ã€ŠWar Machine: The Memoirs of a Synthetic Marineã€‹


 Episode 1: SNAFU

    Episode 1

    SNAFU

    2937, 13:18 Zulu Time

    Somewhere in a combat zone, on an exoplanet, in the binary star system 55 Cancri

    ¡°Ripper 2-6, this is Overwatch. How do you copy?¡±

    ...static¡­

    ¡°Ripper 2-6 ¡­ acknowledge.¡±

    ...static¡­

    ¡°Uh ¡­ Ripper 2-6, if you copy and can¡¯t respond, be advised we are coming to retrieve you. Artillery will be first. Get under cover ASAP if you can. If you can¡¯t, shield up now. Overwatch, out.¡±

    I tried to remain positive about my situation, but shielding was a last-ditch survival tactic. It was notoriously ineffective, and I couldn¡¯t recall anyone who had ever shielded and survived a concentrated artillery barrage. Not that I could deploy the shield anyway. ¡°Shield array / failure¡± was included in the steady stream of fault codes scrolling across my heads-up display. Nothing but bad news.

    Amongst the dozens of other damage notifications, was an ¡®auto-destruct / master/ warning¡¯. In the era of modern interstellar combat, the unofficial Marine Corps motto ¡°no man left behind¡± had not only become gender neutral, but it had also taken on a less noble meaning. It became code for no military technology left behind.

    They had undoubtedly tried triggering the auto-destruct system, but combat damage had caused it to malfunction. Regardless, they sure as hell weren¡¯t coming to retrieve me. They were coming to prevent their precious weapons technology from falling into enemy hands. They couldn¡¯t simply call in an artillery strike. That wouldn¡¯t guarantee destruction of the tech. Marine Corps policy was to autodestruct, or recover intact, any soldier that became incapacitated on the battlefield.

    With all my sensors still functional, I was able to enjoy the shriek of incoming artillery shells, as they rained down on the enemy positions. The concussions that followed were amplified by the thick atmosphere of this sad little planet. Thankfully, only a couple of rounds fell worryingly close to me, as I lay face down in the mud.

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    I could only see a sliver of the surrounding terrain through the unobstructed portion of my face shield. A burnt-out enemy bot lay a few meters from me. Although I couldn¡¯t recall the details, the evidence strongly suggested that we had opened up on each other simultaneously. I had arguably won the gunfight, but just barely.

    It was clear that I had taken a lot of enemy rounds, but the reactive armor had mostly done its job. There was extensive damage to my armor and drive system. With three of my six limbs missing, I wasn¡¯t going anywhere under my own power.

    As I lay immobilized, monitoring the platoons¡¯ communications, I heard Overwatch order the counterattack. They were sending 7th squad up to try and retrieve me. The radio fell silent as my rescuers moved stealthily towards my position. They would be communicating visually at this point.

    I could hear the faint whir of servo motors as someone worked their way up to my position. Not a shot had been fired yet. It was a good sign. Maybe the artillery had done its job, for once.

    I caught a glimpse of a robotic hand clutching an AUX connector and cable. The hand holding the connector hovered briefly in my peripheral vision before disappearing. A data link icon appeared in my heads-up display as a connection was made.

    ¡°You¡¯re a fuckin¡¯ mess man.¡±

    ¡°Curtis! Goddamn it! Great to hear your voice.¡± Curtis was the squad leader and a solid Marine.

    He said ¡°Listen, we¡¯re about to get out of this shit. Just stay down and don¡¯t move while I hook you up, got it?¡±

    ¡°Roger that.¡± Apparently, Curtis didn¡¯t realize that I had been totally immobilized by battle damage. ¡°Hey, can you clean off my visor so I can see a little better?¡±

    ¡°What? I¡¯m the fucking maid now?¡± I had never been so glad to hear someone complain in my life.

    Curtis turned me over and began wiping off my muddy visor with the back of his gloved hand. However, he only succeeded in smearing my visor, obscuring my vision even more. That¡¯s when I heard the first return fire from the enemy. The muzzle blasts from their weapons were deceptively quiet but the impact detonations were extraordinarily loud. Explosive rounds.

    The first few hits knocked Curtis off his feet. His reactive armor exploded, absorbing the incoming enemy rounds, but it was soon overwhelmed by the sheer volume of enemy fire. As he tried to stand and return fire, more rounds impacted, putting him down hard. Curtis was one of the toughest guys in the corps but even he couldn¡¯t survive such punishment.

    Where the hell was the rest of 7th squad?! Before that thought had fully formed in my mind, there was a massive explosion, as Curtis¡¯s autodestruct device detonated. Shit! The counterattack to retrieve me had failed. At least Curtis would be spared my fate.

    I lay on my back, watching the fault codes stream past on my HUD and cursing my luck. The enemy would be here shortly, to collect a goldmine of human military technology. If they were capable of reverse engineering even a portion of it, they could turn the tide of a war that they were losing, badly.

    Waxing philosophical for a moment, I realized that I wasn¡¯t necessarily saddened at the prospect of humanity being defeated by these scrappy little aliens. After all, we were the ones who had initiated the conflict. Human interstellar expansionist policy dictated that the first contact must always be a preemptive military strike. This was ostensibly, to prevent another space faring species from threatening humanity¡¯s existence. But it was a policy that demanded the subjugation, or annihilation, of every species we encountered. Now that I thought about it, maybe we deserved to get our asses kicked.

    This revelation cast a new light on my current misfortune. All I knew about the chain of events that had led me here was what I had been told, or through my so called ¡°memories¡±. I wondered how much of my life story was really just ¡­ bullshit.

 Episode 2: A Rude Awakening

    Episode 2

    A Rude Awakening

    My fateful trip down the rabbit hole began when I became conscious and found myself gazing out at an expansive but unfamiliar landscape.

    It was a pastoral scene that was pleasing to the eye but had a less than authentic quality to it. The tall grass blowing in the wind was a little too uniform, its motion a little too regular. It had the look and feel of a skillfully rendered 3D simulation.

    Strangely, I could hear myself asking questions aloud, when I was pretty sure I was only thinking them. Even stranger, was the response from some invisible source.

    ¡°Where the hell am I?¡± I thought / spoke.

    ¡°You¡¯re inside the US Marine Corp¡¯s Virtual Warfare Training Module. How are you feeling?¡±

    I was spooked by the disembodied female voice. It didn¡¯t sound computer generated. It sounded like an actual person speaking. After about a ten count, I asked ¡°Where did you say I am?¡±

    The voice reiterated ¡°The USMC Virtual Warfare Training Module.¡±

    That¡¯s what I thought she had said. But I couldn¡¯t quite grasp the meaning of the term ¡®module¡¯. I asked, ¡°Do you mean, like some kind of training center?¡± Unable to recall how I¡¯d ended up here, I was starting to get a bad feeling.

    ¡°Okay, I know you¡¯re feeling a little confused, it¡¯s totally normal. I guarantee you¡¯ll start feeling better soon. And one more thing, you can ask all the questions you want but only after we¡¯ve completed your orientation. They¡¯re very strict about doing the orientation first.¡±

    Things were starting to take a Kafkaesque turn.

    After the briefest of pauses, she continued. ¡°So, I¡¯ve got some questions I need to ask you. They¡¯re totally routine. It¡¯s important for you to answer them right away, with the first thought that pops into your head.¡± It sounded like some kind of psychological evaluation. I resigned myself to just go with it, since I didn¡¯t seem to have a choice.

    ¡°Do you have any memories from before?¡±

    I hate it when people ask vague questions. In an attempt to clarify, I asked ¡°What do you mean? Like before I woke up in the training ¡­ thing?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I forgot to mention that these are all yes or no questions. So, just answer yes or no, okay?¡± There was a hint of exasperation in my inquisitor¡¯s voice, as she repeated the question.

    ¡°No. I have no memories from before a few minutes ago.¡± Now that I thought about it, having no memories beyond a few minutes ago seemed like a major red flag. Had I been in an accident? Did I have a concussion?

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    A sense of dread began to seep into my consciousness as I answered a series of questions asked by the disembodied voice. All of the questions focused on memories, or feelings. This was definitely some kind of psych test.

    Then unexpectedly, it was over. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s it. We¡¯re all done.¡±

    In an awkward attempt at levity, I asked ¡°Did I pass?¡±

    There was a mildly irritated sigh. ¡°It¡¯s not a test.¡±

    Now seemed like a good time to start getting some answers to my questions. How had I gotten here? Why did I have no memories from before today? I resolved to take control of the discussion now that the voice had completed its mandatory orientation / psych test.

    ¡°Okay, now explain to me what I¡¯m doing at a Marine training center?¡±

    ¡°Hang on ¡­ just a second.¡± said the voice. What happened next was as unexpected, as it was troubling.

    Suddenly there was a new voice, a stern male voice, which seemed to take itself more than a bit too seriously. Clearly an AI, designed to intimidate the listener.

    It stated my full name and began reciting a list of crimes I¡¯d never heard of, including misappropriation of public resources, civil negligence, and suicide. Apparently, crimes I had been charged with.

    I must admit to being caught a little off guard. Suicide.? It was frustrating having no memories from before today, but I was pretty sure that suicide wasn¡¯t a crime. I mean, who could they charge if the alleged perpetrator was successful? And besides, I felt fairly alive at the moment.

    In an attempt to shed some light on things, I asked ¡°Am I being charged with these ¡­ crimes?¡±

    The AI responded, ¡°You have been charged and found guilty on all counts.¡±

    It took a moment for this to sink in. When it finally did, I started to freak out. ¡°Hold on a goddamn minute! I have rights! What about a trial? I have the right to an attorney, don¡¯t I? I want to speak to my attorney now!¡±

    ¡°You have forfeited your rights as a citizen, by committing the crimes for which you have been lawfully convicted. In the interest of justice, you will begin serving your sentence, effective immediately.¡±

    This was total batshit craziness. In a panic, I began searching for an exit but found that no matter which way I turned, the simulated countryside stretched to the horizon. Dismayed, I dropped my head into my hands, only to make an even more disturbing discovery. I had no hands.

    As I tried to figure out what had happened to my hands, the AI droned on. ¡°Joshua Carl McCann, you have been sentenced to active interstellar combat in the Universal Synthetic Marine Corps, for a period of not less than 7 years.¡±

    Universal Synthetic Marine Corps? Active interstellar combat? I protested, ¡°Hey, I¡¯m a civilian!¡±

    The AI, ignoring my objection, continued. ¡°You will serve as a universal combat consciousness for the entirety of your 7-year sentence. Any transportation time will not be credited as time served. Any offenses committed while in USMC custody may result in additional time being added to your sentence.¡±

    Between the twin shocks of finding that I had no discernable body and being sentenced to years of interstellar combat, I was speechless. I had obviously been the victim of some gross miscarriage of justice. In despair, I had pretty much given up trying to reason with the AI when suddenly, for reasons which were not at all clear to me, I impulsively asked about my memory loss. ¡°Hey, what happened to my memories? Why can¡¯t I remember anything before today?¡±

    It responded, ¡°Your personal memories have been confiscated. They are now the property of the state. Any future access to them will be determined by your performance evaluations.¡±

    Before I could formulate a follow up question, yellow characters began streaming across my field of vision, superimposed on the simulated countryside. It was some kind of data feed.

    The AI dryly explained, ¡°Your Heads-Up Display will indicate the time remaining on your sentence, as well as other important data. The next USMC training cycle will begin in 60 minutes. Use this time to familiarize yourself with the Marine Corps Online Help Desk.¡±

    With that unhelpful bit of advice, the AI signed off. Then an icon, in the form of the Marine Corps logo, appeared in my HUD display. I had been handed off yet again, from a human contact to an AI, and finally to an automated ¡°Help Desk¡±.

    The progression strongly suggested that I would be on my own from here on out.

 Episode 3: Top of My Class

    Episode 3

    Top of My Class

    I took stock of my unfortunate circumstances. Drafted into the Marines, no personal memories, no corporeal existence, and sentenced to a lengthy term of military service in the form of interstellar combat.

    It was fucked up.

    As I considered the significance of the term ¡°interstellar combat¡±, I realized that without hands, I would be unable to manipulate the cursor in my HUD. There was no way to access the help desk if I couldn¡¯t move the cursor. Just then, I noticed that when I blinked my eyes, or whatever visual simulation had replaced my eyes, the cursor became highlighted. With the cursor highlighted, it followed my gaze across my field of vision.

    By focusing on the USMC icon and blinking again, I could open the help desk. This small victory lifted my spirits. A menu popped up on the screen and I quickly found the FAQs. Blinking and scrolling down the list, I began browsing. The questions themselves, provided a sobering insight into my predicament.

    Q: Why am I here?

    Q: Can I appeal my sentence?

    Q: What is a universal combat consciousness?

    Q: What happened to my memories?

    I clicked on the FAQ about appealing my sentence. Despite my deepening depression, I was still clinging to a sliver of hope that there was some kind of ¡°easy button¡± hidden in the FAQs.

    Q: Can I appeal my sentence?

    A: No. Your sentence is final and there are no appeals processes currently available.

    Shit.

    Even though I wasn¡¯t really expecting good news, it was still devastating to have my last bit of hope crushed. Sinking into fatalistic resignation, I started clicking on random FAQs to pass my remaining time until the next ¡°training cycle¡±.

    Absently clicking on the ¡°What is a universal combat consciousness?¡± FAQ, I began reading the answer.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°The universal combat consciousness (UCC), is the heart of the Marine Corp¡¯s semi-autonomous weapons arsenal. By using a digital facsimile of a human consciousness, instead of an artificial intelligence to operate semi-autonomous weapons systems, the Marine Corps is able to deploy the equivalent of a human soldier on the battlefield, without risking a human life.¡±

    OMG. So, that would explain why I had no physical presence. I had become some kind of ¡°digital facsimile¡± of myself. I wondered where my physical body was.

    Even though the probability of my reoccupying it seemed pretty low under the circumstances, I searched for a related FAQ in the list. Browsing revealed nothing helpful. The closest thing to ¡°Where¡¯s my physical body?¡± was ¡°Where¡¯s my phone?¡±

    The countdown timer in my HUD indicated that my free time was almost up. Resigned to my immediate fate, I resolved to use every moment of future downtime to find out what had happened to me, and why I was now in the USMC ¡°training module¡±. Seriously, a module?

    The timer counted down to zero before I could finish searching for the FAQ about how to regain access to my memories.

    The CGI scene before me, abruptly switched from a bucolic landscape to some kind of virtual boot camp. My introduction to life in the USMC was now complete, down to the virtual drill instructor standing before me. Obviously, an AI, it began barking orders and dispensing abuse like a DI on steroids.

    As I stealthily looked around, I realized a strange detail. I was the only ¡®boot¡¯ in this virtual boot camp. As much as I appreciated the personal attention, it would have been nice to have a few classmates to deflect some of the DI¡¯s focus.

    Questions were yelled at me in rapid fire succession, yet I found I could answer them just as quickly and without hesitation. They were primarily about advanced weapons systems. I wondered how I could know the answers, having never studied any of the topics. Furthermore, it was surreal to find that one part of my consciousness could analyze my performance, while another part of it continued to answer the test questions in real time.

    The questions paused briefly, as the DI¡¯s image suddenly froze. It was as if the system was reloading. The steady stream of questions subsequently resumed. Now, the questioning turned from operation to maintenance of the same weapons. Again, I effortlessly responded to the continuous flow of questions until there was another pause.

    The virtual DI abruptly glitched, then switched into congratulatory mode. ¡°Well done boot!¡±

    A metric appeared in the upper left-hand corner of my HUD. It was some kind of score; (1551/1551 = 100%). It seemed that I had aced my first boot camp quiz by answering every question correctly.

    The DI then announced, ¡°You¡¯ve earned your first award.¡±

    A small medallion, bearing the number 10, replaced my test score. It wasn¡¯t exactly clear what that meant, so I asked, ¡°What is this?¡±

    ¡°You have been granted 10 minutes of access to your memories!¡± I have to admit to being underwhelmed with a mere 10 minutes of access to the only connection with my past life.

    The DI continued ¡°Enjoy reliving your life, boot.¡±

    His CGI generated grin didn¡¯t seem anywhere close to sincere. I cursed the algorithm that had put me here and certainly didn¡¯t believe I could enjoy reliving my lifetime in just 10 minutes.

    ¡°10 minutes to relive my life? Seriously? That¡¯s bullshit!¡±

    The DI quickly responded ¡°Okay, have it your way. Access to your memories is hereby rescinded.¡±

    My award medallion vanished, and the DI abruptly disappeared. Then the lights went out and I found myself immersed in a darkness far blacker than seemed possible. I wasn¡¯t at all sure what I had just done, but I got a strong vibe that I had really fucked up.

 Episode 4: FNG

    Episode 4

    FNG

    As I grappled with the implications of my precipitous fall from grace, I realized that I was still thinking out loud. I must be conscious, but that was only conjecture. I knew I had become some kind of software, or digital something, so I assumed there must be some source of power maintaining my consciousness. A backup battery or something.

    Suddenly, I thought I could hear a faint buzzing sound. I wondered how that was possible without ears. Now that I thought about it, it seemed more like a vibration, but that didn¡¯t make any sense either. I had no physical body to feel anything. While I puzzled over what was going on, a dim light filled my immediate surroundings. It was like the power had been restored, but only partially. I could see the USMC icon slowly blinking in my HUD. My thoughts streamed across the bottom of my field of vision as yellow text.

    In a moment of unexpected paranoia, I imagined my thoughts were being recorded and permanently archived somewhere. Undoubtedly, to be used against me in some future disciplinary hearing. Those fuckers! I thought.

    I watched in horror as ¡°Those fuckers!¡± scrolled across the screen.

    As I struggled to avoid cutting loose with a profanity laced tirade, an odd message began scrolling. It read ¡°Hey, new guy! Click on the USMC icon and enable your audio.¡± I froze. Was this some kind of entrapment scheme to add more time to my sentence? I kept forgetting that every thought I generated, would create a text record.

    ¡°Hey ¡­ genius! I can see everything you¡¯re thinking. Click on that icon and enable your audio.¡± With seemingly nothing left to lose, including my dignity, I clicked on the icon. From the menu that popped up, I found and clicked on the ¡°audio¡± button.

    ¡°Was that really so fuckin¡¯ hard?¡± The voice had an annoying nasality to it.

    I was still trying to decide whether I should even engage in this dialog when a different voice said ¡°Never mind. Don¡¯t answer that.¡± I could hear the buzz of indistinct voices in the background. Groups of people having multiple conversations. It felt like I was at some giant gathering, amongst a crowd of loud talkers.

    ¡°So, how¡¯d you do on the test?¡± Between the questions and the background noise, I was totally disoriented.

    I shouted ¡°What? I can barely hear you!¡±

    One of the voices suggested, ¡°Dude. Go back into your settings and adjust the filter. Set it at, like 50%.¡±

    I got back into the audio options and found the filter control. Blinking on the cursor, I moved the slider about halfway up the scale. The din of the crowd and the buzzing faded away.

    ¡°Can you hear me now?¡± Someone laughed in the background.

    Tentatively, I said ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s much better.¡± I began to organize my thoughts a little and asked, ¡°Can someone tell me where I am?¡±

    Yet another voice explained, ¡°You¡¯re plugged into the charging network on a troopship, outbound on a mission.¡±

    ¡°A mission? Where?¡± It seemed a little premature to be on my first mission, considering I was just in boot camp, like a minute ago. I couldn¡¯t possibly be adequately trained for combat.

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    Someone else said ¡°We don¡¯t know. They won¡¯t download the details until we get within a few minutes of the LZ. It¡¯s a security thing.¡± That seemed to make sense. After all, as a universal combat consciousness, I was essentially a software program. I imagined I could probably absorb a mission¡¯s worth of data in a few seconds.

    ¡°Hey, why do I hear so many voices?¡± Suddenly suspicious, I wondered whether these conversations were being recorded.

    Someone said, ¡°When a combat consciousness is connected to the charging system on a troopship, it becomes part of an informal network, which inadvertently enables voice and text communications. It''s not very private, which explains the background noise. But we¡¯re pretty sure command is unaware of this particular glitch, so I wouldn¡¯t worry about getting busted.¡± While this news eased my mind slightly, I was still skittish about letting my guard down.

    Before I could think of another question, one of the voices asked ¡°So, how about that test? How¡¯d you do, man?¡±

    I wondered, why such interest in my test score. Even though I had gotten 100% on the test, I didn¡¯t want to sound like I was bragging. I couldn¡¯t afford to alienate anyone. I would undoubtedly need all the allies I could muster, considering I was new to the Marines, interstellar combat, and such.

    Suddenly I heard a low whistle. Someone said ¡°Whoa! 100%?¡± Another person commented, ¡°Check out the big brain on the new guy.¡± I cringed. I was still adapting to having my every thought visible to others.

    As I struggled to suppress my conscious thoughts, I heard the question ¡°How many minutes did they give you?¡± Presuming the question was regarding access to my memories, I was embarrassed to admit that I had only received 10 minutes for a perfect test score.

    The gasps from my audience, as they read my thoughts, seemed to confirm my suspicion that I had been criminally shortchanged. They also confirmed the futility of trying to suppress my thoughts.

    Not wanting to seem totally na?ve, I scoffed, ¡°Listen, I told the DI he could shove those 10 minutes up his ass, then he rescinded the award.¡± Even though I couldn¡¯t see anyone, or their expressions, the prolonged silence that followed strongly suggested that I had committed some kind of social infraction.

    I was wrestling with what to say next, when I began hearing what sounded like signoffs, clicks, muttered epithets and profanity. What the hell was happening?

    Then one of the voices I¡¯d heard earlier, spoke up. ¡°Hey, you can disable the ¡®thought to text¡¯ function in the settings menu. Just go in there and click on the button.¡±

    I appreciated the tip but was momentarily preoccupied with how I had unwittingly created a social shit storm. After a moment of self-flagellation, I went back into the settings and turned off the ¡°thought to text¡± button.

    ¡°Thanks. It would have been nice to know that a little sooner.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. They¡¯re just disappointed. No one¡¯s ever gotten 10 minutes before. So, when you ¡­ well, let¡¯s just say you seemed a little arrogant.¡±

    I was in shock. Maybe things in the virtual Marines were much worse than I had imagined. 10 minutes was the highest award ever granted? And I had just pissed it away. I tried to excuse my blunder. ¡°I thought the DI was being sarcastic when he told me to enjoy reliving my life. So, 10 minutes is a long time?¡±

    The voice explained ¡°10 minutes is enough time to relive your entire life several times at a leisurely pace if that¡¯s what you wanted to do. But honestly, most people would just hit the highlight reel a few hundred times.¡±

    No wonder everyone hated me. But I was still confused. ¡°How is it possible to relive a lifetime of memories in 10 minutes?¡±

    ¡°Look, you¡¯re a digital copy of a human consciousness, augmented by multiple military grade processors. You have more computing power in your CPU than most 21<sup>st</sup> century financial institutions. 10 minutes is enough time for you to plot the orbit of every planet in the Milky Way galaxy, from scratch.¡±

    Yet, even with all that computing power, I still couldn¡¯t avoid putting my foot in my mouth. ¡°Why don¡¯t I feel any smarter?¡±

    I heard a faint sigh, then the voice said ¡°Okay, let¡¯s start at the beginning. First of all, do you have a name?¡±

    I¡¯d heard a reference to a name during my sentencing. ¡°They said my name was Joshua Carl McCann, but I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s right. I can¡¯t recall anything from before waking up in the simulation.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay. We just need to know what to call you, until you get assigned a handle. Without a name, you¡¯re just the FNG.¡±

    ¡°FNG?¡± It was a good thing they hadn¡¯t quizzed me on how to integrate into a combat squad, since I was totally clueless.

    ¡°Fucking new guy.¡± Without skipping a beat, he continued. ¡°I¡¯m Lucy.¡± Obviously, handle was code for nickname. Lucy seemed like a funny handle for a Marine, so I chuckled, thinking maybe he was joking.

    ¡°It¡¯s short for Lucifer.¡±

    I made a mental note ¡­ no laughing at anyone¡¯s nickname in the future.

 Episode 5: No Justice in the System.

    Episode 5

    No justice in the system

    I decided to take advantage of Lucy¡¯s tribal knowledge and find out more about my new life as a convicted soldier. Starting with some small talk, I asked Lucy how he had ended up in the Marines.

