert.'"
An aug-suited agent glances my way, reads it as tension relief—not chit-chat.
"Usually called Chance, they say. Single directive: annihilate intruders. Rigid, but vets who served with it called it the best wingmate. Trivial docs we sidelined, but you're curious?"
I nod lightly. Post-self-check, to boost survival odds, know the AI driving it. One order: eliminate intruders.
"Chance earned a Medal of Honor. When the homeland breached, it stayed solo, foiling enemy LA conquest attempts while evacuating civilians east."
War talk gets mumbled. No nations, units, soldiers—just 'enemy.' Allies are allies, that war is that war. Everyone wants to forget fast. Thankfully, mostly forgotten now. That's why Chance woke up.
"Post-war, Bellwether bought out LA, negotiations dragged, cleanup stalled. Left abandoned. They deemed it non-functional. But look—moves in the rain."
To me, that's the weird part. Bellwether tolerating variables? They eliminate them, prefer control. Can't grasp it.
Site reached. APC doors open. Rain pours—no sign of Chance. Barefoot to muffle steps, I drop out. Pouring rain, gale winds—Posthuman IV or bust to stand. Normal rain here.
Aug-suited agents follow, spreading wide. Shepherd One and Blue Lobster grab railgun sniper rifles, secure points. Plan proceeds smoothly.
One nationalist agent with me salutes lightly, points ahead through rain.
"Straight that way! Posthuman IV hearing'll pick up Chance's drive noise!"
Bellwether salute back, trek the wasteland. Parched ground sheds rain like dust, no absorption. Rain changes nothing. War's scars don't fade, can't erase.
No comms. No cheers. Just advance. But they're watching. Empty space, no signal detection.
After a trek, rattling starts. Leg tremor. One of Chance's six. Through downpour, small silhouette. No—huge. Silent steps, splashing none, it grows to hologram match.
Traces around: foot holes. Not many. Distant crater—crawled from there. Approach crouched, dead-spider Chance, silent. Neck groove, insert plastic card.
Fourth possibility I missed. Chance speaks. No movement, voice only. Uncalculated.
> Self-check unnecessary. I am operating normally. Combat ready. Detection: civilian ID impossible. Camera offline. Vibration detect: impossible. No card insertion? Low probability. Masterkey format requires human hand. Inference: concealed entity present. Delete forced activation code.
Self-check meant safe takedown. Now combat-ready. No hand signals. Stall. Smart enough? Inference means conversational model. That "operating normally" was dialogue mode.
Chance intones emotionlessly. Eerily so. Radiation-dust war voice.
> Approach frontal sector and identify. Failure will classify as joint forces operative. Engage. This is the sole and final warning.
Obey. Can't see me. Face front-diagonal.
"Good morning, Chance. Weather sucks, but day's not bad. Right? What's your op purpose?"
> Human voice detected. Position unlocatable. Database confirms no joint forces unit with such stealth. You are not joint forces. My purpose: destroy joint forces attempting LA infiltration. Identify.
Really that dangerous? Didn't strike on sight—unknown, stealthed me. Thinks what not to kill. Joint forces? War enemies. Focus now: neutralize briefly.
Sigh. Purpose: block LA entrants. I'm suspect—weapons hot. Railgun snipers? Definite foes.
Walk opposite diagonal. Voices my old spot—I moved.
"Arthur Murphy, Yakyeong Mercenary Agency rank-and-file. Weird, huh? Mission end-time, Chance?"
> No such company classification: Yakyeong Mercenary Agency. Mission end: war's end. State current time, interloper.
Calls me interloper, answers politely. Otherwise, thinks fine. Thinkable = convincible.
Deep breath.
"Second Friday, November 2097. Need more specifics?"
> False. Because... I did not cease operations. All drones programmed to halt at war's end.
Operating = war ongoing. Explains vigilance, 'joint forces' labels. Deep breath. Convince it's 2097. Logic, not pleas.
Idea strikes.
"LA average annual rainfall, Chance?"
> ~12 inches annually. Irrelevant...
"No. Relevant. This downpour—how much?"
Chance freezes, silent. Briefly.
> Infer at least 12+ inches. No record of such deluge. Anomalous. Government DB: LA weather entries gone. Inference: relocated outside LA. Coord receive: negative. Confirmed: LA metro area.
"What does that mean?"
Nationalists must gawk at data flood from abandoned LA drone. Salt in wound, keep going.
> Suggests time passed where standard LA climate no longer applies. Restate date.
Politer now. War-end possibility gladdens emotionless AI?
"Second Friday, November 2097. Doubts left?"
> Forced activation code received. Military transmitters only—from LA bases. Recheck: no base locations. Weapons disarm. Deem psyop.
Bases gone—Bellwether razed them post-buyout. Signal now, snipers destroy. But disarmed—time bought. No rearm, endless.
Slowly: " Chance, your op purpose?"
> Destroy joint forces infiltrating LA.
"Why?"
Why-capable AI—ask gladly. Silence.
> Civilians can't resist joint forces arms efficiently. Their weapons shred human bodies. Thus... I destroy inbound joint forces to protect civilians. Identify.
"Arthur Murphy, Yakyeong Mercenary Agency rank-and-file. Assume: long post-war, huge LA changes, old ID systems obsolete. You return—what happens? Worst case."
Long silence. Then:
> May deem unregistered civilians as joint forces occupation, destroy them. Given armament...
"No. Skip body count—we know. From our talk, why am I conversing?"
No silence.
> To protect LA civilians. Inference: aligned objectives.