Drone Intel: Desertions and the Airdrop Shock
Drone Report - Southern body test completed successfully. Every part of the body was functioning normally.
> Safety lock activation complete. You can relax now. No superhuman strength will kick in from unconscious movements.
Wouldn't that be a drawback in real combat? Reflexive moves can save your life sometimes. I opened the neural comm switch and thought it to her. I was getting used to handling this virtual radio bit by bit.
Sudden ambush—your instinctive punch lands clean, or you shove them away hard.
> For someone with enhanced muscles but ordinary nerves, sure. But you now? No gap between reflexive and conscious action. It's a meaningless flaw.
Sure enough, ever since the acceleration implant procedure, I could perceive every movement around me before it happened.
> Any other questions?
Nope. Bored just lying here—hook me up to the external recon data. Bet there's a pile backed up.
> As you wish.
I'd have to stay in this tube until my immune system rebuilt itself. In the meantime, I browsed the external activity logs. There were reports from the south via drones and from the inland via Stalker Robots.
I opened the southern ones first. Gohung's Lee Man-cheol and Yeosu's Lee Seong-bong. The two commanders bickered viciously over the radio but hadn't started shooting. Lee Seong-bong lacked the manpower, and Lee Man-cheol lacked the justification. Even a loose cannon like him—who'd murdered his superior and gone warlord—would hesitate to lead a full-on fratricide. Too much baggage.
Nearby survivor groups were out raiding toward southern Honam en masse. Infected presence was thin, and with winter cold and snow, it was prime marching weather. Those with good vehicles or big balls pushed into central Honam. Firing on fellow humans in this loot rush? Fall behind, and your crew starves. Lee Man-cheol couldn't afford to look that stupid. Killing one superior was one thing—getting your men's hands bloody on a bunch of compatriots while they bled too? Even he'd think twice.
Then came the big event: three Yeosu soldiers deserted and joined Gohung. It happened during heavy snow, right when Artemis and I were at the rooftop gazebo overlooking the sea.
Search teams from different camps bumping into each other and growling? Routine. This time, at a mart entrance, Gohung's detachment ran into Yeosu's.
No one waited to see who yelled first—both sides shouted it. Not civilian-heavy search teams; soldiers fighting soldiers meant losses either way. This was Yeosu's northernmost point, edging into Suncheon. Yeosu troops looked caught off-guard, never expecting a push this far.
Yeosu's latecomers followed the unspoken rule for armed scavengers: yield and withdraw.
A captain from Gohung grabbed them. Captain insignia gleaming.
He grinned slyly.
The captain pulled smokes from his pocket, offering to the Yeosu sergeant and his two privates. Tension melted fast. One cigarette each? Sounds cheap, but these guys were college freshmen or farm boys until last year. Pointing guns at fellow Koreans strained them hard. The captain's "let's not fight" vibe hit sweeter than the nicotine.
Officers got shredded worse than grunts in the infection war. Sergeants and corporals often led patrols or scavenging because commanders hated privates bossing privates. They force-promoted vets to NCOs. No choice, but plenty resented the unwanted stripes.
His voice sharpened; privates pitied him. As drafted-turned-sergeants, they'd planned discharge next year max. Now? Five-plus years extra. Oof.
Privates groaned; sergeant chuckled. War hardened them—cursing in front of seniors was fine now. They chain-smoked, watching Gohung load the mart haul. Talk wrapped after ten butts hit the ground.
Captain beamed at the haul: supplies loaded, plus three soldiers and their military truck. Medal-worthy.
Yeosu's trio switched sides. Not career soldiers—conscripts in endless wartime limbo. Gov fled to Jeju; MPs collapsed long ago. Unit meant little now.
Soldiers—and even the sergeant—swallowed hard. Desertions to small camps or better warlords were rising. Some chased confirmed family. Units lagged in countermeasures.
> Will this keep happening?
Obviously. That hope of discharge and civilian life? Soldiers' only glue. Once it's gone, game over. Problem is commanders' responses will suck.
> Why? It's basic logic. No prep?
That's why it doesn't work in the army, missy.
Logic-based thinker like her wouldn't get it.
Brass sees loyalty as input, not output. No clue about earning it fair. Think it gushes endlessly once you don the uniform.
Troops held position half by inertia, half miracle. Better chow than civvies? Sure, but riskier missions too.
Yeosu blew up over it, naturally. Armed desertion was huge even pre-collapse; now, mid-enemy standoff? Critical. Lee Seong-bong rallied them stone-faced, no yelling—just methodical recap. Troops stayed calm too.
Pretty composed.
> But mentally rattled. One more, and they crack.
Spot on. We dug deeper into Yeosu footage. High-res cams, bugs, camo paint captured survivor life in detail.
Yeosu's rear had cleared cities. Unsafe 500m out, but safe inside. Crowds clustered downtown—ration day. Armed troops guarded the repurposed mart; civilians queued. Floor littered with crumpled papers, boxes.
He nodded to guarding troops; they waved back. Cops and military ran allied, like old ROK-US forces. Gohung-style? Merged everything, saluting by rank.
Pre-war? Viral outrage. Now? Normal. Folks eyed surroundings warily, glued to tape lines. Step out? Risk requeue or no rations. Worst: arrest for sneaking.
Half fiddled IDs in pockets; half clutched tight, hiding edges. Armed troops strolled by, fingers near triggers. Some wheeled carts in—farmers under guard. No big fields; just patchy gardens. Dirt-caked veggies trailed by riflemen.
Armed grunt glaring over carrots and potatoes.
> Turnips too. Nothing beats 'em for mass disaster rations.
I sighed; civilians drooled over the cart. Stew those three? Decent meal here. Eggs or seafood? Bourgeois. Meat? Nobility.
Middle-aged woman wheeled dried seaweed in.
Her face crumpled. Up since dawn, baby damp with dew—leave now, wasted.
Ox cart rolled up as she thanked him—looted goods, shiny aluminum tins. Formula. She gritted teeth, rewrapped baby tight, held firm. Trusted him, but not 100%. Couldn't miss this drop.
Then rear queue stirred.
Troops dragged him out, bellowing Chinese.
He yelled louder. Thwack! Rifle butt to shoulder—one warning. He tumbled into mud and slush, filthy instant. Still screaming Chinese.
Boots silenced him. A tense guy behind slipped into an alley.
Rooftop guy pointed skyward. Corporal followed—crowd too. Jaws dropped. Our drone carrier. Core machine smallish, but balloon huge. Intimidating to laymen.
Supply crates parachuting down. Corporal snapped to first.
Not Lee Seong-bong—junior officer or NCO.
Corporal paused, pondering how to frame the unthinkable.
Corporal keyed again, composed.
Short, sharp, complete. Solid soldier. Response? Brief.
Corporal winced at the volume. Meanwhile, second drone carrier appeared, dropping crates.