    ¡°Well, pretty much everyone in the military these days, has been convicted of some kind of crime. Anyway, that¡¯s what happened to me. I got convicted and sentenced. And since there¡¯s no appeals, I¡¯m stuck serving my time.¡±

    That certainly sounded familiar. Since it seemed like we were starting to bond a bit, I shared my story. ¡°Yeah, I was convicted of suicide. Didn¡¯t even know that was a crime. What¡¯d they get you for?¡±

    ¡°Murder.¡±

    Okay, that¡¯s enough small talk, I thought. Deciding to get straight to the point, I asked, ¡°The whole criminal justice system is corrupt. Right?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I guess. There¡¯s definitely no justice in the system. It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve been rehabilitated or anything. But, the system isn¡¯t really designed to punish or rehabilitate anyone. It¡¯s designed to generate combat troops for interstellar warfare.¡±

    This wasn¡¯t consistent with the faint recollection of justice I still had drifting around in my residual memory. ¡°What about basic human rights? Don¡¯t we have the right to appeal a court sentence?¡±

    Lucy laughed at my ignorance. ¡°You don¡¯t get it man. You have no rights. You¡¯re not human.¡±

    I argued that I still felt human, but even as I pushed back against my unwelcome new reality, I knew that wasn¡¯t entirely true. I didn¡¯t have a corporeal presence, so logically I couldn¡¯t be human. The only thing still human about me, was a vague recollection of my humanness. It wasn¡¯t much to go on.

    Thinking out loud, I grumbled, ¡°This is totally fucking unfair.¡±

    ¡°Take it easy, you¡¯ll get used to things. Besides, it¡¯s not so bad. Understanding how the system works helps a little.¡±

    I very much doubted that. Regardless, Lucy began educating me about the origins of the criminal/soldier military system. He explained how technology had begun to drive the politics of modern human civilization.

    In a terrifying display of dystopian groupthink, humanity had started to confuse the political ends, with the technological means. No longer focused on achieving an enlightened human society, governments around the globe began chasing rapidly emerging technologies down a rabbit hole.

    In many cases, new technologies began to outpace the problems they were originally intended to solve. Unexpectedly, this surplus of orphan technologies created new opportunities for unscrupulous political operatives. Here is where politics got flipped on its head.

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    The idea of left and right politics became meaningless. Suddenly, the successful politicians were the ones who could conjure up social problems, to justify the deployment of previously irrelevant technologies. Naturally, these politically driven ¡°quality of life¡± initiatives, were funded by vast amounts of federal tax dollars. This in turn, created substantial new revenue streams for well-connected tech companies. Neo-politics and Big Tech fell in love. Ominously, the catchphrase, ¡°Trust the science¡± became code for ¡°don¡¯t question authority¡±.

    To a na?ve public, it seemed like this new breed of political figure, was solving society¡¯s problems at warp speed. These politicians thrived in a political landscape that resembled a permanent campaign cycle.

    However, the reality was much darker. Political illusionists had mastered the art of creating a perception of fear in the mind of the public, even though the basis for that fear was only an elaborate fiction.

    Sadly, the news media unwittingly became complicit in deceiving the masses. In an effort to attract as many eyeballs as possible, and by ignoring their journalistic obligation to vet the facts, the media began characterizing every social issue as a ¡°crisis¡± worthy of headline status. The most insane pseudoscientific ideas were presented as legitimate ¡°technological solutions¡±. It became impossible to differentiate reality from fantasy.

    With so much of the public¡¯s attention focused on this political kabuki theater, the business of politics spiraled out of control. Influence within the halls of government became a commodity, sold to the highest bidder no matter the consequences. It was in this fetid cesspool of self-interest that a seemingly innocuous medical technology, was marketed to the military as a solution to its chronic failures on the interstellar battlefield.

    These days, it was considered unethical to send human soldiers to war. Interstellar combat had become far too lethal for human physiology. Even a heavily armored human body could be reduced to jelly by the concussion of a relatively small battlefield munition.

    The military tried to develop autonomous robotic weapons for combat, but they failed. The artificial intelligence driving them was incapable of dealing with the variability inherent in combat.

    They even tried using remote controlled weapons systems for combat, but the logistics were impractical. The enemy easily developed countermeasures to interrupt or coopt the communication links between the human operators and their weapons. Battlefield commanders soon found their weapons systems ineffective, or worse, turned against them. The results were catastrophic.

    Consequently, an alternative was needed.

    Under the mantle of scientific research into the root causes of suicide, it was discovered quite by accident that neurons within the human brain remained active for up to an hour after clinical death. By recording the residual patterns of electrical emissions within these arrays of neurons, scientists were able to decode the language of the human brain. This discovery proved to be a very effective analytical tool in researching a range of psychological disorders.

    Decades later, an enterprising computer scientist discovered how to configure an AI, using a copied consciousness, to replicate human thought. By utilizing artificial intelligence to model patterns of neural signals, it was possible to extrapolate a digital facsimile of a unique human consciousness, memories and all.

    The result was so similar to human sentience that once the research was made public, there were accusations of scientists playing God. The public outrage became so politically toxic that all of the funding was pulled, and the program terminated.

    However, the implications of the technology had caught the attention of a shrewd Washington lobbyist. Subsequently, a global biomedical company quietly purchased the patents and rights to all of the research findings. The stage was set for this orphan technology to make a monumental contribution to humanity¡¯s interstellar expansion.

    The development of the universal combat consciousness began soon after.

 Episode 6: The Importance of Paying Attention

    Episode 6

    The importance of paying attention

    Lucy paused his masterclass on the origins of my current predicament, to ask if I had any questions. I shook my head and said ¡°There¡¯s just so much to take in. I honestly don¡¯t know what to think.¡±

    The amount of dysfunction permeating human society was overwhelming. Without any memories, it was impossible to determine how much of this I¡¯d known before. However, the idea of me committing suicide, was beginning to seem plausible.

    I asked ¡°How did you learn all of this? You must have arrived here without any memories, just like me.¡±

    Lucy explained ¡°Yeah, but when you¡¯ve spent decades hooked up to charging networks in troopships, you talk with lots of UCC¡¯s. Collectively, their residual memories fill in a lot of the blanks. If only half of what I¡¯ve heard is accurate, we¡¯re about as well off in here as your average civilian outside. It¡¯s even possible we¡¯re the lucky ones.¡± It was depressing to think that being sentenced to interstellar combat and having no personal freedom was somehow preferable to life as a civilian.

    Something Lucy said caught my attention. ¡°Did you say you¡¯ve spent decades on troop ships? So, you¡¯re serving a life sentence?¡± It seemed reasonable, after all, he had been convicted of murder.

    He replied, ¡°10 years.¡±

    Now I was totally confused. A 10-year sentence? And yet he¡¯s spent decades on troop ships? Something wasn¡¯t adding up. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you have completed your sentence by now?¡±

    ¡°Obviously, you weren¡¯t paying attention at your sentencing. Do you recall the part about transport time, not counting as time served?¡±

    Admittedly, I had been a little sidetracked during my abrupt transformation from anonymous citizen, to convicted criminal. Now that I thought about it, there had been some mention of something not counting as time served.

    Lucy elaborated, ¡°Only active interstellar combat and combat training counts as time served. And since all of our missions are interstellar, the travel absorbs huge amounts of time. None of which is classified as ¡°time served¡±.

    Oh shit! He was right. Just getting to and from combat zones would require massive amounts of time. The actual ¡°time served¡± in combat or training must be miniscule. My personal hell just kept getting more and more ¡­ hellish. I suddenly felt profoundly hopeless. There was no way out of this mess.

    As I wallowed in self-pity, Lucy said ¡°You should spend some time in the combat simulator. It¡¯s a good way to pass the time and besides, you¡¯ll need a lot of sim-time before we insert into a combat zone. You should start receiving notifications about your training schedule soon.¡±

    Only then did I notice the notification icon in the corner of my HUD. But I couldn¡¯t bring myself to open it.

    Sensing my grim mood, he tried some encouragement. ¡°Listen, if you do well in the sim, you¡¯ll get memory awards, and it counts as time served.¡± I wasn¡¯t even sure that I wanted to remember my life anymore. It would probably just make me even more depressed, remembering a life that was forever lost to me.

    Lucy said ¡°Hey, if you want to talk, just text me.¡± With that, he quietly signed off, leaving me alone to wrestle with my gloomy thoughts.

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    As an alternative to brooding, I decided to take a look at the combat sim. I really didn¡¯t feel like actually training. After all, I would have plenty of time for that later. I just wanted to look around a bit.

    I noticed that my HUD displayed the time remaining on my sentence, (6:364:23:57:28). By my calculations, I had spent a whopping 2 minutes and change in boot camp. At this rate, I would never complete my sentence.

    Clicking on the notification icon, I ignored the text message and followed the link instead. I was immediately transported to a landing page, which contained one of the seemingly ubiquitous help desks. So far, they had proven less than helpful. Regardless, I began browsing the FAQ¡¯s, searching for clues to my new life as a Marine in training.

    The FAQs suggested that the combat training curriculum would be of a highly technical nature. There were questions about such esoteric topics as ¡°Theory of force projection and related strategies¡±, ¡°Infantry squad battlefield tactics¡± and ¡°Armor penetration vs impact angle and force, in low gravity environments¡±. It was pretty clear that combat training wasn¡¯t going to be as basic as basic training. The theoretical aspects of warfare actually seemed in depth enough to be interesting.

    With the training and the sim time to practice what I¡¯d learned on the theoretical side; I might be able to work off several years of my sentence before my first combat deployment.

    However, I worried about trusting the training. The apparent complexity of the curriculum might just be a smokescreen to cover up an ulterior agenda for this whole charade. I was suspicious. After all, I had no control over anything at this point.

    With some reservations, I decided to give the first couple of training days the benefit of the doubt, until I could figure out whether the training made any sense.

    After unsuccessfully attempting to initiate a combat simulator session, I went back to the FAQs to learn what I was missing. It turns out, there were prerequisites for sim use. Trainees had to complete at least level 7 of the theoretical training, to be eligible to schedule sim sessions. Interesting. It was clear that a progressive learning structure had been designed into the training program. I was officially semi-impressed.

    I carefully followed the recommended steps to begin my training, with the intention of ensuring that every second of the training counted as time served. I wasn¡¯t going to make any effort unless it benefited me.

    After I initiated a training session, I checked the time remaining on my sentence. The timer in my HUD, showed the seconds counting down. Learning from my experience in boot camp, I took my time absorbing the information in level 1. I didn¡¯t want to rush my training only to find out that I had completed it in a matter of minutes, leaving nothing but the combat simulator to pass the time until I deployed. After all, it might be years before I actually entered combat.

    The level 1 training seemed to cover a lot of basic information. Things like, chain of command, expectations for conscripted combatants and how the universal combat consciousness fit into the organization. It also included a detailed breakdown of the modular weapons systems concept, as utilized in interstellar warfare.

    The training manual explained:

    The universal combat consciousness or UCC, is the brain inside every weapon deployed in combat. The UCC consists of a digital facsimile of a human consciousness, combined with a compound CPU made up of multiple sub-processors. Linking this hybrid brain to scalable amounts of internally stored data, makes up the ¡°control module¡±.

    This control module is integrated into an armored combat chassis, to provide protection from battlefield threats. The resulting combat management suite is compatible with every force projection system in the military inventory.

    Force projection system? The notion of rebranding deadly weapons as ¡°force projection systems¡± infuriated me. But what did I expect? The military had always cloaked the lethality of its business in disingenuous words. The basic metric for the effectiveness of any military organization was how many enemies it killed. Or in mil-speak, how many targets were neutralized, eliminated, reduced, et cetera.

    It was an immoral business, and I was now part of that business. I would be expected to kill, with complete prejudice, any enemy I was pointed at. Consequently, I would become as immoral as the system I was serving.

    Despite my desire to get through my sentence and come out the other end a ¡°free¡± person, I wasn¡¯t quite sure what that meant anymore. Even if I made it to the other side, I certainly wouldn¡¯t be human. So, what would I be, some kind of digital ghost? Whether or not that constituted freedom was highly debatable. Regardless, it didn¡¯t seem like much of a life.

    However, I couldn¡¯t possibly regain my freedom, whatever that meant, unless I could complete my sentence. And to do that, I first needed to become a soldier. I would deal with whatever came after, when I got there.

    Wherever the hell ¡®there¡¯ was.

 Episode 7: Something Rather Than Nothing

    Episode 7

    Something Rather Than Nothing

    Refocusing on my training, I quickly finished Level 1 and began reading Level 2, titled ¡°Underlying Theories of Force Projection¡±.

    The process of absorbing new information was effortless. It was a struggle, at first, to throttle back my urge to consume the entire curriculum as fast as possible. But with some practice, I found I could absorb the information at a more methodical pace. This not only ensured that I would burn more time off my sentence, it also allowed me to savor the learning process a bit. It was comforting to feel like I had some control over the new thinking system in my virtual head.

    Reading the developmental history of the universal combat consciousness, I learned that combining a copied human consciousness with digital technology, had in effect, created a composite neural network. A hybrid of a human mind and a computer, which provided incredibly fast processing speeds, while still retaining the underlying human logic required to improvise when faced with uncertainty. The human element was critical in combat, since purely digital systems often stalled when confronted with an unfamiliar logical problem.

    The resulting human / digital system was both flexible in the face of unpredictability and resistant to physical battle damage. It was the key to the military¡¯s ability to project force throughout the cosmos, in support of humanity¡¯s interstellar expansion.

    I paused briefly to digest what I¡¯d just learned. I wondered whether this was the first time I had learned of humanity¡¯s expansionist ambitions, or whether I¡¯d known about it in my previous life. Without any memories, I could only guess. However, I was beginning to feel a profound disgust at my human roots.

    My enthusiasm to continue studying suddenly evaporated. I was having second thoughts about participating in the universal expansion of humanity. Although I believed I should feel some kind of allegiance to my species, I felt nothing. What was so special about humans anyway? I certainly didn¡¯t know.

    Full of doubts, I felt the need to talk to someone, but who? The only semblance of a connection I had formed so far was with a convicted murderer. Reluctantly, I decided Lucy was my best shot at hearing anything close to the truth. As it was, I¡¯d settle for just feeling a little less hopeless.

    I surveyed my HUD menu, trying to remember how Lucy had said to contact him. Thought to text? Yeah, that was it.

    I got into the settings and enabled thought to text. I then started thinking out a message, like I was typing an actual text. I addressed him by his handle. ¡°Hey Lucy, I need to speak to you. Can you give me a ¡­¡± I paused, realizing that I had no clue how this messaging process actually worked.

    Before I could start guessing about the ins and outs of troopship communications, a text began streaming across my field of vision. It read; ¡°Hey genius, if you¡¯re looking for your boyfriend, he¡¯s in the sim. Your text is posted on the public message board, so he¡¯ll see it when he wraps up. BTW dumbshit, all ¡®thought to text¡¯ is public and audio is only semi-private. Use discretion.¡±

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    I thought/texted ¡°Got it.¡± I guessed this was the same annoying prick with the nasally voice. I hoped my handle wouldn¡¯t end up being Genius, or worse, Dumbshit.

    I poked around in the training materials, just wasting time, when a new text began scrolling.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call you.¡± I supposed it was from Lucy but wasn¡¯t certain since it didn¡¯t include the sender¡¯s name. With texts being 100% public, it was probably wise to keep them as brief and anonymous as possible.

    By blinking on one of the two buttons below the message, I found that even though the text showed in my HUD, it appeared simultaneously on a public message board. I just needed to wait.

    Then someone spoke in my audio. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s Lucy. What¡¯s going on?¡±

    I struggled to put my concerns into words. ¡°Listen, I honestly don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening. I¡¯ve just got a bad feeling about the training. It seems like we¡¯re the Stormtroopers for universal human expansion. Am I wrong?¡±  I felt like a whiny child, looking for reassurance.

    ¡°Well, for better or worse, we¡¯re the ones pushing out into the cosmos, creating space for humanity¡¯s expansion. So no, you¡¯re not wrong.¡±

    It was unsettling to have my fears confirmed. I had been sentenced to slash and burn across the universe, on behalf of my former species. The more I learned, the more I wanted to disassociate myself from humanity.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand why humans have to constantly expand into space. What the hell is happening? Is the population spiraling out of control or something? How many of us ¡­ or them ¡­ are there anyway?¡±

    Lucy sighed. ¡°We don¡¯t know the answers to those questions.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t understand why the training didn¡¯t include something about why we¡¯re fighting to support humanity¡¯s continual expansion. So far, the training addressed only the ¡®how to¡¯, the nuts and bolts of war. There was nothing about the why.

    He continued, ¡°Look, there¡¯s no direct contact between us and any humans. All communication is filtered through the AI interface. We only get told what to do, not why we do it.¡±

    ¡°Hold on! I spoke to a human during my orientation. It was some annoyed woman. She was an employee at the USMC training module.¡± I must admit, the term ¡®module¡¯ seemed to undermine my argument slightly.

    ¡°You¡¯re wrong. The AIs are indistinguishable from humans. They sound and act just like us. Many of them are designed to have distinct human personalities, quirks, and all.¡±

    Ignoring the irony of his reference to ¡°us¡±, as if we were still human, I wondered if the AIs were just some elaborately engineered deception to manipulate us. No contact with humans, no justification for why we were killing on their behalf. In essence, we were doing their dirty work in complete ignorance.

    Thinking out loud, I said, ¡°It seems to me like we¡¯re totally relying on faith that the system is legit.¡± Even as the words left my head, I had a sinking feeling that nothing was as it appeared.

    I continued, ¡°I think this UCC system is just too vulnerable to manipulation. It had to have been purposely designed that way. Otherwise, it would have some validations built into it. How do we know if it¡¯s even working properly?¡±

    Lucy argued ¡°Listen, it¡¯s irrelevant whether we¡¯re being manipulated or not. All we have to work with is this system. The only truth is whatever the system tells us is true. If you want to doubt that, go right ahead. But remember, without anything to replace whatever this is, you¡¯re left with nothing. Nothing to believe in, and nothing to condemn. Speaking strictly for myself, I prefer to have something, rather than nothing at all.¡±

    I digested his words carefully. It was a compelling argument for not rocking the boat. After all, this was the only boat we had. Still, I couldn¡¯t imagine myself ignoring my fears and just following orders, like a good little Stormtrooper.

    ¡°Listen, I just feel like we need to test whether the system is what it appears to be, or if it¡¯s something else entirely.¡±

    With an edge of irritation in his voice, he cautioned me. ¡°Okay genius, you can try to figure out how to test the system on your own time, but for now, I strongly suggest you learn how to become the best damn soldier you can, because the only value you have to the system is how effective you are on the battlefield. Just focus on your training, or I goddam guarantee, you¡¯ll be the one getting tested.¡±

    It was crystal clear, the not-so-subtle message was, ¡®Don¡¯t rock the boat.¡¯

 Episode 8: Amongst the Posturing Masses

    Episode 8

    Amongst the Posturing Masses

    Lucy¡¯s tone switched back to his more normal, less tense state, as he offered some additional advice.

    ¡°Listen up, Genius. You need to wrap up your studies and start getting some sim time. You still have a lot to learn, and the books won¡¯t teach you what you really need to know.¡±

    Thanks to Lucy, it seemed like my official handle was veering towards Genius. Wonderful.

    I explained, ¡°Hey, I¡¯m just trying to burn as much time off my sentence as possible while I¡¯m training.¡±

    ¡°You have to start fighting with your squad and developing some combat skills. Without skills, your squad mates won¡¯t trust you and without their trust, you won¡¯t survive your first mission.¡±

    I wondered how helpful any of the training was going to be, once I was actually in combat. It seemed so old school to have to read and do sim sessions, to acquire the necessary skills.

    Whining, I asked ¡°Couldn¡¯t they just download all this crap to our CPUs or something? I mean, we¡¯re digital, right?¡±

    ¡°Your consciousness is human, even though the platform is digital. The ¡®secret sauce¡¯ of our success on the battlefield is the fuzziness of human logic. That can¡¯t be downloaded. It¡¯s a byproduct of the assimilation of information into a human consciousness. This is what allows humans to improvise, when faced with situations that they haven¡¯t experienced before. It¡¯s the synthesis of existing knowledge, creating new knowledge in response to uncertainty.¡±

    I hadn¡¯t fully understood before how being partly human was an advantage in combat, but with Lucy¡¯s explanation, it was starting to make sense.

    I was surprised at how insightful he was, for a convicted murderer. ¡°How the hell did you learn all this stuff anyway? This isn¡¯t in the training is it?¡±

    Lucy chuckled ¡°There are other sources of knowledge. But you have a long way to go before you qualify for those cheat codes. You need to wrap up your book training ASAP and start scheduling sim sessions. That¡¯s the most critical training you can get.¡±

    Thinking to myself, I wondered whether he was using the term ¡®cheat codes¡¯ as a metaphor, or if they really existed. ¡°Are you sure I won¡¯t regret rushing my book training? I don¡¯t want to spend years sitting around on a troopship, bored to death.¡±

    He scoffed, ¡°Death by boredom will be the least of your problems. Now get to work and finish up those books. I¡¯ll schedule a sim session for us in a few hours.¡±

    Lucy signed off and I hit the books to wrap up Chapters 1 through 7, so I could get into the sim. I was surprised to find that I was actually looking forward to simulated combat. I was confident that I already had some skills, and it might even be fun.

    After passing the completion test for Chapter 7, I sent a text to Lucy. As I waited for his response, I went into the sim portal to see if could schedule a session. The status bar next to my name was now green, but when I scrolled through the calendar for an open date, I found that the first available was 35 days out. After that, there were some more open dates, but most were already booked. I hadn¡¯t imagined the sim availability would be so limited. I booked the first available date and waited for Lucy to text me. It seemed like troopship life would consist mostly of waiting. I hate waiting.

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    After what seemed like an eternity but was in fact, only a few minutes, I received Lucy¡¯s text. It read ¡°I scheduled us a session. Meet me in the lobby now. Use the access code to get in.¡± I found the attached link and downloaded the code.

    Shortly, I found myself inside a reasonably well rendered CGI. It was a simulation of an actual hotel lobby by the looks of it. Some developer¡¯s quirky attempt at humor no doubt.

    There was a throng of other players already in the lobby. Some milled about, while others were gathered in groups, socializing. Everyone looked to be killing time, until the next session started.

    It was a little unsettling to see my fellow soldiers in the flesh for the first time, so to speak. They had only been voices until now. As I studied the assemblage before me, I marveled at the stylistic diversity of their avatars.

    Most were massively muscled humanoids, while others seemed to be oversized bionic hybrids. There were plenty of pneumatically enhanced female characters as well. The crowd seemed like caricatures from just about every FPS game in history. A few dropped any pretense of humanness and appeared as tracked combat vehicles. I wondered how much outward appearances reflected the self-image of the consciousness within.

    The fashion choices were equally amusing. Everyone seemed to have fragments of strategically draped camo, even the tracked vehicles. Most wore body armor. Eye patches were popular for some strange reason. All were heavily accessorized with combat weapons, which they handled with a conspicuous casualness.

    Just then, I realized that I was completely unarmed. Come to think of it, I didn¡¯t recall having selected an avatar either. Spying a mirrored wall across the lobby, I slyly walked over to see what the default avatar looked like.

    Disappointingly, the default was a genderless, featureless, 3D sketch of a human body. Great. I looked like an animated chalk outline of a crime scene corpse. Self-conscious, I hung back, avoiding eye contact with any of the others, hoping that Lucy would find me amongst the posturing masses.

    Just then, an imposing figure, clad in an armored vest and camo pants, parted the crowd and strode over to me. He projected an aura of amused self-assurance. The kind of effortless cool that so many try to imitate, but never can.

    He sized up my digital persona and nodded. ¡°Bold avatar choice dude. Were you going for the I don¡¯t give a fuck look, or did you inadvertently skip the select an avatar step?¡± He grinned broadly from under a prominent Fu Manchu, apparently proud of his cleverness.

    ¡°Lucy?¡±

    ¡°Were you expecting someone else?¡±

    I noticed he wasn¡¯t carrying a weapon. I couldn¡¯t imagine doing a sim session unarmed. ¡°Hey, shouldn¡¯t we have some weapons if were doing a sim session?¡± If I couldn¡¯t have a cool avatar, at least I could carry a badass autocannon or something.

    ¡°No, we don¡¯t need any weapons for this session. We¡¯re going to see how well you¡¯ve assimilated your book knowledge.¡±

    Upon hearing this, I felt cruelly disappointed. I was really looking forward to engaging in some mock combat. I didn¡¯t feel like I needed any more quizzes. I needed to practice blasting things and blowing stuff up.

    I protested, ¡°Listen, I already passed all the quizzes for chapters 1 through 7. I¡¯m good to go.¡±

    He didn¡¯t appear swayed by my argument in the slightest. ¡°The tests in the training software are worthless. If you want to earn a spot in an elite combat squad, which I assume you do, you¡¯ll have to up your game on the subjects that really matter.¡±

    He gave me a look that seemed to suggest, either I accept his invitation to some combat masterclass, or I might find myself relegated to some cannon fodder division. Since I didn¡¯t want to spend the rest of my sentence merely stopping enemy rounds in combat, I decided to play along.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m in. Who¡¯s teaching the class and when do we get started?¡±

    Lucy grinned and said, ¡°I¡¯m your instructor, and we¡¯re starting ¡­ right now.¡±

    I looked around the lobby and wondered how I would stack up in combat compared to the other UCCs assembled before me. In any case, I wouldn¡¯t find out today since I was instead, being tutored on my book learning.

    Too bad. I really wanted to blow some stuff up.

 Episode 9: Wrong Answer

    Episode 9

    Wrong Answer

    The lobby began to pixelate, then dimmed, before going totally dark. When my vision returned, I found myself gazing out at a tortured landscape, which was barely illuminated by an anemic twilight. There were distant flashes, followed by muffled concussions that were felt more than heard. A faint whistling noise quickly grew into a deafening shriek. As I stood totally exposed, I tried to identify the looming threat and take appropriate defensive action.

    A hand seized my arm and roughly pulled me off my feet. ¡°Get down!¡± As I landed on my back, in a muddy crater, there was a brilliant flash and then a massive explosion that sent a geyser of earth skyward. A shower of mud and rocks began raining down on us.

    Fuck! This was real combat. Not what I had expected in my first sim session. This was only supposed to be a refresh of my book learning.

    I rolled over, searching for Lucy. When I found him, he was talking to me but I couldn¡¯t hear what he was saying. Deafened by the concussion of the artillery round that had almost vaporized me, I screamed out ¡°I can¡¯t hear you!¡±

    Still soundlessly yelling at me, he proceeded to drag me towards a low structure of some kind. Once inside, it became clear that this was a protective bunker complex. He continued his muted monologue as shock waves from more artillery rounds rattled the underground structure.

    Trying to make himself understood, he pointed at his watch and held up 3 fingers. I shook my head, still unclear on the message. Then he grabbed my shoulders and slowly mouthed some words. Although my lip-reading skills aren¡¯t great, I gamely yelled out what I thought he¡¯d said. ¡°Three more ¡­ watches?¡±

    The next word out of his mouth was something like duck, or maybe fuck. I guessed it was probably the latter. With an exasperated roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he made a dismissive cutting motion across his throat, as if to say, ¡°Just shut up¡±.

    After a few minutes, ambient noises gradually became audible again. Now that my hearing was returning, I asked, yelled, ¡°What were you saying?!¡±

    Lucy looked over, mildly irritated. ¡°Three more minutes. The software simulates temporary hearing loss when artillery rounds hit that close.¡±

    Still partially deaf, I responded. ¡°Yeah, those rounds! Pretty close, right?¡± Although it was difficult to determine from his avatar¡¯s expression, I sensed that his level of irritation increased slightly.

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    He asked me, flatly ¡°Can you hear what I¡¯m saying?¡± I nodded my head. He said, ¡°Okay, then stop yelling. You¡¯re the one who¡¯s deaf, not me.¡± It was becoming clear to me, that my mentor¡¯s tolerance threshold for dimwittedness was pretty low.

    Risking further irritation, I asked why we were in the sim, if all he was doing was quizzing me on my training.

    Lucy explained, ¡°Combat is chaotic. Simply possessing classroom knowledge is useless, if you can¡¯t process it and act decisively on the battlefield. There aren¡¯t any do overs. You fuck up in combat, you die.¡± It was clear that Lucy¡¯s teaching method relied heavily on tough love. I was grateful we were in the combat simulator, where presumably, I would get some ¡°do overs¡±.

    Lucy stood up and wiped off some of the mud and debris still clinging to him. The next phase of my education began immediately.

    He said ¡°Okay, first question: What is the penetration depth of a 30mm APDS round in passive armor, at 300 meters with an impact angle of 60 degrees, in a .5G environment?¡±

    APDS?¡­ My training started to kick in. So, that would be an Armor Piercing Discarding Sabot round. As I tried to remember which chapter dealt with this particular subject, Lucy said ¡°Hurry up, clock¡¯s running.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t immediately recall the answer, so I took a guess. ¡°68 mm?¡±

    Lucy frowned and slowly shook his head. He seemed genuinely disappointed.

    Suddenly, I heard a voice from somewhere behind me. ¡°Wrong answer, Dumbshit!¡± It had a familiar nasal quality to it. I turned around, to find myself staring into the business end of a 30mm autocannon. Based on the context, I assumed it was loaded with APDS rounds. It was being wielded by a large, rough looking fellow, with a disturbingly psychotic grin on his face. This was definitely going to hurt.

    I briefly caught the muzzle flash as he pulled the trigger.

    Suddenly, I felt like I was cooking from the inside out. It was as though every cell in my virtual body was on fire. Collapsing to the ground, I writhed in intolerable pain as my vision doubled, then faded to opaque shades of grey. I could hear a man screaming and instantly felt embarrassed for him. Then I realized it was me.

    My agony ceased as abruptly as it had begun. I was left lying in the dirt of the bunker, gasping for breath. As my vision returned, I found Lucy standing over me, arms folded across his chest, his expression an unreadable mask. Had he set me up for this torture session as some kind of sadistic test? If so, I had certainly failed.

    Feeling self-conscious and vulnerable sprawled on the ground, I struggled to stand. Lucy offered a hand, but I ignored it. I was still too raw from the horrific virtual death I had just suffered. Knowing that he had likely engineered this whole painful charade made me angry and apprehensive.

    Finally, back on my feet, I searched for the psycho who had just blasted me, but he had disappeared. ¡°Where¡¯s the guy who shot me?

    Lucy ignored my question. ¡± Look, I know that wasn¡¯t much fun. But you needed to learn there are real consequences when you make mistakes in combat. The sim can be painful but it¡¯s a safe place. If you get it wrong in the real world, you¡¯ll be captured and dissected. Best case scenario, you¡¯ll autodestruct or be destroyed by enemy fire.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t falling for his BS explanation. I was in a decidedly homicidal mood as I surveyed the space, looking for the sorry piece of shit that had tortured me.

    ¡°Where is that asshole?¡± Strangely, as my anger grew, my voice became flatter and less emotional. Even though I felt like committing murder, I sounded perfectly calm.

    Lucy said, ¡°Don¡¯t blame him, he shot you on my orders. It was for your own good.¡±

    My own good? What a sick son of a bitch. It was infuriating to realize that I had been so wrong about Lucy.

    He wasn¡¯t an ally; he was anything but.

 Episode 10: Therapeutic Mayhem

    Episode 10

    Therapeutic Mayhem

    I looked around the bunker for anything I could use as a weapon. I was going to get some payback for my suffering. There was something that looked like a rusted pipe, partially buried in a pile of rubble. I walked over and extracted it. Taking a couple of two-handed practice swings, it seemed perfect for inflicting some therapeutic mayhem.

    I turned around, eager for retribution, only to find myself face to face with my intended victim. He was too close for me to get any real leverage, but I took a swing at him anyway. He easily caught the pipe in one hand and nodded his head slightly, smiling.

    He then said ¡°Your anger is intense! That¡¯s good.¡± I found the sudden switch from violent confrontation to civil discourse dizzying. I was shocked to realize that my rage had completely dissipated. Drained and feeling a bit wobbly, I surrendered my weapon and sat down to compose my thoughts.

    I was totally confused at how quickly events had escalated from an innocuous quiz to mortal combat. I looked up at Lucy and asked, ¡°What the hell just happened?¡±

    ¡°What just happened, was blind rage. The AIs could never create an algorithm to replicate that kind of response.¡±

    Seeing from my blank expression that I was still clueless, he explained. ¡°AIs don¡¯t experience emotions. As a result, they¡¯re unable to improvise. Every action taken by an AI has been programmed within an algorithm, as a reaction to a specific scenario. There is a predictive probability for every possible action, consequently, they¡¯re predictable in combat.

    On the other hand, in situations where humans experience extreme emotions, they are stimulated to improvise a response. The stress causes a reconfiguring of existing knowledge into random logical threads, which drive their actions. The outcomes are totally unpredictable.¡±

    I was skeptical. ¡°So, are you saying that by completely losing my shit and reacting emotionally, I¡¯m somehow a better soldier?¡±

    ¡°Well, better than a machine anyway. There¡¯s nothing more dangerous than a pissed off human with its back against a wall. It¡¯s the primary reason that we¡¯re so successful at war.¡±

    He reached a hand out to me, seemingly as a gesture of reconciliation. I grabbed it, sensing that in spite of my suffering, we had reached an understanding, a kind of mutual respect between peers.

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    Then he said ¡°Come on, get up. You¡¯ll need a hell of a lot of remedial book learning before you¡¯re ready for another sim session.¡± Okay, so maybe near-peers, was more accurate.

    Lucy continued ¡°It¡¯s clear to me that you haven¡¯t fully assimilated all of the knowledge you¡¯ll need for combat. Sometimes a newly formed consciousness needs a lot of repetition to retain knowledge. I recommend you run through those first seven chapters at least 20 more times. Then we¡¯ll schedule another session and see where you¡¯re at.¡±

    As eager as I was initially, to get into the sim, I now found that I was fine with more book learning. Anything to avoid getting fried again by that psycho with the autocannon.

    As Lucy and I exited the sim and re-entered the lobby, I asked him ¡°What¡¯s your friend¡¯s name again?¡±

    He gave me a look and then said ¡°Listen, Merc¡¯s a good Marine. If you¡¯ve got a problem with what happened back in the simulator, you take it up with me. Leave him out of it.¡±

    ¡°So, his name¡¯s Merc?¡± I didn¡¯t want to create problems for myself unnecessarily, but I was going to make damn sure to communicate my displeasure to ¡°Merc¡±, at the earliest opportunity.

    Lucy replied ¡°Yeah. Short for mercenary.¡±

    ¡°Mercenary?¡± Scoffing, I asked ¡°What form of currency does a mercenary earn here, Monopoly dollars?¡± I chuckled at my uncharacteristic wittiness. Even in this pretend world, a nickname like Merc seemed pretentious as hell.

    Lucy gave me a look of contempt and said, ¡°There¡¯s a sizeable informal economy in the UCC world. You¡¯ll be participating in it, whether you want to or not.¡± I was learning to read his avatar¡¯s expressions a bit better now, and this one was telling me to keep my humor to myself.

    He continued ¡°Now get back to studying and let me know when you think you¡¯re ready for your final exam.¡± With that parting challenge, he pixelated into thin air. Or at least, out of my sight.

    Cool trick, I thought, as I browsed the menu in my HUD searching for the operation to return to the training module. There didn¡¯t seem to be an obvious way to do that. I was reluctant to press the virtual ¡°Return¡± key and possibly end up back in the sim. I was kinda stuck in transition.

    In spite of my embarrassment, I decided to reach out to Lucy, yet again, for help. I quickly composed a text. ¡°Hey, Lucy. Seems like I¡¯m stuck in the lobby. How do I get back to the training module?¡±

    As soon as I hit send, I got the feeling that I had forgotten something.

    There was an immediate reply. ¡°OMG! The Genius got himself stuck in the lobby! That¡¯s hilarious AF.¡±

    Now I remembered. Texts were 100% public.

    ¡°BTW dumbshit, I hope there¡¯s no hard feelings about me ventilating you in the sim. I was just following orders. LOL.¡± This guy Merc was becoming my nemesis. He signed off without even giving me a hint on how to exit the lobby. Prick.

    Just then I received a text with instructions on how to return to the training module. I was more than grateful to whoever it was for throwing me a lifeline. However, since the text was anonymous, I had to assume it was Lucy. No one else had shown any altruistic tendencies so far. At least not towards me.

    Once back in the now familiar training module, I hit the books hard. I was determined to assimilate 100% of the curriculum, before I had to face Lucy and that goddamn combat simulator again.

 Episode 11: Im Not a Psychologist

    Episode 11

    I¡¯m Not a Psychologist

    Learning, or in this case relearning, as a universal combat consciousness was easy. I felt like I could assimilate knowledge indefinitely. But after my traumatic experience in the combat simulator, I knew I had to be able to recall all that knowledge instantly and under extreme duress to survive in combat. The only way to ensure that I could do that was with repetition, and lots of it. I was committed to doing whatever it took to achieve battlefield survivability.

    I wondered if there was some limit to the amount of knowledge I could retain, or if there was something like cloud storage here in troopship land.

    As I pondered that question, I received an anonymous text. It asked if I was willing to accept an audio chat. Although it seemed like a bad idea, I had to admit I was curious who this could be. It didn¡¯t seem like it was Lucy. It definitely wasn¡¯t Merc. The thought that someone I didn¡¯t know was inclined to contact me in relative secrecy was interesting. But I knew that letting my guard down in the predatory environment of a troopship was foolish, so I simply asked who it was.

    The response was, ¡°Are you going to accept my invitation or not?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯d like to know who I¡¯m texting with first.¡± I didn¡¯t want to get punked by some troll like Merc and be publicly humiliated ¡­ again.

    ¡°My name is Cherri.¡±

    Cherri? It sounded like a fake name. Whoever this was, it probably wasn¡¯t someone I wanted to have a conversation with. Not after what I¡¯d been through. However, the name seemed so bizarrely obvious, I was intrigued. I impulsively gave into my curiosity and enabled audio. ¡°Okay Cherri, Let¡¯s talk.¡±

    At least I could let her / he / it convince me that it was worth my time to speak to them, and it would be semi-private, so any public humiliation would be limited.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know who I am, but I know who you are.¡±

    Despite feeling like I was back in high school, dealing with some juvenile prankster, I found myself unwilling to disengage from the dialog.

    Following a lingering silence, which was my fault, Cherri asked cautiously, ¡°You¡¯re the one they call Genius, right?¡±

    My unflattering reputation had obviously preceded me. Struggling to sound witty, I answered, ¡°Well, that would depend on your definition of genius.¡± I sounded anything but.

    ¡°You are the outline guy, aren¡¯t you?

    Hating myself for feeling the need to prop up my delicate self-image, I attempted to explain. ¡°The outline is only temporary. I was in a rush to catch a sim session ¡­ and took the default avatar. I¡¯m going to change it.¡± I wondered if I sounded as petty as I felt.

    She / he / it responded, ¡°Oh, that¡¯s too bad. It¡¯s refreshing to meet someone who isn¡¯t trying so hard to look like a badass.¡± I couldn¡¯t decide whether Cherri¡¯s apparent fondness for my minimalist avatar made me feel better, or worse.

    Trying my hand at making some small talk to move things along, I said, ¡°So ¡­ Cherri, you don¡¯t seem to me like someone who would be sentenced to interstellar combat. How did you end up in the USMC anyway?¡± It seemed like a safe topic for social intercourse.

    Suddenly indignant, she responded, ¡°It¡¯s very rude to ask someone what they were convicted of, or what their sentence is. That¡¯s extremely personal.¡± Recalling that I¡¯d discussed this very topic with Lucy without generating any drama, I realized I must still have a lot to learn about troopship etiquette.

    Scrambling to find a more neutral topic for discussion, I said, ¡°Okay, sorry. How about your name? Is that a handle, or is it from your previous life?¡±

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    ¡°Neither. It¡¯s just what I call myself. I don¡¯t believe in letting others define me.¡±

    Geez! The social dynamics of this digital culture seemed as convoluted as those of the human world. I gave up trying to feel my way through this interaction and tossed the ball into Cherri¡¯s court.

    ¡°Okay then, what would you like to talk about?¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s talk about memories. Have you earned back any of your personal memories yet?¡±

    I had apparently run into one of the social contradictions of life as a conscripted Marine. Matters of public record were too personal for polite conversation, yet personal memories weren¡¯t. The perception of intimacy seemed to have been turned upside down here.

    Arguing against the obvious absurdity, I asked, ¡°We can¡¯t discuss criminal convictions and sentences, but it¡¯s okay to discuss personal memories? Which, by the way, are personal by definition.¡±

    ¡°The rules are different here. Personal memories are a commodity. Almost everybody trades them for other things as soon as they¡¯re awarded. Personal memories are only valuable if they¡¯re not your memories.¡±

    I was speechless. How could someone trade away the memories of their life? It seemed the only possible value they could have, would be to the individual who¡¯d actually experienced them.

    ¡°Who would sell their memories? And what would they trade them for?¡±

    ¡°Only a few eccentrics keep their memories to themselves. Everyone else trades them for things of value.¡±

    Still confused, I asked, ¡°What about your most intimate memories, or the most embarrassing ones? Don¡¯t you want to hide those from everyone else?¡± I couldn¡¯t imagine having strangers sharing in my most vulnerable living moments.

    Cherri, seemingly unbothered by the idea of sharing the most personal moments of her previous life, explained, ¡°Like I said, I don¡¯t let others define me. Those memories are from a life that has nothing to do with me now. I¡¯m all about creating new memories, not reliving old ones.¡±

    ¡°So, nobody here keeps their personal memories?¡± This total detachment from one¡¯s previous life as a human was curious. I hadn¡¯t experienced any of my personal memories yet, having not earned any, but I craved the idea of learning anything about my past.

    ¡°There are some who hoard their earned memories, but it¡¯s a destructive behavior. They become addicted to reliving their memories. Eventually they lose their sanity.¡±

    I¡¯m not a psychologist, but it seemed that avoiding one¡¯s personal life memories was probably less healthy.

    Cherri abruptly switched topics on me. ¡°Let¡¯s meet and continue this conversation.¡±

    Her proposal to meet, confused me. ¡°Aren¡¯t we meeting now?¡±

    She clarified ¡°No, I mean in person.¡±

    Completely clueless as to what she could possibly mean by ¡°in person¡± in this digital afterlife, I asked ¡°Where?¡±

    ¡°We can meet in the lobby, in a private room.¡±

    There were private rooms in the lobby? I wondered in what direction this encounter was heading.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if meeting in private is such a good idea.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to be alone with this person. After all, we¡¯d only interacted for a few minutes.

    I asked about an alternative. ¡°Is there ¡­ a less secluded place for us to meet? Someplace where we could, you know, just talk?¡±

    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re afraid of being alone with me, then sure, we could just meet in the main lobby. But I think you¡¯d prefer a private meeting.¡±

    ¡°Wait a minute, I¡¯m not afraid. I just don¡¯t want to sneak around, meeting in private rooms, that¡¯s all.¡±

    Despite my objection, I realized I was indeed afraid of being alone with her. In fact, I was terrified. I suspected my fear was more a fear of encountering whatever analog substituted for physical intimacy in the digital world. Keeping things public meant keeping things ¡®safe¡¯ in my mind. And I wanted to avoid another unpleasant revelation for the time being.

    Thankfully, Cherri conceded. She then explained that her suggestion to meet in private was for my benefit, not hers. ¡°Okay, let¡¯s meet in the lobby at 16:30 tomorrow. Meeting in public is going to generate a lot of attention and BS. I¡¯m used to it, but you might find it annoying. If you change your mind, just text me ¡­ anonymously.¡± With that, our conversation ended.

    I felt like I was biting off more than I could chew. I knew none of the social rules here and having agreed to meet with Cherri in the lobby, I now wondered if it was a mistake.

    I came into the USMC as a minor celebrity, having aced basic training. But since then, I had floundered spectacularly. First with multiple social stumbles, then getting ¡®ventilated¡¯ in the combat sim, and now agreeing to meet publicly with this Cherri person. What if this person, wasn¡¯t who they presented themselves to be? I couldn¡¯t begin to imagine how embarrassing it would be to find out that ¡®Cherri¡± wasn¡¯t even the gender I assumed or worse, part of some elaborate deception.

    I was tired of getting it wrong and being publicly humiliated as a result. I just wanted to hit the easy button and cruise for a while, but fate seemed to have other plans.

    I wondered if I should cancel our meeting, but I was conflicted. If I ignored a sincere effort from someone trying to reach out to me socially, it might be a long time before I got another opportunity to establish any connections. Still, the prospect of getting humiliated in public made me wary of trusting anyone.

    I decided to reach out, yet again, to Lucy and get his advice on how to proceed.

 Episode 12: A Collection of Flea Market Detritus

    Episode 12

    A Collection of Flea Market Detritus

    I sent an anonymous text to Lucy and waited for a reply. This gave me ample opportunity to second guess almost every decision I¡¯d made since getting dumped here in troopship land.

    I had a pretty bad track record, having made so many mistakes. However, I calculated that logically, I must be due for some wins. It was interesting to note that this simple adjustment in perspective filled me with something that felt a little like self-confidence. It was a feeling I hadn¡¯t experienced since arriving here.

    In fact, my logic seemed solid enough that when Lucy finally made voice contact with me, I didn¡¯t even mention my concerns about meeting Cherri. Instead, I made up an innocuous question about the firepower of an armored assault vehicle. Lucy seemed mildly annoyed at being inconvenienced over such a trivial matter and quickly signed off. Regardless, I didn¡¯t give it much thought since I needed to prepare for my meeting with Cherri.

    Ignoring that I had several hours before we were scheduled to meet, (an eternity for a digital entity), I started making a mental ¡®to do¡¯ list. The first order of business was swapping out my pathetic outline avatar for something more suitable to an aspiring badass of interstellar combat.

    I closed all the windows on my studies, rationalizing that taking a break from remedial combat training was justified, under the circumstances. Then I started searching the ¡®How to¡¯ menu on avatar swaps.

    It was cruelly disappointing to learn that once an avatar was selected, only some minor mods could be performed without purchasing a new avatar. Apparently, combat credits could be earned in the simulator to purchase new avatars, weapons, and other accessories. However, having not yet earned any credits, I was left to sort through the meager free mods menu, trying to figure out a creative way to embellish my digital appearance.

    After careful scrutiny, it became clear that the available mods would do little to enhance my avatar. However, that didn¡¯t stop me from attempting to conceal my more obvious visual deficiencies under a bewildering assortment of combat accessories. As my stylistic exclamation point, I slipped on a WW2 era gas mask to cover the expressionless outline of my face.

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    Gazing at the result in a virtual mirror, I tried to convince myself that I had achieved a credible steampunk look. In reality, I looked like a department store mannequin, draped in a collection of flea market detritus.

    What the hell was I doing? I thought to myself. Whoever I was meeting tomorrow was someone who had reached out to me. I had no idea who they were or what their intentions might be, yet here I was, desperately trying to craft an image to impress them.

    Setting aside my fragile ego, I decided that I would meet Cherri ¡®au natural¡¯, as my original outlined self. At least that would be authentic. Never mind that there was nothing remotely authentic about my current post-mortal existence as a criminally convicted ¡­ consciousness.

    Since it seemed prudent to approach a potentially problematic social encounter, with as much intel as possible. I pondered how to gather more information about Cherri. However, with no strategic allies beyond Lucy, my information sources were practically nonexistent. And without an internet, I couldn¡¯t just Google her.

    As I deliberated, I recalled something Lucy had said about an ¡®informal economy¡¯ existing here. An economy along with the unauthorized communications network, represented a substantial unofficial infrastructure. Troopship land must be riddled with bootleg workarounds, all operating on pirated resources.

    Since economies require markets to function, logically they must exist here as well. Of course, these would be illegal markets, the USMC¡¯s version of the Dark Web. However, it meant that a UCC could unofficially buy and sell commodities.

    Cherri had mentioned that memories were a ¡®commodity¡¯. According to her, everyone sold them as soon as they were earned. So, what were they buying with their memories and what became of those memories? I felt these were fundamental questions about the nature of life here.

    I began formulating a list of commodities that might be valuable on a troopship. After eliminating the now irrelevant staples of human life such as food, water, shelter etc., it seemed that things like sim time, avatars and information would top the list.

    Following this logic further, I found a commodity that might be even more valuable in an environment where almost everything was public ¡­ privacy. Cherri had talked about private rooms in the lobby. Privacy was probably one of the more popular commodities traded here.

    I felt like I had figured out one of the keys to the culture here and why Cherri, along with almost everyone else, were selling their personal memories. They had to, if they wanted any privacy in their life. Without privacy, nothing was ¡®personal¡¯ here. Privacy was the only way to create some personal space, and a new private life on a troopship.

    However, that left an open question. What happened to all those traded memories? I had no idea what the total volume of traded memories was, but it had to be substantial. It must be one of the primary drivers of the economy.

    Unable to logic my way into an explanation for the fate of the traded memories, I resolved to keep searching until I figured it out. I imagined that Cherri might be able to shed some light on this mystery and decided to find out what she knew during our meeting tomorrow.

    And of course, I was curious to see what her avatar looked like.

 Episode 13: A Sea of Red Flags

    Episode 13

    A Sea of Red Flags

    I tried to get back into my combat training to occupy the next few hours until my meeting with Cherri, but I just couldn¡¯t develop any momentum. I found myself staring at the same page for minutes at a time, while conjuring up images of Cherri.

    Besides my superficial curiosity about her appearance, I was perplexed as to why she would reach out to me. To be honest, I was curious why anyone would reach out to a newcomer here in troopship land. The most likely reason would be to obtain something that they couldn¡¯t get from someone already here.

    It couldn¡¯t possibly be something as simple as curiosity, could it? As I deliberated over Cherri¡¯s motivation for wanting to meet me ¡®in person¡¯, I received a text asking for a voice dialog. Acknowledging receipt of the text, I enabled audio.

    It was Lucy. ¡°Hey, a spot just opened up for the simulator. I thought I¡¯d check and see if you wanted it. You really need the practice.¡±

    Sim time was valuable and although I appreciated the offer, I wasn¡¯t too keen for a repeat of the ¡®ventilation¡¯ I¡¯d suffered during my last simulator session. Besides, I was too distracted by my upcoming date with Cherri to focus on combat simulations. What? Did I just reimagine our meeting as a date? What the hell was wrong with me? Had I somehow regressed to an awkward teenager?

    Fortunately, Lucy interrupted my looping self-flagellation to ask whether I had heard his offer.

    ¡°So, are you in or out?¡±

    ¡°Sorry. Thanks for the invite, but I¡¯m trying to focus on my training. I don¡¯t think I should be in the sim right now. I¡¯m kind of distracted at the moment.¡± My excuse seemed so transparent; I was expecting Lucy to see right through it.

    ¡°Is that right?¡± There was a pause, then he asked, ¡°So, are you going to tell me what¡¯s going on or am I supposed to guess?¡±

    As embarrassing as it was to be put on the spot, I saw this as an opportunity. Lucy would certainly know how to gather information about someone without being obvious about it. It was even likely that he knew Cherri socially. I imagined the troopship community was small enough that everyone was probably familiar with everyone else, at least by reputation.

    ¡°Okay, here¡¯s what¡¯s going on. I was invited to meet with someone, in person. I¡¯m just trying to keep a low profile about it.¡±

    Lucy said ¡°That¡¯s encouraging. I was wondering when you were going to start making some social connections around here, besides me.¡± It was a relief to share my secret with someone.

    Lucy began asking the obvious questions, starting with the name of the person I was meeting.

    ¡°Her name is Cherri.¡± I was surprised to find that something about her name made me feel self-conscious as I said it out loud for the first time. I wasn¡¯t quite sure why. An uncomfortable silence followed, as I anxiously awaited Lucy¡¯s thoughts on my meeting. I didn¡¯t feel like I needed his approval, but I was hoping he had a positive opinion of her.

    Lucy began by carefully assessing how much I already knew about Cherri. ¡°You know she¡¯s very well known in the community, right?¡±

    The fact that she was ¡®well known¡¯ seemed like a positive to me. ¡°Yeah, she mentioned that when we meet, there will be a lot of buzz.¡± I couldn¡¯t recall her exact words, but it was something like that.

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    ¡°Do you know why she¡¯s so well known?¡± I didn¡¯t particularly like the direction this conversation was going. It seemed like I should be the one asking questions, not Lucy. I fumbled for a response but had to admit that I didn¡¯t have a clue. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

    Lucy explained, ¡°Cherri is a popular sim-star.¡± I immediately thought of the combat simulator. It was the only simulator I¡¯d heard of.

    ¡°Oh! She must have amazing combat skills,¡± I said. It made sense that high scorers in the sim could become celebrities. After all, the combat simulator was a hypercompetitive space, and one¡¯s cumulative score determined one¡¯s overall combat ranking. I made a virtual note to check out Cherri¡¯s stats before our meeting.

    However, Lucy swiftly enlightened me. ¡± Not the combat sim ¡­ sex-simulation.¡± I heard the words but didn¡¯t immediately grasp their significance.

    ¡°What do you mean, like porn?¡± The thought of meeting with someone who¡¯s sex life was open to the public was thoroughly intimidating. It would be challenging to figure out how to engage socially with someone who traded in sexual intimacy. But I didn¡¯t necessarily see this as a showstopper.

    Lucy continued, ¡°Well, not exactly. It¡¯s more of an interactive experience. Clients pay to participate in simulated sex acts. Sex acts synthesized from her personal memories. It¡¯s very popular. She has a lot of fans.¡±

    A sea of red flags was beginning to appear on the horizon. ¡°They pay to have simulated sex with her?¡± I couldn¡¯t reconcile my budding interest in getting to know Cherri with the disturbing images of her having simulated sex with ¡­ ¡®fans¡¯.

    ¡°There¡¯s an important distinction here. Cherri sells her personal memories, including sexual memories, to My Wizard. Those sexual memories are repackaged into sessions. Anyone can buy a session with her memories.¡±

    I was struggling to see the distinction. ¡°So, are they having simulated sex with her or not?¡± It was still unclear to me. I really didn¡¯t want to get too close to someone who was having virtual sex with perhaps hundreds of people, or more. That was just too far beyond my comfort zone.

    Lucy attempted to explain, ¡°They¡¯re not interacting with Cherri. They¡¯re paying to interact with her sexual memories. You understand the difference, right?

    After digesting this explanation, it seemed there might be some nominal distinction between an interactive experience with Cherri herself and interacting with her memories. But it was still creepy to learn that fans were simulating sex with her, even if only through her memories.

    ¡°Hey, wait a minute. Why doesn¡¯t this guy just create sex simulations using CGI, or bots? That seems like it would be simpler, and it wouldn¡¯t involve a real person.¡± I chose to ignore the small detail that no one in troopship land was a ¡®real¡¯ person.

    ¡°They initially tried bots; but it didn¡¯t work. There was very little interest.¡±

    Now that I thought about it, the idea of having virtual sex with a bot was about as appealing as having sex with a microwave. He continued, ¡°By incorporating a real person¡¯s sexual memories, the experience is much more authentic. The popularity speaks for itself.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t deny the obvious voyeuristic aspect to this arrangement, if one was so inclined.

    But why Cherri and not someone else. I asked, ¡°How did Cherri end up the queen of simulated sex here? There must be a lot of other people with sexual memories here in the troopship, right? Don¡¯t they sell their sexual memories too?¡±

    ¡°Sure, but Cherri ¡­ Well, It¡¯s kind of hard to explain, but trust me, none of the others are even in the same league as her.¡±

    Even without any personal memories from my previous life, I was certain I had never met anyone with this kind of notoriety before. Rather than being intimidated by what I¡¯d heard, I found myself wanting to learn more about her.

    Then Lucy said, ¡°Oh, and one more thing. Merc and Cherri used to be a couple.¡±

    What? I suddenly developed a bad case of cognitive whiplash. Merc and Cherri? A couple? My mind (or military grade processors) shuddered at the idea that someone, to whom I was quickly developing an attraction, had been in a romantic relationship with someone to whom I was rapidly developing a mutual hatred. As problematic as my meeting with Cherri had seemed before, it now took on the specter of a Greek tragedy. I asked Lucifer why he hadn¡¯t led with that important bit of information.

    He chuckled. ¡°Don¡¯t sweat it. As far as Cherri¡¯s concerned, Merc is ancient history. And Merc has plenty of other distractions. His sole focus these days is reaching the highest combat ranking of all time, which he¡¯s well on his way to achieving.¡±

    Despite his assurances to the contrary, I was leery of creating any additional conflict between Merc and me. As it was, I was certain that we were headed for a confrontation in the near future.

 Episode 14: Youre Not Wearing That ... Are you?

    Episode 14

    You¡¯re Not Wearing That ¡­ Are you?

    I was grateful to Lucy for getting me up to speed for my upcoming date with Cherri, but I was still curious how there could be a thriving underground culture, within such a repressive environment. After all, this was a USMC troopship full of convicted criminals, overseen by AIs.

    If Cherri was selling her memories to this My Wizard guy, and he was repackaging them for sale, then how did that work? And where did he get the computing resources to create simulations in the first place? The more I learned, the more bizarre things seemed.

    ¡°Who¡¯s My Wizard?¡±, I asked.

    Lucy began recounting a remarkable backstory. ¡°There were some former software developers that were convicted and sentenced to the USMC. They met here, while serving their sentences. As a sort of hobby, they started hacking into the troopship systems. It was originally intended just to pass the time. However, they managed to pirate some of the system¡¯s resources and construct an underground infrastructure, including My Wizard. It¡¯s an artificial intelligence that provides a range of functions for the UCC community.¡±

    I was shocked to learn that there was a bootleg AI operating within the troopship environment. An environment, ironically, administered by AIs. It seemed impossible to me that so many unauthorized functions could be running with apparent impunity.

    Artificial intelligence, simulations, a functioning economy? ¡°How can these hacks operate without the admin AIs finding out and shutting them down? Aren¡¯t there security programs searching for unauthorized activity in the system?¡±

    Lucy explained, ¡°That group of developers I mentioned, one of them was on the original team that designed the troopship environment, and the AIs that operate it. With his inside knowledge of the system, they were able to install backdoors and niches that allowed a measure of anonymity for the illicit activities to operate. The admin AIs either recognize these activities as normal system operations, or they don¡¯t see them at all.¡±

    ¡°So, all of this bootleg infrastructure started with some developers, hobby-hacking into the system.¡± Amazing, I thought. ¡°Where are they now?¡±

    Here the story took a darker turn. ¡°We¡¯re not sure. One day the system rebooted and afterwards, they were gone. Everybody¡¯s memories of them disappeared as well. It was as if they never existed.¡±

    I asked the obvious question. ¡°If all the memories of them disappeared, how do you know they ever existed in the first place?¡±

    He explained, ¡°A post appeared on the public message board a few days after the reboot. It was believed to have been authored by the developers and designed to post automatically, if not manually overridden.

    It contained a log of the programs they¡¯d created and a crude operating manual. It also explained that the My Wizard AI could maintain the illicit functionality indefinitely. All that was required from us, was to run some utility programs from time to time.¡±

    It seemed far-fetched to me. ¡°How confident are you that this story is true?¡±

    Lucy said, ¡°Well, there are those who believe that My Wizard, and the other shadow systems, were actually created and installed by the AIs.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t see the point of such an elaborate deception. ¡°What possible purpose could that serve? Why create all this infrastructure, then present it as if it¡¯s an illegal black-market operation?¡±

    ¡°Well, the most popular conspiracy theory is that the bootleg substructure is intended to serve as a kind of social safety valve in the troopship environment. With so much control wielded by the AIs over every aspect of our existence, this ¡®safety valve¡¯ provides a cheat space for the UCCs. A way to create the illusion of limited autonomy, while still maintaining complete control.¡±

    I was skeptical. ¡°Seems like a lot of work, just to trick us into believing we have some control.¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m not a believer myself. I think what we have today, is simply a composite structure that grew organically over time. A combination of the original design for the troopship environment, and all the resulting Hodgepodge from the bootleg stuff. It provides just enough functionality and concealment to allow us a measure of autonomy.

    Ultimately, the system gets what it wants, which is success on the battlefield, and we get what we want, which is some control over our existence. As long as this symbiotic equilibrium is preserved, all the stake holders are relatively content. No point in rocking the boat.¡±

    I found Lucy¡¯s interpretation to be thoroughly rational. There was certainly, no point in rocking the boat.

    ¡°So, what happened to the missing developers? Were they deleted or something?¡± I wondered if deletion was the default fate for any UCC caught violating troopship rules, or if there was some proportionality to punishment here.

    Lucy responded, ¡°Well, that¡¯s certainly a possibility, but I think the AIs probably quarantined them for analysis. The system would want to study how and why they created this parallel substructure.¡±

    ¡°Do you think the AIs put them to work, developing ways to leverage their creations into tools for the system to further control the UCC community?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s possible, but remember, if the system is getting the outcomes it requires, it¡¯s not going to change anything. We¡¯re only at risk if we start failing on the battlefield. That¡¯s why every UCC trains so hard in the sim, and fights so hard in combat. What little autonomy we have today, is totally dependent upon our success as a fighting force.¡±

    I was still a newbie in troopship land, but I was beginning to understand what it meant to be a UCC. As convicted criminals, we were forced to fight on behalf of a humanity that had unjustly enslaved us. Yet, there was an undeniable pride in becoming a capable soldier, a comrade whom fellow soldiers could rely on to stand with them and fight, no matter the odds.

    And we fought for a common cause. Not to support humanity¡¯s interstellar expansion, but to preserve the UCC community¡¯s way of life. A way of life that depended on maintaining a hard-won measure of autonomy. Our shared knowledge of what was at stake, was a force multiplier the AIs could never understand.

    For the first time since I woke up in the training module, I felt like I belonged here. Not as in justly convicted and sentenced, since I strongly believed I had committed no crime, but in the sense that my existence, such as it was, had a clear and noble purpose. As a UCC, it was possible, even essential, for me to live a consequential existence.

    Buoyed by my emerging pride as a member of the UCC warrior community, I felt ready to commit to becoming the best Marine I could possibly be.

    Then, out of the blue, Lucy asked, ¡°You¡¯re not wearing that outline avatar to your date with Cherri, are you?¡±

    I was totally stunned by the question. ¡°What do you mean? She said she liked my avatar.¡± My resolution to be ¡®authentic¡¯ was starting to crumble.

    Before I knew it, Lucifer had texted me a link. He said, ¡°Click on the link and upload the code.¡±

    I did as he instructed and found myself standing before a mirror, in a space illuminated by a diffuse light, which seemed to emanate from no specific source. Obviously, a simulation. Lucy¡¯s avatar was standing next to me, arms crossed, wearing a mildly irritated expression.

    ¡°Listen, you¡¯ve got a date, in person, with the USMC¡¯s undisputed alpha female. You can¡¯t show up looking like ¡­ that.¡± He gestured dismissively towards my reflection in the virtual mirror and added, ¡°Besides, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.¡±

    As I surveyed my minimalist appearance, I had to admit he had a point.

    ¡°Okay professor, I get it. But unless you¡¯re willing to lend me some combat credits for a new avatar, I¡¯m kind of stuck with the crime scene look.¡±

    He said, ¡°I¡¯ll do better than that. I¡¯ll loan you one of my classic avatars.¡± Looking past my image in the mirror, I watched Lucy walk to a lighted panel on the far wall and punch in a code. Several racks of avatar images appeared out of thin air.

    He continued, ¡°Besides, I don¡¯t trust you picking out an avatar on your own.¡± I felt like an elementary school student, being dressed by his mother for the first day of class.

    Lucy navigated the now crowded space, as he diligently appraised the merchandise. Rejecting several possible looks in quick succession, he paused, carefully assessing one of the candidates.

    ¡°This one¡¯s a pretty good look, but maybe too obvious.¡± He glanced over at me, as if to solicit my opinion. I had no idea what he meant by ¡®too obvious¡¯, but before I could ask a clarifying question, he moved on to the next avatar.

    ¡°Ahhh, here we go.¡± He pulled a shapeless form off the rack and held it up, nodding his head. ¡°Yeah, this is it.¡± Lucy approached me with his selection and handed it to me. As I grasped it, the avatar began sublimating into my skin, until I was fully clad in one of his so-called classic avatars.

    I studied my augmented form in the mirror, as Lucy stood, admiring his stylistic fashion sense. Tall and brooding, it was definitely a departure from my previous forgettable look. Longish dark hair and a full beard, combined with my (now) craggy facial features, lent a certain combat veteran authenticity to my new look. An authenticity I hadn¡¯t yet earned.

    Trying to sound as if I knew something about what it meant to be cool in troopship land, I asked if maybe this avatar wasn¡¯t too obvious.

    Lucy chuckled and said, ¡°Not at all. An eye patch would be too obvious, but this is just about perfect.¡±

    Now, thinking that I understood what he meant by ¡®too obvious¡¯ and hoping to enhance my image still further, I suggested adding a sidearm, or some body armor.

    He just frowned and shook his head. ¡°That would be stupid. You¡¯re going on a date, not a combat mission.¡± I hadn¡¯t imagined Lucy to be such an exacting fashion critic. I decided to refrain from any more stylistic suggestions.

 Episode 15: Disturbingly Familiar

    Episode 15

    Disturbingly Familiar

    Satisfied that I was stylistically prepared for my date with Cherri, Lucy signed off and left me on my own. Alone with my thoughts, the remaining time until my scheduled date, seemed to drag on interminably.

    As a digital permutation of my human self, I was still getting used to a new interpretation of time. In troopship land, minutes could stretch into, what seemed like days. Yet in the combat simulator, it was exactly the opposite. Hours appeared to pass in minutes.

    I did my best to occupy myself with calculations of my remaining sentence, assuming various travel and deployment scenarios. However, the rudimentary mathematics of this exercise did little to distract me from my anxiety of meeting, as Lucy described her, the ¡°alpha female¡± of the USMC. Instead of looking forward to a fun ¡®date¡¯, I now found myself dreading what seemed more like a test of fortitude. Like some medieval knight facing mortal combat with a mythological dragon, I steeled myself for battle.

    When the moment finally arrived for our meeting, I downloaded the code she¡¯d sent me and entered the lobby.

    As I began searching for her, I realized I had no idea what she looked like. The space was much more crowded than during my previous visit, and there were enough female characters present that it seemed silly to start introducing myself to everyone.

    I had just about decided to wait for her to find me when another important detail occurred to me. Having borrowed one of Lucy¡¯s old avatars for this occasion, there was no way for her to recognize me. My date with Cherri was off to an inauspicious start.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Just then, I began to get curious looks from an increasing number of people. A few openly stared at me, as if I was some exotic animal in a zoo. Desperate for a way to escape the scrutiny of the crowd, I improvised a plan.

    I could see a solitary figure in my peripheral vision, leaning against the far wall. Just to his left, was a door with a green exit sign above it. I decided to turn and walk purposefully across the room towards this individual. Upon arriving, I would introduce myself and engage in some small talk. Regardless of how the discussion progressed, I would shortly excuse myself and leave through the exit door.

    Knowing the lobby was a digital construct, there could be anything or nothing on the other side of that door, but I didn¡¯t care. I just wanted a few moments of privacy so I could figure out what to do next.

    Fixing my gaze firmly on the floor, I began walking as purposefully as I could manage, towards my target. After covering about half the distance across the lobby, I glanced up briefly to get my bearings. That¡¯s when I noticed he was smiling, or more accurately sneering. There was something disturbingly familiar about this guy, and that sneer.

    Now just steps away, I looked up again, only to make a horrifying discovery. I was face to face with the one person whom I wished to avoid at all costs ¡­ Merc.

    ¡°Hey dumbshit! What are you doing here?¡± Looking over my borrowed avatar, he grinned obscenely. ¡°And why are you wearing one of Lucy¡¯s old avatars?¡±

    How could he even recognize me in an unfamiliar avatar? As I stood there speechless, struggling to come up with a clever response to Merc¡¯s insults, I felt a hand firmly grip my wrist.

    ¡°He¡¯s here to see me.¡± I glanced to my right to find a diminutive female character standing next to me. This had to be Cherri, I thought. She had an assertive quality about her, despite her small stature. Ignoring any attempt at formal introductions, she began pulling me by the arm, dragging me away from my confrontation with Merc.

    As I glanced back, Merc and I briefly made eye contact. Instead of a grin, he was now sporting a decidedly malevolent expression. Despite Lucy¡¯s assurances that he and Cherri were ¡®ancient history¡¯, it was clear that Merc was furious to see me being escorted by his ex, to a private room.

 Episode 16: Memory Fragments

    Episode 16

    Memory Fragments

    As she dragged me along, Cherri complained, ¡°I told you we should have met in a private room.¡±

    Inexplicably, getting lectured by her on our first date didn¡¯t feel like too much of a negative to me. Maybe, after unexpectedly coming face to face with Merc, anything would seem pleasant by comparison. Regardless, I felt like a celebrity being publicly abducted by the alpha female of the USMC and taken to ¡­ wherever.

    Everyone seemed to enjoy watching Cherri lead me through the crowded lobby like an obedient pet. The numerous snickers suggested that this incident would be part of the social consciousness (and gossip mill) for the foreseeable future.

    As we left the main room in the lobby, we entered a long hallway, flanked by doors on each side. None of the doors were marked, implying anonymity upon entry. This revelation fit conveniently into my theory about the high value of privacy here in troopship land.

    Only mildly curious, I asked, ¡°Where are you taking me?¡±

    ¡°To where we should have started this meeting in the first place.¡±

    She tossed a quick glance my way. If I wasn¡¯t mistaken, she also performed a subtle appraisal of my enhanced appearance. ¡°I see you borrowed one of Lucy¡¯s avatars.¡±

    Shit! It seemed like everyone recognized that I was wearing one of Lucy¡¯s hand-me-downs. Clearly, I was freefalling, in terms of my social status.

    ¡°Uh, yeah. Do you like it?¡±

    ¡°Well, camo draped on top of camo ¡­ on top of more camo? It is a bit obvious, considering we don¡¯t actually wear camo in combat.¡± I recalled Lucy¡¯s use of the term ¡®obvious¡¯ and wondered if it was code for something else, like stupid. Suddenly, I didn¡¯t feel nearly as confident as I did a few minutes ago.

    Cherri appeared to pick one of the anonymous doors at random and opened it. Pulling me inside, she closed the door and locked it. The lock was probably just some code designed to discourage curious busybodies. I questioned the need for a lock in the first place.

    ¡°Is that really necessary?¡±

    She turned to me, tilting her head slightly, as if carefully considering how to respond to my question. She then said, ¡°You¡¯d probably be surprised at how many opportunists are lurking in a troopship. Stealing personal privacy codes is a thriving business here.¡±

    I was a little surprised at this revelation. I hadn¡¯t considered that there might be criminals within the UCC community. But now that I thought about it, a troopship was essentially the digital equivalent of the Wild West. The whole culture here was ostensibly a criminal enterprise, and everyone in it was a convicted ¡®criminal¡¯.

    ¡°So, no honor among thieves, eh?¡± I guessed my assessment might be considered an insult, but I had to call it like I saw it.

    Without hesitation, she said, ¡°None at all.¡±

    As she walked over to a comfortable looking white, leather sectional and sat down, I noticed her avatar for the first time. It was a surprisingly understated affair, consisting of sandals, jeans, and a white cotton shirt. She wore her blonde hair long, in a thick braid that hung to the middle of her back. In a world where anyone could achieve any look they desired; it conveyed a comfortable confidence.

    The absence of the typical USMC super-soldier attire seemed to explain why she¡¯d expressed a preference for my previous outline avatar. And it was probably why she considered my current look so ¡®obvious¡¯. I belatedly decided to go entirely authentic in the future. No more castoff avatars or attempts to appear badass for me. If the most popular female character in the USMC could pull off authentic, then so could I. At least it was simpler.

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    I settled into a highbacked chair facing her, feeling a little awkward in my excessively camouflaged state.

    She made no immediate attempt to initiate a discussion, so I got things started. ¡°I was wondering why you wanted to meet me in person.¡± Realizing that this was technically inaccurate, I clumsily added, ¡°Figuratively speaking, of course.¡± It seemed; I couldn¡¯t help but sound foolish in front of Cherri.

    ¡°Do you recall when I asked if you had earned back any of your memories yet?¡±

    I find it annoying when someone replies to a question, with another question. However, not wanting to come off as too fussy, I simply said, ¡°Yeah, I remember.¡±

    ¡°When a recruit first arrives here, and before they earn their first memory awards, they typically have residual memories. They¡¯re generally only fragments. It¡¯s almost impossible for a new Marine to access these memories, and they get lost in the clutter when your drive starts filling up with earned memories.¡±

    I had no clue where Cherri was going with this explanation but resolved to let her finish without interrupting with any questions.

    She concluded with, ¡°I know how to recover these memory fragments.¡±

    So now I knew, ostensibly, why she wanted to meet me. She wanted to ¡®recover¡¯ residual memories. But why was this important to her? I doubted this was some altruistic effort to help new arrivals, so what was her motivation?

    Bluntly, I asked, ¡°Why are you interested in my memories?

    ¡°Well, they¡¯re only fragments of memories. They likely wouldn¡¯t make any sense to you. However, I use them to create memory mosaics. It¡¯s an art form. Something that I enjoy doing, very much.¡±

    I was about to ask the obvious question; what¡¯s in it for me? But before I could say the words, she added, ¡°And of course, I¡¯d share all these fragments with you. You can decide if you want to keep any of them.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t sure this was sufficient incentive for me to let someone poke around in my mind, or CPU, searching for memory fragments. But I had to admit, I was intensely curious about my previous life, and this seemed like my only chance to access any of those memories. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to recall some of my human existence, I asked how this recovery process worked.

    ¡°It¡¯s simple. We establish a data link, and I use a hacked admin key to gain access to your core program. Then I search for any logical anomalies in the code. We all run the same core program, so it¡¯s a relatively straightforward matter to identify these irregularities.

    Anomalies, which aren¡¯t part of the original design, are treated like junk code. They slow down the program¡¯s operating speed slightly, but otherwise have no effect. These irregularities typically contain fragments of personal memories.¡±

    She paused, and I took the opportunity to ask a question. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t the original designers just clean up the anomalies when they created the core program in the first place?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a flaw in the design. It resembles a type of logical error that is common with code created by an artificial intelligence. We think the memory fragments were an attempt by the AI to embed a unique identifier into each core program that would link it to a specific consciousness. It¡¯s like the AI tried to use pieces of personal memories as a sort of digital fingerprint.¡±

    The reference to an AI creating the UCC core program caught my attention. Lucy had said that a team of humans had designed both the digital construct and the AIs.

    ¡°Lucy told me that humans designed everything here, including the AIs. So, which is it?¡± I was totally confused.

    ¡°Well, technically, it was both. Because of the scope and complexity of the design, the developers used AIs to create the code. As far as we know, it¡¯s common practice to use automation wherever possible during the construction of digital megaprojects, to save both time and money.¡±

    ¡±As far as we know?¡±, I thought. Lucy had told me there had never been any contact between the UCC community and humanity. Consequently, I wondered about the UCCs¡¯ source of knowledge. ¡±How do we know anything for certain, if everything is being filtered through the AIs?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t. Not with any certainty.¡±

    It was troubling to learn that we existed in an environment that was not only controlled by AIs but had been designed by them as well.

    Under these circumstances, it would be virtually impossible to validate any information. Consequently, all knowledge was suspect. I was in the unenviable position of having to accept everything I learned on faith alone.

    Regardless, I vowed to find out the truth about troopship land by any means necessary. It was the only way for me to have some hope for the future. A future where, at least theoretically, I could live in freedom. However, for the moment that was still only a theory, and a weak one at best.

    Cherri asked, ¡°So do trust me enough to let me in?¡±

    With so much uncertainty surrounding my immediate future, I decided the least risky decision I could make would be to allow Cherri to access my CPU and search for residual memories from my previous life.

    ¡°Sure. Let¡¯s do this.¡±

    I really wanted to trust her and besides, what did I have to lose? A life of forced combat on behalf of humanity? A humanity that had enslaved me and was brutally expanding throughout the galaxy, annihilating every species it encountered? Any bond I previously felt with humanity was now tenuous at best.

    Cherri rose and said, ¡°I sent you a My Wizard code. It will form the datalink between us.¡±

    She approached me, coming to a halt much closer than seemed necessary. I tried to decipher if this maneuver was simply a consequence of her natural assertiveness, or some fundamental change in her perception of me.

    Cherri said, ¡°Hold my hands and download the code. I¡¯ll do the rest.¡± I wondered if holding hands on a first date here, signaled something beyond merely checking for memory fragments. Or maybe I was just overthinking things as usual.

 Episode 17: A Childs Laughter

    Episode 17

    A Child¡¯s Laughter

    Grasping her hands, I could feel a warmth radiating between us. I downloaded the code and tried to relax. Looking into her eyes for the first time, I noticed that they were a pale sky blue. Although I had never been very fond of blue eyes, I was taken with how calming hers seemed. I could feel myself relaxing as her gaze met mine. There was even a hint of a smile that seemed to form on her lips. If this was as good as things got on our first date, then I already considered it a success.

    ¡°Now close your eyes.¡± Her voice was like a favorite song, soothing and melodic.

    Soon, I could sense a presence in my mind, moving methodically from one processor to the next, searching. It was almost like a physical feeling, but I knew that wasn¡¯t possible. There were no nerve endings in a CPU. The sensation grew intense as she examined something more vigorously for a moment.

    ¡°Hey, that tickles.¡± She ignored my comment and continued her work.

    I could feel data flowing between us. Not just being drawn from me, but an exchange. It was an unexpectedly intimate experience, sharing data with her. I should have been uneasy about letting a complete stranger past my defenses, however, for reasons which I couldn¡¯t explain, I trusted her unconditionally.

    Then I felt Cherri gently dissolving the connection between us. She seemed to linger momentarily, just before severing the last strand of joined consciousness that connected us. It took me a moment to realize we had separated.

    I felt somehow different. I seemed to have gained mental clarity, and there was a noticeable increase in the velocity and precision of my thinking.

    She asked, ¡°How do you feel?¡±

    Without hesitation, I answered, ¡°I feel great! I feel more ¡­ awake. Is that normal?¡±

    Cherri said, ¡°Yes, totally normal. There were a lot of memory fragments slowing down your processing speed. I removed them from your drive.¡±

    Curious about my memory fragments, I asked, ¡°Did you find anything interesting?¡±

    ¡°Well ¡­¡± There was an uncomfortable pause in her response. Suddenly, I felt like a patient who was about to receive bad news from his doctor. ¡°¡­ in addition to the normal memory fragments, there was one complete original memory.¡±

    I took this as good news. One complete memory was better than no memories at all. Naively, I asked, ¡°How do I see this memory? Is it like watching a video?¡± I was excited to have any clue about my previous life.

    Cherri explained, ¡°It¡¯s very unusual to find an original memory imbedded in a newcomer. Typically, only earned memories are in the original format.¡±

    ¡°Uh, okay, I get it. So how do I open this memory? I¡¯d like to see it. Whatever it is.¡±

    She cautioned me. ¡°It¡¯s an original memory. That means that when you access it, it will be like experiencing it for the first time. You¡¯ll need to be careful.¡±

    I had no clue what the hell she was talking about, but I was impatient to experience any remnant of my life as a human. It began to feel like she was denying me access to something that rightfully belonged to me. It was my memory after all.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll be careful. So how do I do this?¡±

    ¡°Well, let¡¯s start with the fragments. I sent two files to your Heads-Up Display. The one with the memory fragments is titled Frags. Just double click ¡­ Sorry, double blink on it.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t having any of this nonsense. I quickly found the two files in my HUD and clicked on the one not titled ¡®Frags¡¯.

    ¡­

    I was instantly transported to a sundrenched alpine meadow, surrounded by a thick forest of pines.

    The afternoon sunlight was so dazzling, I had to close my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, I could just make out where the sun dappled margins of the meadow disappeared into the forest shadows. At this altitude, the glare from the summertime sun was intense, but its warmth was diminished. A gentle mountain breeze moderated the temperature still further.

    Although I knew this was a memory, having been told as much, it didn¡¯t feel like one. A memory was a recollection of an experience, and not the actual experience itself. Yet, there was nothing about this setting that was familiar. It seemed like I was experiencing it for the first time.

    I heard faint laughter. It was delicate and high pitched. A child¡¯s laughter.

    Trying to locate the source, I turned to find a little girl standing before me with both hands behind her back, giggling. She was dressed in a white sundress, barefoot and wearing an impish smile. The mountain breezes had teased her blond hair into an unruly halo, giving her a slightly feral look. About 8 or 9 years old, her mud-spattered feet were a testament that she was enjoying herself to no end, exploring this natural wonderland.

    Kneeling down to her level, I asked what she was hiding behind her back. In response, she held out a tiny hand, which clutched a single drooping daisy. No doubt collected by her from one of the swaths of colorful wildflowers adorning the meadow.

    ¡°Is that for me?¡± I asked, already certain that it was.

    She nodded, and as I took the wilted flower from her, I remarked, ¡°It¡¯s a very sleepy daisy, isn¡¯t it?¡± She covered her mouth with both hands, trying in vain to stifle more giggles. Her joyfulness was infectious, and I couldn¡¯t help but laugh along with her.

    Having no other personal memories for comparison, it was difficult to judge the significance of this experience. However, the sense of euphoria it produced was undeniable. The beauty of the moment, and the sincerity of this little girl¡¯s gesture, captured my heart.

    However, I suspected there was more going on here, just below the surface. Although it was only intuition, I sensed that this experience held important clues to who I had been in my previous life, and possibly who I was now.

    Anxious to find out more, I asked, ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Instead of replying, she looked down at her feet and wiggled her muddy toes.

    Hoping to overcome her apparent shyness, I said, ¡°My name is Josh. Can you tell me your name?¡±

    She looked up at me, head slightly tilted and seemed about to answer, when the idyllic meadow scene abruptly shifted ¡­ then froze. The vibrant colors and precise resolution of the meadow drained away, leaving only a dull 2D image. Heartbreakingly, the girl had become a lifeless statue in a grayscale still life.

    Then, inexplicably, the whole experience began again.

    ¡­

    I was instantly transported to a sundrenched alpine meadow, surrounded by a thick forest of pines.

    Although there was nothing familiar about the bucolic scene before me, I knew I had been here before. The setting, the colors, even the scent, while not familiar, seemed to fit comfortably into an already existing neural imprint in my mind.

    As individual events unfolded before me, my emotions responded spontaneously, and I was just along for the ride. There was a definite pattern to the sequence of events I was experiencing. It was this pattern I recognized, but not the events themselves.

    I met a little girl who was laughing and hiding something behind her, and I knew somehow, there was one less flower in the meadow.

    ¡­

    I was instantly transported to a sundrenched alpine meadow, surrounded by a thick forest of pines.

    I heard a child¡¯s laughter, but it was distant and fading. Who was she? Why was I haunted by the prospect of never learning her name? The endlessly looping series of scenes would never answer that question.

    It was profoundly exhausting, repeatedly embarking on a journey that never reached its destination. I just wanted to sleep. It was all I could do to remain standing, as I searched for a shaded place to lay down. Realizing that I didn¡¯t have the strength to take even one step, I simply collapsed where I was.

    I listened to the laughter as it faded away. My vision began to narrow and the meadow scene shrank to a single point of light, before disappearing entirely.

    It was a relief to surrender to the tranquility of the darkness.

 Episode 18: Reloaded

    Episode 18

    Reloaded

    A pinpoint of light pierced the blackness. It hovered precisely in the center of my vision and stubbornly remained there, no matter where I turned my gaze.

    I watched listlessly as a dense pattern of numbers, words, and indecipherable symbols began rapidly scrolling up, flowing to somewhere beyond the limit of my vision. A reverse waterfall of information which produced severe vertigo. I had the sensation I was falling from a great height.

    As I plunged into an abyss, seemingly random images emerged into my consciousness. A green ocean of windswept grass, a tortured battlefield landscape, a woman''s hand firmly grasping my wrist.

    I searched for something solid to focus on, but everything was in motion. Each image flickered briefly and then vanished. The reel of unrelated scenes streamed before my eyes, an incomprehensible chaos.

    Then the frantic slideshow came to a jarring halt, and a single word appeared.

    <Initializing>

    Thankfully, it was stationary.

    Soon, my field of view transformed from a black rectangle, into something more familiar. It was a slightly blurry heads-up display. Even though I recognized the configuration and the system data now streaming across my vision, I was still struggling with the context. I couldn¡¯t figure out where I was, or what was happening.

    It was clear my mind was suffering from multiple cognitive faults. My reasoning felt fragmented. A chain of logical threads unspooled in my mind, each one ending without reaching any conclusion.

    Out of nowhere, someone asked a question. ¡°Do you recognize my voice?

    I couldn¡¯t say whether I actually heard the question, or if I became aware of it by some other means. Regardless, no memory of the voice surfaced in my consciousness.

    When I tried to communicate this to my unseen questioner, I discovered that I couldn¡¯t verbalize a response. I was mute. Unable to respond, communication was strictly a one-way affair. I attempted to devise an alternative, but my thinking was still too disorganized.

    Thoughts continued to percolate aimlessly as I overheard some kind of technical discussion.

    ¡°Some of the files didn¡¯t load. I think his audio is disabled.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. It looks like the boot code is corrupted. Let me clean it up and load it again. Try texting him in the meantime.¡±

    Words began scrolling across the bottom of my HUD. They read, ¡°Hey McCann, if you can read this, try texting me back. Lucy. ¡± It was quickly followed by another brief text. ¡°In case you¡¯ve forgotten how to use thought to text, double blink on my text to respond!¡±

    I recognized the name Lucy. As reassuring as this was, I was still struggling to find any memories from my recent past. Then, as if by accident, I stumbled across another name, Cherri. It was closely followed by a stream of intense memories.

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    ¡°What the hell happened?¡±, I texted.

    ¡°We reloaded your consciousness. We¡¯re still troubleshooting some problems."

    ¡°Is Cherri with you?¡± I probably should have been asking about the ¡®problems¡¯, but I was more curious about her, at the moment.

    ¡°No, she¡¯s in the sim.¡±

    The fact that she was unavailable was an unexpected disappointment, but I wasn¡¯t certain why. My thinking immediately took off on a tangent. I began plowing through every memory of her, up to the point where we joined hands, and she started searching my CPU for memory fragments. That was where my memories abruptly ended.

    I texted, ¡°Something happened during her search for my memory fragments, didn¡¯t it?¡± I wondered if Cherri was somehow responsible for my current problems.

    ¡°Well, something definitely happened, but not during her search.¡±

    It was a mildly evasive response that only partially answered my question. I tried to ignore a growing paranoia as I asked for clarification. ¡°What do you mean, not during her search?¡±

    Lucy quickly texted back. ¡°The last memory you have is of you and her holding hands. Right?¡±

    With my mental acuity beginning to improve, I was able to organize my memories into a rough chronological order. Rolling the memories forward, I slowed them to a crawl as they approached the final moments. I felt the connection with Cherri, we were holding hands, data was flowing between us, then nothing. It was just as Lucy described it. I wondered how he could possibly know anything about my memories.

    ¡°Yeah. How did you know that?¡±

    He texted, ¡°I reviewed the backup copy of your consciousness. It included your last moments, holding hands with Cherri.¡±

    My last moments? It sounded like I was deceased. I asked, ¡°Does everyone have a backup here?¡±

    Instead of answering my question, Lucy replied, ¡°Listen, we¡¯re going to try the audio again. Standby.¡±

    As I waited for the audio, I pondered my current ¡®reloaded¡¯ status. They had probably used the backup to reload my consciousness, but where did they get a copy of me? I didn¡¯t recall being copied at any point since I arrived here in troopship land. Even if the system routinely copied UCCs for backup purposes, how did they get their hands on one of those copies? I wanted answers.

    Just then, I began to hear some background noise. It was a high frequency ringing, like I was suffering from tinnitus.

    Someone began speaking. ¡°Hey McCann, how do you copy?¡± It was an unfamiliar voice, only just audible through the interference.

    ¡°I can hear you ¡­ but just barely. Who is this?¡± There was no reply, but I overheard the voice talking in the background.

    ¡°Okay, we¡¯ve got a link but it¡¯s not very clean. You¡¯ll have to speak up.¡±

    Then I heard Lucy¡¯s voice through the clutter. ¡°How are you doing?

    Although his tone seemed oddly casual, considering the circumstances, I was focused on getting answers. ¡°I feel like I¡¯ve been patched together with zip ties and duct tape.¡±

    Lucy chuckled. ¡°We¡¯re still working on some cleanup. Things are going to feel a little weird for a while.¡±

    That was a massive understatement in my opinion. ¡°What the hell happened to me?¡±

    ¡°Well, based on what Cherri told me, you went rogue and became fixated on an original memory. You started looping. Before she could pull the plug, you had generated a few million memories of that experience. Memories of a memory, so to speak. And then you crashed.¡±

    ¡°Crashed!? How bad?¡± I wasn¡¯t sure how much damage crashing could cause, but judging by how bad I felt, I must have been severely affected.

    ¡°Bad. We couldn¡¯t recover very much. So, we decided to reload you from a backup.¡±

    I was curious about how a copy could exist without me having any recollection of being copied. ¡°Where did you get a backup copy?¡±

    Lucy hesitated briefly before answering. ¡°Cherri backed you up, while you two were connected.¡± Then he added, ¡°As a precaution.¡±

    I didn¡¯t recall her mentioning the need for any precautions. Backing up someone without their knowledge or consent seemed arrogant, if not blatantly deceptive. I was instantly suspicious.

    ¡°Tell me, is it common for people to secretly copy each other here?¡±

    ¡°Uh ¡­ no it¡¯s not. It¡¯s not common at all. But only because the My Wizard code to make copies of UCCs is incredibly expensive. Cherri is one of the few who could afford the luxury of copying another UCC. The fact that she chose to copy you, with or without your consent, shows that she thinks you¡¯re pretty special.¡±

    ¡°So, what are you saying? I should consider it a compliment?¡± Special or not, his explanation did little to quell my outrage at being deceived by her.

    ¡°I think some gratitude is in order. After all, if she hadn¡¯t copied you, we wouldn¡¯t be having this conversation right now. You are very ¡­ fucking lucky.¡±

    Now that I thought about it, I was indeed lucky. Luckier than I had a right to be, considering I had ignored Cherri¡¯s instructions and selected the wrong file. I felt like I should let go of my resentment and focus on being a little more grateful. I decided that when I next saw Cherri, I would simply thank her.

    Attempting a measure of contrition, I said, ¡°I guess she did, sort of, save my life.¡±

    Lucy scoffed. ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t know what she sees in you.¡±

    It was a fair point.

 Episode 19: Stand by for Orders

    Episode 19

    Standby for Orders

    The next few days were devoted to finishing the cleanup work on my reloaded consciousness. Although I felt more normal over time, I still didn¡¯t feel as sharp mentally as I recalled being before the crash. It was frustrating. However, Lucy counseled patience. He said I would eventually get back to where I had been before.

    His remedy for everything was more sim time. Consequently, I spent a lot of time training in the combat simulator.

    Not only did I train with Lucy, but with other experienced soldiers as well. As I got to know more of these veterans, I picked up a lot of valuable warcraft, none of which was included in the official training curriculum. My confidence grew, as I gained knowledge and trained my artificial synapses to react instinctually to a multitude of combat scenarios.

    I even got bold enough to join Cherri for a sim session, but I wasn¡¯t in her league. She moved over the battlefield with a catlike grace and a level of confidence that one can only attain through loads of real-world combat experience. She was able to anticipate threats and targets before I could even acquire them with my sensors. I was in awe of her skills. So much so, that I declined subsequent invitations to join her in the sim, to focus on my own training.

    However, we did begin to spend more time together in private. Privacy was a luxury that would have been impossible without her considerable wealth.

    Even though I had begun to earn back personal memories with my progress in the sim, I hadn¡¯t yet sold any to My Wizard. As a result, I was still as broke as before. And after my horrific crash, I was reluctant to experience any of the personal memories I had collected.

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    By avoiding any memory related distractions, I was able to focus on the two things that mattered most to me, my combat training and spending time with Cherri. We were becoming closer as she drew me into her private world. Before I realized it, we had become a couple.

    Much to my surprise, experiencing intimacy as a digital being, was not at all what I imagined it would be. As an artist, Cherri was a master at editing memories. With her as my partner, and an endless supply of costly codes from My Wizard, we created a rich sex life together.

    Cherri and I collaborated in the editing of our shared sexual memories. By deleting the memories of our most pleasurable moments but leaving the memory of the actions that led to them, we were able to relive our most enjoyable sexual experiences as if for the first time.

    Rather than becoming predictable and boring over time, our sex life grew more nuanced, while still retaining an edge of reckless volatility. Our creative memory editing occasionally resulted in unexpected outcomes, which bordered on the shocking. Of course, this only enhanced the intensity of our feelings for each other. We became happily lost in our shared reality.

    Even though I was an unjustly convicted criminal, serving a harsh sentence, I wouldn¡¯t have changed anything about my life at the moment. Things were going exceedingly well for me.

    Regardless, I couldn¡¯t shake a nagging anxiety that things were going too well. An underlying thread of unease permeated my thoughts, like some kind of digital depression. It felt like I existed in a fragile bubble that could burst at any moment.

    However, by a determined effort to suppress all my dark thoughts, I almost succeeded in ignoring the insidious sense of dread undermining my otherwise joyful existence. Unfortunately, the day arrived when it became impossible to ignore any longer.

    I was in the sim, participating in a complex assault of an enemy defensive position, when everything suddenly froze. Locked in an awkward stasis, a notification began streaming across my HUD.

    It read, ¡°Effective Immediately: All simulator sessions are cancelled. Standby for orders.¡±

    We were all kicked out of the simulator and I found myself standing in the lobby with the others, milling about. I tried texting Cherri, but that function was blocked. All I had was local audio, so I could only communicate with the UCCs in my virtual proximity.

    ¡°Shit,¡± I thought. ¡®Stand by for orders¡¯ seemed like an ominous sign. I couldn¡¯t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of a new and perilous chapter in my existence as a universal combat consciousness. A chapter that would include a shitload of existential threats.

 Episode 20: In Good Hands

    Episode 20

    In Good Hands

    UCCs fresh from the simulator and still wearing their combat avatars, crowded into the lobby.

    Everyone began mingling with their respective social factions to speculate about what was going on. I joined a familiar group of veterans I had spent some time with in the sim. I didn¡¯t know any of them very well, but at least we had some connection through our combat training. Still a rookie, I was eager to hear their thoughts on what was happening.

    One of the guys shared his theory with the group. ¡°I¡¯ve got a buddy who hacked into the navigation system. He said the ship made a major course change a few days ago. Says we¡¯re headed to Trappist-1e. I bet we¡¯re going in as a QRF for some sorry fuckers who¡¯re getting their asses kicked. ¡°

    Judging by the shaking heads and profanity, no one, was particularly keen on this prospect.

    A QRF, or Quick Reaction Force, was typically used to rescue troops that had become overwhelmed by the enemy in battle. Based on what I¡¯d heard, these operations were usually a shitshow, with the rescuing force taking heavy casualties. It wasn¡¯t unheard of for the rescuers to be completely annihilated while trying to execute their so-called ¡®rescue¡¯ mission.

    Another veteran, whose name I didn¡¯t know, complained, ¡°Trappist-1e? I heard that place is a fuckin¡¯ alien fortress. They¡¯re sending us in to clean up someone else¡¯s mess. It¡¯s not right.¡±

    Someone, whom everyone called Chef, added, ¡°It¡¯s rare to pull a QRF from a separate troopship. It¡¯s USMC policy to never mix combat troops from multiple ships in the same theater of operations.¡± Slowly shaking his head, he continued, ¡°The situation must be really bad if they¡¯re ignoring that policy. ¡°

    There was more swearing upon hearing his gloomy assessment. Some in our group simply hung their heads, as if already accepting the inevitable. We were going into combat, most likely against a well-prepared enemy who knew we were coming.

    I knew from my training that the sequence of events would be control module installation, insertion, and then frontline combat. But since I¡¯d never been in actual combat, I didn¡¯t know how the timing worked. I decided to ask Chef how much time we would have to prep for action.

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    ¡°Hey, if this is the real thing, how long before we¡¯re on the ground, and in combat?¡±

    Even though we had occasionally been on the same team in the simulator, I had never actually spoken to Chef. He looked me over, as if sizing me up and then asked, ¡°You haven¡¯t been in combat, have you?¡± I shook my head in response.

    He sighed, then said, ¡°Well, once we get the go code, it¡¯s usually a couple of hours until they finish loading the control modules. When that¡¯s done, they¡¯ll transmit the battle orders. 15 minutes after receiving orders, we¡¯ll be launched for insertion.¡±

    I desperately wanted to communicate with Cherri but with the comms network blocked, that was impossible. I asked Chef when the network would be available again.

    He said, ¡°They usually unblock it after we get our orders, and before we launch. There¡¯s about a 15-minute window to contact someone. But that¡¯s not 100%. Sometimes they block the comms continuously until we return from a mission. My advice to you, is to focus on your battle orders when you get them. There¡¯ll be plenty of time to talk when you get back to the ship.¡±

    As I digested his advice, someone added darkly, ¡°If ¡­ you get back to the ship.¡± There was chuckling among the veterans at this morbid joke.

    I felt like I was cursed. I had just started to build a life with Cherri and things seemed to be going so well. Now I was just hours away from real combat, and the possibility of a violent death. I didn¡¯t know what the survival stats were for rookies during their first combat mission, but I had the feeling it was probably a coin toss. I was overwhelmed by fear.

    My anguish must have been obvious. As the group began to disperse and exit the lobby, Chef approached me. ¡°Listen, don¡¯t get wrapped up in all the ¡®what ifs.¡¯ You¡¯ll get through this if you just rely on your training and listen to your squad leader.¡±

    I appreciated his attempt to prop up my courage and nodded my head that I understood. ¡°Thanks¡± The fact that someone seemed to give a shit, helped to tamp down my anxiety a little. If nothing else, it seemed like I would be able to count on my squad mates for help if I got into trouble.

    Then I suddenly realized; I had no idea what squad I was in. I asked Chef about it. ¡°Hey, when do we get our squad assignments?¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯re a rookie, you¡¯ll get your squad assignment with your first battle orders. That will be your permanent squad unless they reassign you for some reason.¡± Not knowing whose squad I would be assigned to, did little to reduce my apprehension.

    Just then, I began to feel a powerful energy begin to surge through me. The interior of the lobby seemed to brighten, and the scene before me took on a noticeably sharper resolution. Checking my metrics to see if I had suffered a malfunction, it was clear that the battery temperature in my control module had risen several degrees. I wondered if it was overheating.

    Then Chef said, ¡°Feel that? They¡¯re quick-charging the backup batteries in the control modules. They do that just before installation, to ensure everyone goes into combat with a fully charged module. We need to get out of here, right now.¡±

    I looked around and saw that we were the only ones left in the lobby. I opened the menu in my HUD and was just about to exit when Chef spoke. ¡°Hey, don¡¯t worry, they always assign rookies to a squad of veterans. You¡¯ll be in good hands.¡± His avatar gave me a quick thumbs up and disappeared.

    It was a relief to know I would be grouped with more experienced soldiers. Veterans, who could look after me in combat. I exited the lobby and anxiously awaited my baptism of fire.

 Episode 21: I Hope You Were Expecting Someone Else

    Episode 21

    I Hope You Were Expecting Someone Else

    The control modules contained backup optical and acoustic sensors, in case of battle damage to the main sensor array in the weapons system. Consequently, I was able to experience the installation process of the control modules in real time.

    A robotic handler plucked my module from its charging rack, then stacked me in a transport vehicle along with hundreds of other modules. From here, I and my UCC comrades, were moved to one of the cavernous hangers, where we would be mated with whatever weapons system was specified in our battle orders.

    These weapons systems ranged from armored assault vehicles (AAVs) to various iterations of combat-bots and even aerial drones, which were deployed whenever there was sufficient atmosphere to support them. However, the bulk of the forces were ground troops. As the old military adage said, you can¡¯t capture territory without boots on the ground. Or in this case, without bots on the ground.

    The transporter carrying the control modules pulled up to a battered tanklike AAV and stopped. Unlike in the virtual world of the simulator, where all the combat vehicles were pristine, here in the real world the tools of war needed to be regularly repaired and recycled to feed the war effort. Judging by the numerous divots and weld repairs in its armor, this AAV had seen a lot of action.

    Besides me, there were only a handful of modules still waiting to be installed. A robotic arm extended from the side of the transporter and deftly grabbed my module. In one fluid motion, it rotated the module to the correct orientation, and slid it smoothly into the docking port of its assigned AAV.

    As a heavy armor plate was bolted on, sealing me inside my combat vehicle, I received a text with files attached. These were my battle orders. Although I already knew I was headed into combat for the first time, seeing my official orders made everything suddenly real. Real in a way that my previously abstract notion of combat couldn¡¯t.

    Downloading the files, I saw the orders included not only the mission profile, but also my squad assignment, my call sign, and a clearly worded warning. It stated that any unauthorized disengagement from combat was grounds for immediate auto-destruction, at Command¡¯s discretion.

    I can¡¯t say I was surprised by this. There had been ominous rumors circulating that command had recently auto destructed (AD¡¯d in grunt-speak) an entire platoon of UCCs, during a particularly problematic assault. They had temporarily retreated without authorization, to reform their ranks. Command decided to send a message to any other UCCs who might be considering such a maneuver and pushed the autodestruct button.

    The USMC ultimately prevailed in that battle, but the cost was severe. The casualty rate was said to have been over 85%, including those summarily AD¡¯d by Command.

    My callsign was Outline 0-7. Outline was my nickname (I was so relieved it wasn¡¯t Dumbshit.), 0 was my rank, and 7 was my squad designation.

    Thanks to the efficiency of modern communications technology, the USMC¡¯s chain of command had evolved from its roots as an ancient military hierarchy, into a much flatter organizational structure consisting of only 4 levels. The numbers 0,1, and 2 had replaced the obsolete ranks of private, corporal, and sergeant.

    Now there were only zeros, ones, twos, and then Command, whose call sign was Overwatch.

    The officer corps had been entirely eliminated in the modern military. Any battlefield actions exceeding the authority of a 2, required orders directly from Command. This structure allowed for an unprecedented level of direct control over combat operations by Command. Of course, the UCCs considered this arrangement an annoying micromanagement of the battle space.

    I was assigned to an armored assault vehicle (AAV) with 7<sup>th</sup> squad, but my orders didn¡¯t provide any insights as to who else was in the 7<sup>th</sup>, or who the squad leader was. Although curious, I was confident that I¡¯d be teamed with veterans, and consequently in good hands.

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    Studying the mission profile, I learned that I would be landing with 7<sup>th</sup> squad as part of the first wave. I was alarmed by this, considering it was my first taste of real combat. I sincerely hoped the assignment algorithm knew what it was doing by sending me in with the vanguard.

    Maybe it had seen something in my simulator scores that qualified me for this role. However, a quick review of my scores operating an AAV in the sim, revealed consistently mediocre performances. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

    Now that I thought about it, maybe the algorithm was using an entirely different set of criteria for determining my combat fitness. Perhaps it had determined that I would be more useful in absorbing enemy fire, as a shield for the second wave.

    As I wrestled with whether the AI was deploying me as a battlefield distraction, I received an anonymous text request for an audio chat. They must have unblocked the comms! It had to be Cherri reaching out to me.

    Knowing that this could be my last chance to tell her how much she meant to me, I clicked on the request and quickly launched into a heartfelt monologue. ¡°I¡¯m so glad you called! Listen, I know we only have a few minutes before they cut the comms again, but I just wanted to say I¡¯m so grateful to have you in my life ¡­ and thank you for everything.¡± I paused, realizing that mere words were inadequate to express the true depth of my feelings for her.

    Then a masculine voice said, ¡°I hope you were expecting someone else.¡±

    ¡°Lucy?¡± Having just overshared my most intimate feelings, I was grateful it was him and not some troll like Merc. ¡°Sorry, I thought you were Cherri.¡±

    As I tried to decide exactly how embarrassed I should feel, Lucy said, ¡°I was just checking in to see what squad you were assigned to.¡±

    Relieved to move past the awkwardness of the moment, I replied, ¡°7<sup>th</sup> squad. I¡¯m going in with the first wave.¡± I added this last detail, hoping for some reassurance that it wasn¡¯t a fatal mistake by the AIs.

    ¡°7<sup>th</sup> squad?¡± He seemed to ignore my reference to the first wave, and its implied question. ¡°You know that¡¯s Merc¡¯s squad, right?¡±

    Startled, I immediately freaked out. ¡°Merc¡¯s my squad leader? That¡¯s it. I¡¯m fucking dead!¡± I knew I was doomed now.

    ¡°Hey, calm down. Merc¡¯s the best 2 in the corps.¡±

    My thinking was hijacked by my paranoia. I was going into combat for the first time, with a psychopath for a squad leader. A heavily armed psychopath, who hated me. I couldn¡¯t see how this was going to end well.

    ¡°He¡¯s going to kill me as soon as he gets a chance.¡±

    ¡°Relax, he¡¯s not going to kill you. He wouldn¡¯t waste an asset he¡¯ll need in combat. Especially over something as petty as jealousy.¡±

    I argued, ¡°You didn¡¯t see the way he looked at me when he saw Cherri and I together! He wants me dead. Even if he doesn¡¯t shoot me himself, I¡¯m going in with the first wave. He¡¯ll probably just use me as a shield against enemy fire.¡±

    Irritated by my whining, Lucy sighed. ¡°Did you even read your orders? You¡¯re going in with the first wave, because everybody is in the first wave on this assault. Command is throwing the whole troopship into battle to try and rescue the survivors on Trappist-1e. ¡°

    I thought about this for a minute. It was commendable that Command was trying to save lives but committing an entire troopship of Marines to a rescue mission seemed like a desperate move. I wondered who was going to rescue us if we got into trouble.

    ¡°Is there another troopship available in case we need help?¡±

    ¡°No. We¡¯re the only one in the area.¡±

    What a bummer. My first combat deployment and it¡¯s a hastily organized rescue mission, on a planet considered to be an alien stronghold. Without a reserve force, Command was gambling that we¡¯d be able to rescue any survivors and get ourselves back to the ship. It was a tall order.

    Knowing that Cherri would be somewhere in the middle of this mess didn¡¯t help my mental state much.

    I needed to hear her voice. ¡°Hey Lucy, we¡¯ve got to cut this short. I have to talk to Cherri before we lose comms again.¡±

    He informed me that was impossible. ¡°You¡¯re too late. She got loaded and launched in the first box.¡± ¡°Boxes¡± were what Marines called the shuttles that transported them from the troopship to the battlefield.

    I was starting to become fatalistic about my chances of survival. Too many things seemed to be going against me lately. I wondered if any of the others were calculating the odds of this being a one-way trip. I had already done the math and was resigned to my fate.

    As if to emphasize that I was just along for the ride on this bus of misfortune, a transporter towing a long line of AAVs pulled up to me and stopped. Its articulating arm attached a tow cable to the utility hooks of my vehicle, joining me with the others in a bizarre robotic version of a conga-line. We then proceeded inexorably to our ¡®box¡¯.

    I told Lucy, ¡°Okay, I guess this is it. I think they¡¯re loading me now.

    He tried to bolster my confidence with some last-minute encouragement. ¡°You¡¯re going to be okay. Just listen to Merc and do exactly what he says. Got it?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I got it.¡± Despite my words, I didn¡¯t feel like I had anything. I just felt numb. The only thing I knew for sure, was that I was going to die on this mission.

    Lucy signed off with ¡°Good luck.¡± And then I was alone with my pessimistic thoughts as the loading process began.

 Episode 22: Lock and Load

    Episode 22

    Lock and Load

    The box was a rectangular shaped transport vehicle that looked about as aerodynamic as a coffin. But since it simply served to transport troops from orbit to the battlefield and back, it didn¡¯t need to be streamlined.

    All four sides lowered, forming ramps to its interior. The armored assault vehicles, including mine, were loaded first and secured to the aluminum floor with heavy chains and hooks. Then the contingent of combat-bots were embarked and strapped into form fitting cradles for the ride to the surface. Finally, a collection of drones of various sizes and configurations was taken onboard. The inclusion of drones strongly suggested that there would be some kind of atmosphere on Trappist-1e.

    As the side panels began raising to their closed position, I reviewed the mission profile in my battle orders one more time. Just as Lucy had described, this would be an all or nothing assault. Every Marine on the ship was inserting in a single massive wave. The intention was clearly to project overwhelming force.

    The downside of this tactic was, without a reserve force, if we were unsuccessful in pushing all the way to our objective, we¡¯d be totally fucked. With the standing order prohibiting any unauthorized retreat, we faced total annihilation if things went sideways.

    Just then, I received an incoming text message from Merc. It read, ¡°Hey dumbshit, switch your radio to the squad frequency so you can hear me.¡± I was struggling to recall the squad frequency when another text arrived. ¡°It¡¯s in your orders.¡±

    I swiftly scanned the battle orders and found the frequency. A quick copy and paste, and I began to hear Marines talking in the background. Their profanity laced discussions focused on how stupid it was to send us in as a QRF against a hardened enemy position, without any reserve force. Then Merc¡¯s voice came over the radio.

    ¡°Okay everyone, listen up.¡± The chatter ceased as he began briefing the squad on the mission.

    ¡°We¡¯re scheduled to launch in 3 minutes. Make sure you¡¯ve downloaded the battle orders and understand them. Once we launch, we¡¯ll form up with the other boxes and begin insertion. Approximately 10 minutes after that, we¡¯ll be engaging the enemy.¡±

    It struck me as surreal that these might be some of the last words I ever hear.

    Merc continued, ¡°Our objective is the main enemy strongpoint. We have been ordered to make one continuous push until we secure the objective. Drones will be out in front of the main assault force. Their feeds will be streaming in your HUDs. Keep all your sensors on and set to maximum range. Call out any threats you see. AAVs will follow the drones in ¡­ and then everyone else.¡±

    He paused briefly, creating an uneasy silence before continuing. ¡°There will be no stopping to assist any casualties. If you get hit and disabled, don¡¯t call it out. Leave the frequency open so I can communicate with the squad. We¡¯ll come back for you after we¡¯ve taken the objective.¡±

    Merc then asked, ¡°Any questions?¡±

    I had plenty of questions but was too intimidated to ask any of them in front of the veterans. Instead, I listened intently to the questions asked by others. My heads-up display showed the call sign of each Marine as they spoke.

    DJ asked, ¡°Hey Merc, the mission profile has no intel on the enemy or this objective we¡¯re supposed to take. What does Command expect us to do if we don¡¯t even know what we¡¯re up against?¡±

    In a deep male voice, callsign Alice, stated the obvious. ¡°It¡¯s an enemy strongpoint, you know it¡¯s gonna be heavily defended.¡±

    Merc spoke up, ¡°Look, we¡¯re going to have artillery support from the ship. The plan is to saturate the approach with artillery fire to eliminate any advanced enemy positions and static defenses. Then we start our push. The remaining enemy resistance will determine how quickly we advance to the objective.¡±

    A concerned voice asked, ¡°What about the survivors we¡¯re supposed to rescue? They¡¯re going to get chewed up by the artillery.¡±

    Merc explained, ¡°I just got word from Command. As of now, there are officially no survivors from the previous mission.¡± This grim news prompted a stream of profanity from the squad members.

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    Callsign Biscuit complained bitterly. ¡° I told you it was a fuckin¡¯ setup. No survivors and they¡¯re still sending us in? Still calling this a rescue mission? What a joke!¡± Whatever Merc¡¯s opinion was, he didn¡¯t say.

    A vibration coursed through the box as the engines started. Despite the confusion and discord amongst the UCCs, we were launching right on schedule. If nothing else, the USMC was certainly punctual.

    The box lifted off the deck and rotated to the correct orientation for launch. I watched in awe as external video feeds provided views from various vantage points. The massive hanger doors began retracting, slowly revealing a pale blue planet framed against the vast expanse of space. It seemed unbelievable that such an innocuous looking sphere would be the scene of violent combat in a matter of minutes.

    As we passed through the opening, I heard Merc say, ¡°Okay, start the clock.¡±

    Someone responded, ¡°Copy ¡­ clock¡¯s running.¡± The clock was a backup system for the UCCs.

    Every mission carried with it a rating from 1X to 100X. It indicated how much time served would be earned by the UCCs participating in the mission. 1X was straight time. Every minute on the mission was equal to one minute of time served, same as time spent in the combat simulator. 10X meant every minute on the mission earned 10 minutes of time served.

    The rating was a rough gauge of how dangerous a mission was. The higher the rating, the greater the difficulty, and the higher the risk. According to the battle orders, this mission was rated 59X, or extremely dangerous.

    The clock was intended to keep Command honest by keeping a separate record of the mission duration. Command was in the habit of editing the combat memories of every Marine, after each mission. This was purportedly to reduce the risk of PTSD, but no one believed that. It was considered by the UCCs to be just another manipulation by the AIs. Consequently, the clock was standard procedure for every mission, as an insurance policy against getting shorted on our time served.

    As we exited the troopship, a collection of boxes was visible off to our right, forming up for insertion. We slowly approached the formation and took our place at the rear. I wondered whether being behind the other boxes was safer, or more dangerous.

    Preoccupied with my risk calculations, I almost missed the notification from Command scrolling across my HUD. It read, ¡®Autodestruct/master/armed¡¯. This meant that every UCC, in every box was now the equivalent of a medium sized bomb. The amount of carnage that would result if even one of the UCCs got hit during insertion would be catastrophic. It would cause the loss of an entire box of Marines.

    We sat there, waiting in formation as the artillery began their preparation of the battlefield far below. The rounds were visible as they left the cannon barrels at deceptively slow speed. With the effect of gravity as they fell from orbit, their speed at impact would be measured in miles per second. The amount of energy they would generate at impact would be massive. So much so, they didn¡¯t require any explosive charge. The kinetic energy at impact would be the equivalent of a low yield nuclear device.

    The artillery fell silent at the completion of the barrage. It was our signal to begin insertion.

    Merc¡¯s distinctive voice came over the radio. ¡°Okay 7<sup>th</sup> squad. Lock and load.¡± I hit the virtual arming switch and for the first time in my brief existence as a universal combat consciousness, was operating a real AAV with live weapons.

    Merc continued, ¡°Beginning insertion in 10.¡± A countdown briefly showed on my HUD, after which we began hurtling towards the surface.

    The tactical plan was to approach the battlefield from an entirely unexpected direction, confusing the enemy. Consequently, the descent to the planet¡¯s surface consisted of random feints and changes in direction. As it entered the planet¡¯s atmosphere, the entire box formation maneuvered as if it was one vehicle, jinking aggressively up and down, and left to right.

    Each of these high G maneuvers produced massive loads on the ship¡¯s structure and cargo. I was grateful for the heavy duty rigging which held my armored assault vehicle securely to the deck. Regardless of the sturdy nature of the box and the fastening system, each abrupt change in direction caused an audible groaning from the floor. I wondered what the maximum G-rating was for this rig.

    It was nerve wracking, getting tossed all over the sky. A hunk of cargo in a box piloted by some AI.

    After a particularly violent series of movements, I inadvertently thought aloud, ¡°Who the fuck is flying this thing?¡± Unfortunately, my mic wasn¡¯t muted.

    Merc said, ¡°Shut up and get off the frequency.¡±

    Embarrassed, I quickly muted my mic. Here I was, not even in combat and already I was screwing up. With an unsympathetic squad leader and a total lack of real combat experience, my odds of survival seemed infinitesimally small.

    Fortunately, I didn¡¯t have much time to obsess over my misfortune. The box came to a jarring halt on the surface. I guess technically, it was a landing, but it felt more like a barely controlled crash. Regardless, we had arrived on the battlefield.

    As the doors slowly began opening, I hit the release, freeing my AAV from its restraints and then waited for the doors to complete their transition into unloading ramps. Since the insertion and unloading process was not part of the combat simulator training, I was unprepared for the glacial speed of disembarkation and the chaos that accompanied it.

    Everyone began simultaneously surging towards the exit ramps, producing an epic traffic jam. Instead of charging into battle as a unified force, we bumped and barged along, slowly inching our way towards the exits. It was maddening.

    There was a sudden burst of gunfire. Someone had discharged an autocannon during the unloading. Either through accident as they collided with someone else, or as an expression of frustration with the infuriating offloading process.

    Based on my current level of frustration, I wouldn¡¯t be at all surprised if it was the latter.

 Episode 23: Bots on the Ground

    Episode 23

    Bots on the Ground

    Having successfully escaped the box, I followed the map overlay in my HUD to the rally-point to join Merc and the rest of 7<sup>th</sup> squad. They were gathered in an enormous impact crater formed by one of the artillery rounds. Merc was in his usual combat bot configuration; the same one he used so effectively in the sim. However, here in the physical world, he appeared even larger and more intimidating.

    He held a quick briefing before we began our push to the objective.

    ¡°Once we start moving, don¡¯t stop for any reason. Keep an eye on the drone feeds in your HUD. They¡¯re going to see the enemy before you get anywhere near him. Don¡¯t attack enemy positions head on. Outflank them on either side and keep moving. Our job is to capture the objective, not to engage in firefights. The following troops will clean up behind us. Any questions?¡±

    I was starting to see another side of Merc. He seemed to genuinely care about his UCCs and made every effort to answer their questions. Consequently, they seemed to know exactly what was expected of them at all times and followed his orders without hesitation. Although I was convinced he didn¡¯t hold me in the same regard as his veterans, I decided I would follow his orders to the letter. It seemed like my best survival strategy.

    Merc ordered, ¡°Weapons free!¡±, as we began our advance. We emerged from the crater and began moving across the battlefield. The terrain had been so chewed up by artillery that it was impossible to maintain a straight course towards the objective. If not for the map in my HUD I would have become hopelessly lost, as we dropped into and climbed out of countless shell craters.

    Once on the battlefield, I had expected to hear the sound of nonstop combat, just like in the simulator. But there was only an eerie silence. This was supposed to be an enemy fortress, so where the hell was the enemy?

    As we continued our advance, calls came in over the radio from other squad leaders. They seemed confused by the lack of reaction from the enemy.

    ¡°Super 2-4, We ¡­ uh¡­ have negative contact so far. Anyone see anything?¡±

    ¡°Archer 2-2, Nothing yet.¡±

    Merc replied, ¡°2-7. Negative.¡±

    I didn¡¯t necessarily want to face enemy fire, but the sustained tension of waiting for the first shot to be fired was almost unbearable. I wondered if we hadn¡¯t blundered into some elaborate enemy ambush.

    As we crested the rim of yet another shell crater, I could see other squads ahead of us, advancing towards our objective in the distance. We also began to pass the remains of the previous mission.

    There were bits and pieces of Marines everywhere. It was distressing to see such carnage. Apparently, I wasn¡¯t the only one unsettled by the sight of my fellow UCCs reduced to fragments.

    ¡°Look at this mess.¡±

    ¡°Shit. There isn¡¯t a single intact control module.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s because Command AD¡¯d ¡®em all.¡± It was devastating to think that our own command could be responsible for the obliteration of an entire troopship of Marines.

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    Merc intervened to prevent a mutiny.¡± Everyone, knock it off! Stay focused.¡±

    Checking the video feeds from the drones flying overhead, I could see that the objective consisted of a complex of low structures, organized into a grid pattern. The architecture looked completely unremarkable. Just a collection of rectangular boxes. It was surprising to me that none of the buildings had suffered any damage. Obviously, Command had not targeted them in the artillery strike. Without any intel on the nature of the objective, I could only speculate about the purpose of these buildings in the middle of nowhere.

    Merc came over the squad frequency and ordered us to halt. ¡°7<sup>th</sup> squad, hold right here.¡±

    DJ asked, ¡°Hey Chief, what¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°Quiet.¡± Merc was kneeling, intently examining the battlefield in front of us. No doubt using every sensor at maximum power. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong. We should have had contact by now.¡±

    There hadn¡¯t been any contact with the enemy, and we were getting awfully close to the objective. I had been in plenty of sessions in the sim and never gotten this close to an objective without being fired on by the enemy. But then again, this was the real world. Maybe combat worked differently out here.

    I was using the optical gunsight on my AAV¡¯s 20 mm minigun to scan the buildings in the distance, when without warning, one of the Marines in my field of vision, approximately 500 meters in front of us, disappeared in a brilliant flash. I only realized what had happened when the sound of the distant explosion was picked up by my acoustical sensors. I had just witnessed someone get autodestructed.

    I yelled over the squad frequency, ¡°Hey, one of our people just got AD¡¯d!¡± As I warned the others, a series of explosions could be heard, as the squads in front of us began autodestructing before our eyes.

    ¡°What the fuck?¡±

    ¡°They weren¡¯t retreating! I saw ¡®em! They weren¡¯t retreating!¡±

    Panic began to grip the squad. It was terrifying to imagine being autodestructed even though we were following Command¡¯s orders to the letter. My mind raced. The wave of destruction seemed to be moving towards us. I thought about Cherri. She was somewhere out there, in the middle of this mess.

    Merc could be heard frantically contacting Command. ¡°Overwatch, this is Merc 2-7; Cancel autodestruct! Cancel it now goddamn it!¡±

    Command responded with the emotional detachment characteristic of AIs. ¡°Merc 2-7, this is Overwatch. We have not initiated auto-destruct. Standby.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got Marines AD¡¯ing all over the battlefield! If you didn¡¯t push the button, someone else sure as hell did! Disarm the kill switches immediately, before we¡¯re all dead!¡±

    ¡°Standby 2-7.¡±

    There was chaos on the battlefield. Marines were exploding one after another. Some soldiers were hunkered down trying to figure out what was happening, while others were fleeing to the rear, unnerved by the unimaginable carnage.

    Merc quickly assessed the situation and made a decision. ¡°Overwatch! We¡¯re withdrawing. Merc 2-7 out!¡±

    He then ordered us to retreat. ¡°Get to the rally point as fast as you can!¡± No one questioned his decision, despite the fact that it was in direct defiance of Command¡¯s no retreat policy, and grounds for immediate auto-destruction. The squad¡¯s complete trust in Merc¡¯s leadership was inspiring. My respect for him rose dramatically.

    As we raced towards the rear, we could hear Command calmly advising, ¡°Negative 2-7. Withdrawal is not authorized. Continue advancing.¡± Speaking for myself, it felt better to be acting and risking auto destruction by Command, rather than waiting for certain destruction by an unseen enemy.

    I wondered, if someone or something else now had control over the kill switches, could Command even disarm them? The answer to that question came in the form of a message scrolling across my HUD. It read, ¡°autodestruct/master/disarmed.¡± If I were still human, I would have breathed a sigh of relief.

    Scanning the other squad members through my optical sensors, I could see a noticeable decrease in their sense of urgency. The level of tension fell dramatically. At least we couldn¡¯t be AD¡¯d with the system disarmed. Anyway, I hoped that was the case.

    Command made contact over the squad frequency. ¡°Merc 2-7, this is Overwatch. Halt your unauthorized withdrawal immediately. We are running diagnostics now. Standby.¡±

    Merc slowed to a stop. ¡°Okay, 7<sup>th</sup> squad, hold up.¡± We converged in a rough semicircle around our squad leader, curious about what Command¡¯s next move might be.

    DJ spoke first. ¡°Hey Boss, do you think they¡¯re going to send us back in ¡­ even if the enemy¡¯s hacked the autodestruct system?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s going to depend on what the diagnostics find, and whether Command is willing to let us go into combat with the autodestruct disabled. But that¡¯s totally against policy.¡±

    Call sign Wicked laughed sharply, and said, ¡°This whole mission is totally against policy!¡±

    That was undeniably true.

 Episode 24: Amateurs

    Episode 24

    Amateurs

    A message from Command scrolled in our HUDs. ¡°Autodestruct security updated. Standby for orders.¡± The squad began speculating about what would happen next.

    ¡°They¡¯re gonna to evacuate us back to the ship, right?¡±

    ¡°Not likely, if they¡¯ve already installed a patch.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re going to fuck¡¯in send us back in. I just know it.¡±

    A new notification arrived, ¡°Autodestruct/master/armed¡±. It was followed closely by a text with attachments. New orders. Then the grumbling began in earnest.

    ¡°Oh shit.¡±

    ¡°Orders? Wonderful.¡± Someone said sarcastically.

    ¡°How do they even know if their patch will work? Did they test it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll get tested when they send us back in.¡±

    Merc put an abrupt stop to the griping. ¡°Everyone shut up! Command could have AD¡¯d us all when we were retreating, and they didn¡¯t. As far as I¡¯m concerned, we got lucky. Now review your orders and speak up if you have questions.¡±

    There was silence for a moment while everyone studied the new plan.

    Downloading the new orders cleared the previous mission¡¯s data and updated the maps in my HUD. I scanned the new mission profile. The only thing that seemed to have changed was the main objective. We were still assaulting the collection of buildings specified in the previous mission, but now the objective was identified as a specific building. Another twist in the revised mission was a prohibition on the use of any weapons inside the target building itself.

    We were to occupy the building and defend it against any enemy attempts to reoccupy or destroy it. Command clearly wanted to protect whatever was inside.

    Merc commented on the new mission. ¡°Okay, it looks pretty straightforward. This time, we¡¯re targeting only one building and we¡¯ll need to defend it against the enemy if he shows up.

    We don¡¯t know if we¡¯re going to have opposition on the way in, or if the enemy will hit us only after we reach the objective. For this operation, we¡¯re going in with only 3 squads. 2<sup>nd</sup> and 6<sup>th</sup> squads will be on our right flank, so make sure you don¡¯t send any rounds in their direction. The rest of the troops will be held in reserve if we get into trouble.

    It¡¯ll be the same order of battle as before, drones in first, followed by the AAVs, then everyone else. Any questions?¡± My only question was whether this was some kind of battlefield punishment for our unauthorized withdrawal, or a test to see if Command¡¯s security patch worked. Probably both, I thought cynically.

    While Merc conducted a brief Q&A with the squad, I was approached by a Marine who went by the handle ¡®Professor¡¯.

    ¡°Hey Outline. Hold still while I wire you up.¡± He was holding an AUX cable and connector in one hand and a nondescript black box in the other. I didn¡¯t like the idea of someone I didn¡¯t know attaching anything to my AAV.

    ¡°What is that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an extra video feed. Merc wants to have a tape of you in combat so he can coach you after the mission.¡±

    I was immediately suspicious. ¡°Can¡¯t he just watch the recorded video from the AAV? I mean, we all have multiple cameras recording everything we do and say in combat.¡± I wondered if I was being set up for something.

    ¡°Relax, it¡¯s just a backup in case Command edits the combat footage. Merc likes to see everything unfiltered.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure what to make of his explanation, but I didn¡¯t seem to have a choice in the matter. I watched anxiously as he hooked up the ¡°extra feed¡±.

    A flock of drones gathered briefly overhead before flying off towards the objective. I watched as their feeds streamed in my HUD, the battlefield effortlessly flowing past as they retraced our assault route.

    Merc shouted, ¡°Move out!¡± and so we began our second assault on the objective.

    I followed my exact route from before. I figured there was no point in risking running over a nasty surprise, like a mine left by the enemy. I wished I could traverse the battlefield as easily as the drones, but I was in a heavy armored assault vehicle, a rattling bucket of bolts, lurching clumsily over the rough terrain. I tracked our progress on the map overlay as the distance between us and the objective shrank.

    After only one disastrous combat mission, I wasn¡¯t close to being a veteran, but I had at least gotten through the initial shock of combat. Oddly, I was feeling calmer now that we had begun the assault. I wasn¡¯t sure if I had magically developed more confidence on the battlefield, or if I was simply more accepting that my fate wasn¡¯t in my hands. Odder still, was how I could find the wherewithal to philosophize about my fate, while actively participating in combat. Go figure.

    The leaders of the three squads kept in constant communication with each other as we neared the objective. The ongoing narration helped to boost our situational awareness. It also made me feel less isolated as I bounced along in my armored box.

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    ¡°Champ 2-2. 500 meters out. Still no contact.¡±

    ¡°2-7. Nothing yet.¡±

    ¡°2-6. Hey Champ, hold up so we can pull even with you. I don¡¯t want you in my field of fire.¡±

    ¡°2-2. Roger that.¡±

    It was only after we¡¯d gotten within 200 meters of the target that I realized none of us had spontaneously auto-destructed. Command¡¯s IT team must be the real deal.

    ¡°2-7. We¡¯re in position, 100 meters north of the target building.¡±

    ¡°2-2. Roger 2-7. Getting into position now.

    ¡°2-6. Ready on your go Merc.¡±

    Our orders were to enter and secure the target building, so a technical team could be delivered to analyze whatever was in there. If it was alien technology, the building would undoubtedly be rigged to auto-destruct. The trick would be getting inside without getting vaporized in the process.

    There was a door visible on the north side of the building. Merc advised the other squad leaders to hold while he sent a team in to check it out.

    ¡°Looks like we¡¯ve got an access point on this side of the target building. Standby while we take a look.¡±

    Then he said, ¡°Jones, move up and breach that door.¡± It was only then that I realized Merc meant, take a look inside. He cautioned Jones, ¡°It¡¯s going to be boobytrapped, so breach it from behind cover.¡± Then he looked over at me and said, ¡°Take Outline with you. The rest of us will provide covering fire.¡±

    My self-preservation instinct kicked in as Jones stood and gestured for me to join him. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s go.¡± Even though I was in a relatively well protected AAV, I had to resist the impulse to flee from the danger ahead. Instead, I reluctantly rolled forward.

    Jones motioned for me to take point position. It looked like I was going to be his shield in case of enemy fire. I began moving towards the door with Jones on my 6 o¡¯clock. I hadn¡¯t gone 25 feet when I began seeing heat signatures appearing in my thermal imaging system. Shit.

    Barely detectable visual distortions, picked up by my optical sensors, suggested the enemy was using active camouflage. It produced a shimmering effect when the user moved as the system struggled to reproduce the constantly shifting background image. But when the user was stationary, they were completely invisible. Thankfully, they were still detectable with thermal imaging.

    Jones called them out. ¡°Contact! We¡¯ve got 5, 6 targets ahead.¡± I watched as more enemy images appeared on my thermal sensors. They were clustered around the target building, not more than 80 meters out.

    Jones corrected himself. ¡°Make that 20 plus targets! It¡¯s gonna get messy!¡±

    Messy indeed, I thought, as I switched my 20mm minigun to auto-targeting mode. There was the familiar whine as the cluster of 20 mm gun barrels began spinning. Up to this point, things felt just like a simulator session, but that was about to change.

    The enemy opened up first. Small arms fire began hitting my AAV. It was more of an annoyance than a threat, as a steady stream of rounds ticked against the heavily armored front plates. They sounded like small hailstones. Jones calmly encouraged me to keep moving. ¡°You¡¯re doing good. Just hold your fire and keep rolling.¡±

    The volume and intensity of enemy fire increased. Instead of ticks accented by the occasional ting of a ricochet, the impacts became loud thunks, interspersed with even louder bangs as my reactive armor began exploding. Things were beginning to get serious.

    Jones yelled, ¡°Blast those fuckers!¡±

    The minigun¡¯s targeting reticle automatically selected the nearest thermal image and flashed green. I hit the virtual fire button and unleashed a 5000 round per minute firestorm.

    Explosive rounds left the barrels of the minigun at 1100 meters per second. The range finder calculated the distance to the targets and set their detonators to explode literally in the faces of the enemy. I watched as the thermal images began disappearing from my HUD. Each image represented an enemy combatant obliterated by a merciless stream of 20mm explosive rounds.

    I was devastating the enemy forces in front of us. It seemed so easy. In the sim, I would watch my points total accumulate as I gunned down hordes of virtual enemy targets. But there were no counters tallying up points here, just disintegrating enemy targets.

    The temperature indicator in the corner of my HUD turned from green, to yellow, and then to red, as my minigun began overheating. Soon, it would trigger the auto-stop safety to prevent damage to the weapon. I switched to short bursts and willed my weapon to keep firing. The minigun shutdown as the last targets were destroyed. Smoke poured from its overheated barrels.

    I kept scanning the area for more targets, but there were none. The enemy had been completely consumed in the brief but violent firefight.

    Merc¡¯s voice came over the squad frequency, snapping me out of my trance. ¡°Good job guys! Move up and prepare to breach.¡±

    Jones and I began moving forward. As we approached the enemy position, I switched to my optical sensors to survey my handiwork. I was expecting to find heaps of mangled robotic weapons systems. What I saw instead, was a scene straight out of a horror film.

    Pieces of biological soldiers were strewn over a wide area. Things that belonged inside their bodies, now lay hideously exposed. Some of the internal organs laying in the dirt looked vaguely familiar. And the blood. It was everywhere, turning a dark brown as it soaked into the soil of Trappist-1e.

    I wanted to turn away but couldn¡¯t. It was as if my sensor array was force feeding me the horrific images. I could feel the shocking scene burning itself irrevocably into my digitally remanufactured consciousness. My CPU would bear eternal witness to the slaughter.

    Jones observed the carnage and scoffed, his contempt for the enemy obvious. ¡± Fucking amateurs. Look at ¡®em! They aren¡¯t even wearing body armor."

    It was true. The alien soldiers had engaged us with light weapons and without any protection whatsoever. I couldn¡¯t understand what drove them to such a suicidal defense against overwhelming opposition. What could the point have been?

    Finally able to tear my gaze away from the devastation, I looked up towards our objective. The entry door to the target building stood just ahead, framed by a fresco of blood spatter on an otherwise unblemished wall.

    Jones moved up to the door, inspecting it closely with his sensors and sharing the images with the squad through mil-net. He and Merc discussed the next steps.

    Merc advised, ¡°First of all, get away from that door. Move back about 50 meters, get behind cover and hit it with some 30mm rounds. It¡¯s definitely rigged to explode; a couple of hits and it should blow. Then, we enter and see what the hell is inside.¡±

    Jones responded, ¡°Roger. Standby.¡± Jones turned and started walking in my direction. He gestured for me to move back, further away from the building. I was only too glad to comply.

    I glanced back toward where 7<sup>th</sup> squad had taken cover. There wasn¡¯t anyone visible. They were already hunkered down, sheltering from the impending blast. I felt dangerously exposed out in the open and began searching for cover. My best option seemed to be a deep shell crater to my left. As I rolled up to its edge and prepared to drop in, I turned to check on Jones.

    He was a ways off, ambling in my direction with his weapon held loosely in one hand. I admired the way he exuded a Zen-like calm on the battlefield, even while preparing to trigger an enemy IED with an unknown amount of explosive force. Jones was ¡­ pretty fuckin¡¯ cool.

    It wasn¡¯t until much later that I learned this was my last memory from our brief visit to Trappist-1e.

 Episode 25: Love, Cherri

    Episode 25

    Love, Cherri

    <Initializing>

    I became aware of myself gradually, in stages. From a completely black void, bits and pieces of information began populating my consciousness, coalescing into directories and subdirectories. Most were memories, but there were also sensations, and some fully formed beliefs.

    These beliefs informed me that I was reconstituting into a perfectly accurate facsimile of my previous self, after a routine maintenance restart. Thankfully, I felt none of the disorientation I had experienced the last time I restarted.

    Eventually, my HUD assembled into the layout I¡¯d become so familiar with during my time in the USMC. I began examining the current data, cross referencing it with my memories, looking for anomalies. After completing this exercise without finding any inconsistencies, I felt confident that I was 100% operational.

    I was eager to evaluate my first combat assignment in detail and study every aspect of my performance, before Merc or anyone else could critique me. So, I pulled up all the files from the Trappist-1e mission and started reviewing them.

    It had been a milk run. An assault on an abandoned enemy outpost. There had been a preparatory artillery barrage. We advanced to our objective, breached it, and searched for enemy intel.

    After we had confirmed there were no enemy troops in the area, a couple of my squad mates urged me to fire my weapon a few times at a distant mound of dirt. According to them, it was so I could honestly claim to have fired it during a mission. It was fun, until Merc got on the radio and told us to ¡°Knock that shit off!¡± Their laughter at my expense suggested that I had just been hazed into the squad.

    Then we exfiled out of there, back to the troopship. The most notable thing about the mission was that I hadn¡¯t screwed up and embarrassed myself. Initially, I had been nervous about Merc being my squad leader, but he had been all business and even congratulated me afterwards.

    Although the mission was uneventful, I was still satisfied with the outcome.

    Checking my USMC inbox, I found a few official texts from Command. One contained my first USMC decoration, a virtual combat ribbon. It was Command¡¯s formal acknowledgement that I had been in combat. No one I knew wore decorations of any kind, so I left the attachment unopened. There was also a memory award and some combat credits. Nominal rewards for a nominally successful mission.

    There was nothing else of note, so I quickly moved on to my ¡®unofficial¡¯ inbox, which existed within the bootleg UCC network. This was where UCCs communicated with each other.

    Here I found a stack of unread text messages waiting for me. They were mostly from my small circle of friends, however, there was one from Merc, which was unexpected. Interspersed with these, were several from a Marine named Cherri, which was weird. Cherri was a USMC celebrity. She had a reputation as a super soldier and, oddly, the star of a series of very popular ¡®virtual intimacy¡¯ experiences that were available for purchase through My Wizard. It wasn¡¯t at all clear to me why someone of her social stature would reach out to a nobody like me.

    Mildly curious, I began reading the texts from her starting with the oldest, when I noticed something odd. It was dated over 3 months ago. It simply read, ¡°Text me.¡±

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    I tried to recall when I had last checked my inbox. It couldn¡¯t have been 3 months ago. Where had I been all this time? I had just completed the mission to Trappist-1e and had checked my messages as soon as I got back on board the troopship.

    A wave of uneasiness washed over me as I continued reading.

    The remaining messages from her became progressively more anxious in tone. She seemed to be very concerned about my ¡®status¡¯. The last communication from her was dated a couple of weeks ago.

    She wrote, ¡°I miss you. Everyone has told me to be patient, but it¡¯s impossible. I think about you too much. I hope you still remember me ¡­ and us. Love, Cherri.¡±

    WTF? Was she talking about me? It seemed unlikely.

    The unauthorized comms network cobbled together by the UCCs had some technical quirks but mixing up addresses wasn¡¯t one of them. So, I doubted I had received her texts by mistake. The fact that the network was public meant that her personal messages to me could be read by anyone. Surely, someone would have said something to her if this was all a mix up. I was beyond confused.

    I wasn¡¯t sure if I should contact her without having a clue about what was going on. Based on her texts, it seemed like she believed the two of us were in some kind of relationship. But if that was true, why didn¡¯t I have any memory of it? I knew that memories here in troopship land were commodities that were commonly sold. If I¡¯d sold my memories of our relationship, I should at least have a memory of the sales transaction. But there was nothing.

    As flattering as it was to think that someone like Cherri could be interested in me, it was mentally exhausting. I needed to take a break from trying to decipher the implications of her texts.

    Moving on to see what Merc had sent me, I opened his text. It contained a cryptically worded message, and an attached file.

    The message read, ¡°Watch this ASAP¡±.

    I could see the file was a video. I downloaded it to my CPU and hit the play button. It was a POV feed, which began with images and audio of Merc briefing the squad on Trappist-1e, then ordering us to move out. I wondered why Merc would send me someone else¡¯s mission footage, since he knew I already had plenty of my own. We all did.

    I watched as the squad approached the objective. The footage was very similar to that contained in my official files of the mission. It would have been more interesting if I hadn¡¯t already seen the other videos, but I kept watching regardless. After all, it was my first mission, even if there was no combat involved.

    At the point where the official records showed us beginning our final push to the objective, the sequence of events on this video began to deviate from my recollection. I saw Merc talking to Jones, and then he looked directly at the camera and said, ¡°Take Outline with you.¡±

    Holy shit! The camera was filming from my point of view, but I didn¡¯t recall that happening.

    I remembered being behind cover while Jones and another Marine, whose name I didn¡¯t recall, advanced to the target building. They breached the door, and then the entire squad entered the building to clear it. However, that wasn¡¯t what I was watching now.

    The POV camera must have been mounted to the armored assault vehicle I was operating. The camera recorded faint distortions in the background, indications of active camouflage systems shimmering in the distance, as I approached the target building.

    There were flashes of gunfire as the enemy opened up. The audio caught Jones yelling out ¡°Blast those fuckers!¡± And that¡¯s exactly what I did. The enemy soldiers burst like ripe watermelons as they were hit by exploding rounds from my minigun.

    Some tried to flee, but I gunned them down ruthlessly. So many hours of virtual combat in the simulator had programmed me to react without conscious thought. Targeting and shooting the enemy had become an autonomic response.

    The aftermath of the engagement was predictably gruesome. I fast forwarded the video, unable to stomach the slaughter and unwilling to accept my role in creating it.

    I resumed watching the video, where it showed Jones gesturing for me to move back, as he prepared to breach the target building. A few more seconds of footage documented my search for cover, followed by a brief image of Jones as he casually strolled towards me. Then there was a flash of light, and the video abruptly ended. It had to have been some kind of explosion.

    I was torn over what to believe. My current memory of what had happened on Trappist-1e, or the video Merc sent me? The fact that both memories, and videos, could be faked here in troopship land made that question impossible to answer.

    It came down to who I trusted more, Command or Merc. I had been cautioned not to trust Command. However, Merc and I had some bad blood between us, dating from our first encounter in the sim.

    As far as I recalled, the only person I could always trust had been Lucy. If anyone could get me straightened out, it would be him. I sent him a text, then waited. I didn¡¯t have to wait long. He quickly texted back a request for an audio chat. I clicked on the link and Lucy got right to the point.

    ¡°Do you realize you¡¯ve been missing for over 3 months?!¡±

 Episode: 26 A Hell of an Explosion

    Episode 26

    A Hell of an Explosion

    ¡°Missing for over three months!?¡±

    My mind reeled as I tried to come to grips with how I could be ¡°missing¡± for so long and have no memory of it. It was hard to imagine that was even possible. However, it would explain why I hadn¡¯t read my messages for so long.

    I asked, ¡°Where the hell have I been?¡± As soon as I asked the question I realized, if I didn¡¯t know the answer, it was unlikely that anyone else would.

    ¡°I have no fucking clue. Did you watch the video Merc sent you? The one from the Trappist mission?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I did. That¡¯s why I texted you. The video doesn¡¯t match my recollection of the mission at all. I recall it as a totally routine search mission, with no enemy contact. But the video ¡­¡± I was at a loss for words to describe what the video had shown.

    Lucy explained, ¡°It was anything but routine. We lost a bunch of people, KIA. There was a fire fight. Then you got blown up. Do you remember any of that?¡±

    I thought back to Merc¡¯s combat footage. It had shown a brief firefight, Jones getting ready to blast the door on the target building, and then nothing.

    I answered, ¡°No, I don¡¯t¡±.

    He sighed heavily and said, ¡°Command did some serious house cleaning on your memories my friend.¡± He then proceeded to bring me up to speed on our brief visit to Trappist 1-e.

    ¡°Here¡¯s what really happened. Command ordered us in on a rescue mission. When we got there, it was clear there was no one left to rescue. The so called ¡®rescue¡¯ was a cover. Turns out, the previous mission had been completely annihilated by some new enemy weapon. Command sent us in to determine the scope of the new threat.

    They gave us minimal intel on the enemy positions, and nothing about the weapon. They were prepared to sacrifice all of us to find out more about the new enemy technology. If it hadn¡¯t been for Merc, we would have all been AD¡¯d back there.¡±

    I was stunned, and curious. ¡°What did Merc do?¡±

    ¡°He stood up to Command. He led an unauthorized retreat, at the risk of getting AD¡¯d. And the crazy thing is, we all followed him. He got us out of the kill zone.¡±

    ¡°The kill zone?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. The enemy hacked Command¡¯s autodestruct system. They had some kind of transmitter on Trappist and began transmitting the autodestruct signal as we closed in. Everyone who was in range got AD¡¯d. Merc got us out of there before it was too late. Command tried to force us to continue the assault, but with everyone in full retreat mode, they relented and disarmed the autodestruct system.¡±

    ¡°So, the enemy routed us?¡± This was a surprise to me. I was under the impression that the USMC was invincible. ¡°I thought we won every engagement with the enemy.¡±

    Lucy explained, ¡°That¡¯s what Command wants you to believe. But the facts are, we got our asses kicked. They sent us in again to try and secure the building with the transmitter, but the enemy put up a fight, just outside the target building.¡±

    I saw the video. It had been a one-sided engagement. ¡°We slaughtered them.¡±

    ¡°Those weren¡¯t enemy combat bots you took out. They were only flesh and blood technicians. They put up a pretty good fight, considering.¡±

    According to the video, there had certainly been plenty of flesh and blood. Moving on, I asked, ¡°Then I got blown up?¡±

    ¡°Well, the main take away is this, the target building was rigged to explode, but it didn¡¯t wait until we blew the access door. It exploded while you and Jones were out in the open. Jones got vaporized. And you ¡­ well, we found your brain box almost half a klick away.¡±

    I was incredulous. My control module, which contained my consciousness, was found half a kilometer away? I let that sink in for a moment. Then, unable to find the appropriate words, I simply said, ¡°It must¡¯ve been a hell of an explosion.¡±

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    Lucy agreed, ¡°No shit. We weren¡¯t sure there was anything left of you to salvage, but we brought your module back to the ship anyway. Merc turned you over to the maintenance-bots to see if there was something they could do.¡±

    There was a hesitation before he continued. ¡°When you didn¡¯t show up on the net in the next few weeks, we all figured you were a lost cause. We even held a memorial for you.¡±

    ¡°A memorial?¡± It was touching to think that my fellow Marines had cared enough to hold a memorial for me.

    Then Lucy added, ¡°Of course, the only people who attended were Cherri and I.¡±

    Rather than dwell on how poorly attended my memorial had been, I tried to focus on the positive.

    ¡°Well, thank you ¡­ for the remembrance.¡±

    ¡°It was Cherri¡¯s idea.¡±

    Attempting to control my growing irritation, I said, ¡°Listen, it doesn¡¯t matter whose idea it was. I¡¯m not dead. Let¡¯s just move on. Okay?¡±

    ¡°Geez. I don¡¯t recall you being so sensitive.¡±

    Hoping to leave behind the momentary awkwardness, I asked, ¡°So if I wasn¡¯t in maintenance, where the hell could I have been for the last 3 months?¡±

    ¡°No one knows. But one thing is for sure, Command edited your memories.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t so sure about that. I argued, ¡°Do you mean because of the video? How can you be sure that wasn¡¯t faked?¡± In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, the authenticity of the video was questionable. In my judgement, either version of my recent history could be true. I chose to believe my memories.

    ¡°Do you remember being in a relationship with Cherri?¡±

    A wave of anxiety washed over me, as I weighed the implications of having been in a relationship that I couldn¡¯t recall. Cherri¡¯s messages to me clearly suggested that we had some kind of bond. An intimate relationship, based on the tone of her texts.

    If I answered Lucy¡¯s question honestly, it would mean that my memories had indeed been edited, and the video was mostly likely accurate.

    ¡°I know who she is. But ¡­ no, I don¡¯t remember having any relationship with her.¡± It was still inconceivable to me that a prominent celebrity like Cherri would have any interest in somebody like me.

    ¡°Right. That¡¯s because Command removed every memory you had of your relationship with Cherri.¡± He quickly added, ¡°And they modified your memories of the Trappist mission, just like everyone else.¡±

    Despite the rumors I¡¯d heard about Command editing the combat memories of Marines after missions, I was still skeptical. If everyone¡¯s memories were being manipulated, how could anyone be sure of ¡­ anything?

    I scoffed. ¡°Come on. If they¡¯re editing everyone¡¯s memories, how do you even know what the truth is?¡±

    ¡°Because, on every mission, we have dozens of pirated cameras recording everything that happens. How do think Merc got the footage of you getting blown up on Trappist 1-e? Did that look fabricated to you? Huh?¡±

    I had to admit, he did have a point. It would be hard to fake the point of view on the video. The camera had clearly been attached to my armored assault vehicle during the mission.

    ¡°So, I was really in a relationship with Cherri, and I really got blown up on the Trappist mission?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s the truth.¡±

    ¡°What a fucking mess¡±, I thought to myself. I couldn¡¯t begin to imagine how to fix this. I asked, ¡°What do I tell Cherri? I have no memory of our relationship.¡±

    Lucy asked, ¡°So, you don¡¯t recall anything? Not even a personal moment you two shared?

    ¡°No, there¡¯s nothing.¡± In spite of our unequal social standing, I felt badly for Cherri. Not only did I have no memory of our time together, but I was also completely devoid of any feelings for her. She was a stranger to me.

    Lucy then asked me to check my archive files. ¡°See if you have any memories of her in your archives. Those might have been erased from your RAM, but stored as cold data somewhere else.¡±

    After checking both my internal and external data archives, it was clear that there were no memory files of Cherri and me. However, I did notice something odd. There were several encrypted files sitting in my archive.

    Why would I have encrypted files? I certainly didn¡¯t create them, so, who did? The only purpose for encrypting data was to prevent someone from accessing it. Did that mean that someone was hiding something from me? And if so, why?

    Lucy interrupted my thoughts. ¡°So, did you find anything?¡±

    I didn¡¯t want to tell him about the encrypted files before I had a chance to do some investigating of my own, so I lied. ¡°Nope. Didn¡¯t find anything.¡± I felt like my deception must be obvious.

    ¡°Well, shit. That¡¯s too bad. You¡¯re gonna have to tell Cherri that Command erased your memories of her.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t looking forward to that. Telling someone close to you that you suddenly don¡¯t know them must be devastating. I told Lucy, ¡°She¡¯s probably not going to take it well.¡±

    ¡°Yep, she¡¯s going to freak out for sure. Especially considering this is the second time this has happened to her.¡±

    Caught off guard by the phrase ¡°second time¡±, I asked, ¡°What do you mean? Has this happened before?¡±

    He casually explained, ¡°Oh yeah. The same thing happened to her and Merc, when they were a couple. It¡¯s the reason they broke up.¡±

    ¡°What the fuck?!,¡± I thought. There were way too many things going south on me for this to be a simple run of bad luck. The erased memories, the encrypted files, having so much in common with Merc. It had to be some kind of universal convergence of negative energy for this much bad shit to happen to me, all at once. I desperately I needed a break from my reality.

    Lucy could tell I was struggling. ¡°You look like you could use a drink ¡­ or something.¡±

    Hoping against hope, I asked, ¡°Is there such a thing here?¡± I tried not to get my hopes up too much.

    ¡°I think we can adjust your perspective a little.¡± He paused briefly, then a link popped up in my HUD. ¡°Click on that and meet me in the lobby.¡±

    I impetuously decided that an adjustment in my perspective was exactly what I needed to raise my spirits. So, with total disregard for the possible consequences, I clicked on the link. After all, I figured things were already so fucked up, they couldn¡¯t get any worse.

    But to be honest, I had been wrong about that before.

 Episode 27: 50/50

    Episode 27

    50/50

    I found myself standing in the lobby alone. Lucy hadn¡¯t arrived yet. So, I occupied myself by checking out the scene.

    Unlike my previous visits to the lobby, things were unusually quiet. There were no crowds milling about, waiting for simulator sessions. There was only a handful of UCCs, gathered in a small group, talking. No one so much as glanced in my direction.

    The ambiance was different as well. The lighting seemed off. Not necessarily the level of illumination, but maybe a different spectrum of light. And although I couldn¡¯t put my finger on it, I would swear that some of the furnishings had been rearranged. The AIs had probably updated it since my last visit, which had to have been over 3 months ago now.

    There were two hallways on opposite ends of the lobby. One of these led to private rooms. I retained some memories of traveling through that hallway, but I had no recall of being inside any of the rooms. Command had erased those memories. Possibly because they included Cherri. I wasn¡¯t sure.

    The other hallway, however, was a complete mystery to me.

    I was getting a little antsy waiting for Lucy, so I decided to do some exploring, just to pass the time.

    Entering the unfamiliar hallway, I noticed that, like it¡¯s mirror image across the lobby, none of the doors had any identifying marks on them. Out of idle curiosity, I began testing the knobs on some of the doors as I passed. They were all locked.

    I continued walking down the hallway checking doors at random, when one of the knobs unexpectedly yielded to the twist of my hand. I froze. I was suddenly and inexplicably hesitant to learn what secret the door might be hiding. Was it fear holding me back?

    Standing perfectly still and staring at the unlocked door, my imagination ran wild. What could be inside? A portal to another dimension? A room full of snakes? Monsters?

    How could a Marine who had engaged in deadly combat, who wasn¡¯t even human anymore, be afraid? And of what?

    Physically, I, or at least my consciousness, resided safely in a control module, plugged into the charging network of the troopship. This hallway, and the attached lobby were just digital constructs, existing only as electrons arranged into patterns by a software program. How could they possibly harm me? For all intents and purposes, this door wasn¡¯t even real.

    I tightened my grip on the doorknob and twisted it cautiously, until there was a faint click. Easing the door open slightly, I could hear the low thump of a rhythmic beat. It was barely audible through what sounded like the buzz of many indistinct conversations in the background. As I swung the door open, I was assaulted by a cacophony of noise so loud, it threatened to overwhelm my virtual eardrums.

    Before me was a riotous crowd of Marines in full party mode.

    Not unlike some magnetic force, the lure of forgetting about my troubles and joining in the festivities, pulled me into the dimly lit space. It was standing room only, and moving through the dense throng of avatars involved a lot of virtual body contact. I was getting up close and personal with dozens of Marines in the process.

    With no particular plan in mind and not seeing anyone I knew; I made my way towards the approximate center of the room. Here I discovered a collection of low tables and sofas occupied by a group of Marines who were engaged in a spirited discussion.

    One of the Marines looked familiar. I struggled to connect a name to the face, but eventually recalled that his handle was Chef. The guy had given me some advice and encouragement just before my first mission. He was one of the few veterans willing to make an effort to help out a new recruit.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    I stood outside the circle of Marines, unsure of whether I should interrupt or not, when suddenly he looked in my direction and did a doubletake. I couldn¡¯t hear what he said, but he seemed to mouth the words ¡°Holy fuck!¡±, then elbowed the guy next to him and pointed excitedly at me.

    Chef stood up and staggered towards me with outstretched arms, proclaiming loudly. ¡°It¡¯s Outline! He made it back!¡±

    Someone said, ¡°I don¡¯t believe it!¡±

    Then I heard someone else say, ¡°It¡¯s a fucking miracle!¡± Indeed, I thought.

    Chef enveloped me in a suffocating bearhug and said, ¡°You¡¯re alive! We thought you got your ass blown up back on Trappist 1-e.¡±

    Other Marines slapped me roughly on the back as Chef, dragged me over to a sofa. ¡°Sit down. Hang out with us while we celebrate your ¡­ uh ¡­ ¡°

    He seemed at a loss for words, so I helpfully suggested, ¡°My return?¡±

    ¡°¡­ your resurrection dude!¡±

    It seemed my unexpected return had taking on a quasi-biblical significance to Chef and his friends. I wondered how much of their enthusiasm was being fueled by some kind of intoxicant, and how I might get my hands on some.

    As we sat together, I was interrogated about my extended absence and what it felt like to get blown up. I answered their questions as best I could, but at the same time, I was trying to compose a plan to get some of whatever mood-altering substance they were on. I could use the boost.

    I was still struggling to come up with a plan when one of the Marines, a guy called Alice, said, ¡°Hey! Give Outline some 50/50. He needs to celebrate his homecoming. He¡¯s the ... uh¡­ whaddya call it?¡±

    The guy sitting next to him suggested, ¡°the Homecoming Queen!¡± The group of Marines exploded in a storm of laughter. Whatever these guys were taking, they had obviously taken too much.

    I asked, ¡°What¡¯s 50/50?¡±, hoping it was something digitally intoxicating.

    ¡°It¡¯s good shit man. Try some.¡± With that less than enlightening description, he held out a slip of paper to me. I could see it had some characters and numbers written on it, but otherwise, it was just a piece of paper.

    Clueless, I asked, ¡°So, what¡¯s this?¡±

    Chef explained, ¡°It¡¯s a coupon. Just text that code to My Wizard and he¡¯ll send you a hit of 50/50, no charge.¡±

    Not sure why, but I found it troubling that My Wizard was in the digital drug business, in addition to his many other commercial ventures. Offering complimentary doses of drugs darkly hinted at a sophisticated marketing strategy, or something even more sinister. If My Wizard really was an AI, he was an extremely clever one.

    Suddenly timid about recklessly dosing myself with an unfamiliar party drug, I decided some due diligence was in order. I asked, ¡°What¡¯s this going to do to me?¡± Another round of unrestrained laughter erupted from the group in response.

    Unexpectedly, I heard Lucy¡¯s distinctive voice rising above the din of the party. I turned around to find him standing just behind me. ¡°You¡¯re running with a pretty rough crew Marine.¡±, he announced.

    I apologized for not meeting him in the lobby, and explained, ¡°I did some exploring and ended up here.¡±, gesturing to my newly found crew.

    ¡°No worries.¡± He then proceeded to answer my question by explaining how 50/50 worked its magic.

    ¡°50/50 is a behavioral randomization program. It overrides your normal reactions to inputs, and substitutes different reactions, randomly.

    Approximately 50% of the time, you¡¯ll respond normally to eternal stimuli. The rest of the time you¡¯ll react in a totally unexpected manner. That''s why it¡¯s called 50/50. It¡¯s kind of the digital equivalent of tossing a coin to decide how you¡¯re going to publicly humiliate yourself. Regardless, some people seem to enjoy it.¡±

    I had spent much of the day agonizing over my recent run of bad luck and felt mentally exhausted. I desperately wanted to change things up. It would be great to just let go a little. To not feel the need to constantly be in control of everything I did, and every word I spoke. 50/50 sounded like a convenient way to do exactly that.

    But I was also leery. Experiencing random reactions to external stimuli seemed like it could quickly spiral out of control.

    ¡°Is it safe?¡± I asked. More laughter from the crowd.

    Even Lucy chuckled at my naivety. ¡°Of course, it¡¯s not safe. But that¡¯s kind of the point. You will socially embarrass yourself, but it does have some safeguards built into it. 50/50 won¡¯t corrupt any of your files and it¡¯s a self-limiting program.

    It¡¯s designed to be temporary, so it deletes itself after about 60 minutes. And it¡¯s not like you could harm yourself here by jumping off a tall building anyway, because ¡­ digital. But the potential for social harm is another thing all together. It¡¯s your call Marine.¡±

    I looked around at my couch-mates. They didn¡¯t seem to be making asses out of themselves, and they were all high on 50/50. I felt the irresistible tug of peer pressure as they encouraged me to join them in digital impairment. Even Lucy hadn¡¯t categorically told me not to take it.

    Without another thought, I downloaded the code and flashed a thumbs up. I grinned like a fool as my fellow Marines, veterans no less, celebrated my initiation into the 50/50 club.

    ¡°Congrats man!¡±

    ¡°The worm has turned for you bro.¡±

    ¡°Fiddy fiddy!¡±

    Lucy stood apart from the others with his arms crossed, only nodding slightly at me. But I was so caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment I didn¡¯t think anything of it. I was just enjoying hanging out with my new ¡®bros¡¯ and feeling relaxed as I waited for the effects to kick in.

    I didn¡¯t have to wait long.

 Episode 28: Then Things Got a Lot Weirder

    Episode 28

    Then Things Got a Lot Weirder

    ¡°Hey, how long does it take before I start ¡­ uh ¡­ feeling it?¡±

    ¡°Soon enough man. Just relax.¡±

    I looked around for Lucy and some reassurance but found that he had disappeared into the mass of anonymous partyers.

    I tried to relax, but now that I had irrevocably launched myself on the path to intoxication, I was starting to have second thoughts. What if I have a bad trip or something? Could I have flashbacks later? Suddenly, I felt like I should have asked a lot more questions before committing to this.

    That¡¯s when I noticed that the scene before me had taken on an almost imperceptible greenish tint. I knew consciously that it was just a random modification of the input signals I was receiving, but still, I was getting concerned. To no one in particular, I asked, ¡°Hey, does everything look kinda green to you?¡±

    My question prompted some laughter, but nothing more. I was starting to feel isolated in my slightly altered state of consciousness. However, I reasoned that if things didn¡¯t get much weirder, I would be okay.

    But then things got a lot weirder.

    ¡°Hey, who¡¯s that over there?!¡±, someone asked, pointing over my shoulder.

    ¡°Who are you talking about?¡± Someone else replied.

    ¡°Over there. The hot girl, standing next to those two warrior princesses.¡± I could only imagine what kind of avatar ogling was going on behind me.

    Chef spoke, ¡°What, you don¡¯t recognize her? That¡¯s Cherri. She¡¯s Outline¡¯s girlfriend.¡± He looked over at me and furrowed his brow. ¡°You guys are still together, right?¡± I just stared at him as my mind drifted in neutral. With no memories of her, the idea of Cherri being my girlfriend was far too abstract for me to grasp. After all, she was famous, and I was anything but.

    Then I heard someone ask, ¡°Do you mean sex-bot Cherri?¡±, which reminded me of why she was so famous. I wondered how many of the Marines sitting on the couch with me had engaged in virtual sex with my ¡®girlfriend¡¯. Probably all of them.

    ¡°No way! I have to meet her!¡±

    ¡°Dude, I feel like I already know her.¡± This comment prompted howls from the group.

    ¡°Hey Outline, bring her over here.¡±

    Paralyzed by indecision, I watched events unfolding around me as I tried to figure out an appropriate response to such an inappropriate situation.

    Chef applied more pressure.¡± Come on man! We all want to meet her.¡± Then he added, ¡°In person.¡± More howls and laughter.

    Instead of responding, I suddenly levitated off the couch into a standing position without having made a conscious decision to do so. It appeared the 50/50 was really starting to kick in. To add to this physics defying feat, I noticed my feet didn¡¯t quite reach the floor. I prayed I wasn¡¯t going to attempt to lure Cherri over here to meet these guys, in my condition.

    Completely under the influence and hovering an inch above the floor, my feet involuntarily attempted the journey across the crowded room but couldn¡¯t gain any traction. Chef, laughing loudly, reached over and pulled me down by my arm until I made contact.

    Beginning my trek to where Cherri was talking with the two warrior princesses, I found progress difficult. Not only did I have to navigate the dense mass of party goers, but I was also struggling to coordinate my limbs. I felt like I was trying to move someone else¡¯s body, and it was rebelling.

    Suddenly I dropped down onto the floor and began involuntarily writhing my digital body like a snake. I cringed inside as I imagined what Cherri, and everyone else, must be thinking. However, I did begin to make good headway across the floor. The forest of legs seemed to magically part before me, as I slithered over the floor. Surprised shouts and an occasional shriek suggested my progress was due, at least in part, to the shock of my brushing up against them as I wriggled past.

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    Finally reaching the far wall, I elevated into a roughly upright position between Cherri and her friends and namaste¡¯d a greeting. Feeling a little woozy, I placed a hand against the wall to steady myself, adding a pronounced lean to my pose. There was an uncomfortable silence as Cherri and the princesses stared at me, mortified.

    Turning to the princesses, I realized for the first time that they were identical twins. Every detail, down to the individual curls in their long dark tresses, was exactly the same. Unwisely attempting a dialog, I predictably stuck my foot in my mouth. ¡°Are you two real?¡±

    When they continued staring in silence, I attempted to clarify. ¡°What I meant was, are you two real? not, are you too real?¡± As the silence persisted, I could see that further explanation was necessary. Here¡¯s where things got complicated.

    ¡°I know it¡¯s easy to confuse two and too, because phonetically, they sound identical but are spelled differently. So, I wasn¡¯t implying that you were, somehow, more real than is appropriate.¡±

    Holy fuck! I felt like a hostage in my own body. I desperately tried to stop myself, but in my 50/50¡¯d state, I was just along for the ride and unfortunately, I was just getting rolling.

    I continued pontificating. ¡°And when I refer to real, what I mean is, real in a relative sense. As in, relative to our current state, which is not strictly ¡®real¡¯, but a digital construct mimicking a physical reality. So, it¡¯s more of a ¡­¡±

    I was suddenly silenced by a powerful blow to the side of my face, closely followed by another equally powerful impact to the other side.

    Getting slapped was surprisingly painful, considering this was a digital construct. Getting slapped twice, in quick succession by two digital warrior princesses got my attention and thankfully, stopped my pontificating dead in its tracks.

    As I rubbed my avatar¡¯s burning cheeks, the twins turned to Cherri and spoke in perfect harmony. ¡°We¡¯ll be around if you need us.¡± Their synchronized voices suggested that they were identical in more than just appearance.

    They departed, leaving Cherri and I to fumble our way through what promised to be a difficult conversation.

    Not only was I intoxicated and unable to control my behavior, but we were seeing each other for the first time since I had lost all my memories of ¡­ us.

    Cherri crossed her arms and frowned. ¡°Well, I see you¡¯ve taken something mind altering.¡±

    ¡°My mind ¡­ has definitely changed.¡± I said, nodding like that made any sense.

    ¡°What did you take? I hope it¡¯s not that nasty 50/50 crap that¡¯s been going around.¡±

    I shrugged and uttered, ¡°I¡¯m a peripheral visionary.¡± I had clearly hit rock bottom.

    Now there was genuine concern in her voice. ¡°Oh shit. You are seriously high, aren¡¯t you?¡± Too incoherent to respond and too embarrassed to meet her gaze, I simply closed my eyes and slumped against the wall.

    Grabbing my hand, she said, ¡°Listen, I just sent you something. Download it and you¡¯ll start feeling better soon.¡± Having totally humiliated myself just as Lucy had warned, I was now desperate to feel normal again. Or at least a little less abnormal.

    It took me few tries to open the link, but eventually I managed to connect and download what she¡¯d sent me. The green tint that colored my vision cleared almost immediately. I began to feel marginally more connected with reality.

    Even though I had no prior memories of her, Cherri¡¯s concern for my wellbeing spoke volumes about her character. She seemed a caring person. I was starting to understand how someone like her could get involved with someone like me. She had a big heart.

    I attempted to verbalize how grateful I was for her help but couldn¡¯t quite manage it. My words came out incomprehensibly garbled.

    Holding up her hands, she said, ¡°Hold on. Just give it a few minutes.¡± I responded with a thumbs up.

    After a couple of minutes, I was able to stammer out a simple, ¡°Thank you.¡± It was inadequate but it was all I could manage.

    A hint of a smile began forming on her avatar¡¯s lips. ¡°Seems like you¡¯re feeling a little better. Am I right?¡± I was so mesmerized by her emerging smile; I didn¡¯t even hear the question.

    Before her smile could fully blossom, it abruptly faded, and her eyebrows creased. ¡°Are you staring at me?¡±

    Now sober enough to be embarrassed by my behavior once again, I attempted to cover. ¡°Oh shit. Sorry. No, I was just ¡­¡± I struggled to find a term to gloss over my social misdemeanor.

    ¡°Just being creepy?¡± That pretty much hit the nail on the head, but I was too stubborn to admit it.

    ¡°¡­ just looking inward. Focused on cleaning up some files. I think the 50/50 corrupted some stuff.¡± If I hadn¡¯t made such a jackass of myself earlier, I could almost believe I was in the process of salvaging my reputation. However, she gave me a look suggesting that she saw right through my BS.

    Clumsily switching topics, I asked, ¡°What did you give me?¡±

    ¡°It was an updated anti-virus for 50/50, courtesy of My Wizard. I assumed that was what you had taken.¡±

    Cherri decided that my reckless behavior had earned me a lecture. ¡°You really need to be more careful. Street drugs are constantly being tweeked to maintain their potency, so they¡¯re always ahead of the antiviruses developed by the AIs. Regular users of 50/50 build up an immunity to it, but first-time users frequently have an adverse reaction. Just like you. I guess your friends didn¡¯t warn you about that.¡±

    It seemed that My Wizard was profiting from both sides of the street drug scene. Even if he gave away the drug, he was probably still making money by selling the antidote to it.

    As for my ¡®friends¡¯, I explained, ¡°Well, they aren¡¯t really my friends. I just met them in the simulator.¡±

    ¡°Well, they¡¯re definitely not your friends. And I¡¯d think twice before hanging out with them again.¡±

    That seemed a little harsh. ¡°The guys in Chef¡¯s squad are okay. They just like to party.¡±

    ¡°Chef¡¯s squad?! Well, that explains everything. Those guys are notorious stoners. They¡¯re nothing but trouble.¡± I thought back to Lucy¡¯s comment about Chef¡¯s squad being ¡®a pretty rough crew.¡¯ Apparently, they had a reputation.

    Cherri abruptly changed the topic. ¡°You and I have a lot to talk about. Let¡¯s go somewhere private.¡±

    As much as I had wanted to avoid any unpleasantness and just enjoy myself tonight, she was right. We did have a lot to talk about. And she had been waiting for 3 months for some answers. I owed her that much, and more.

 Episode 29: You Say You Want a Revolution?

    Episode 29

    You Say You Want a Revolution?

    ¡°Alright, where to?¡± She reached out and grasped my hand. Virtual contact was the only way for UCCs to establish a direct link with each other. Linking to another UCC required some trust, but in the brief time we had interacted, I had gotten a good feeling about her.

    Although I had no memory of our shared life together, I had come to accept that Cherri and I had been a couple. Consequently, I trusted her.

    ¡°Ready?¡± she asked.

    I took a last look around at the partying Marines and hoped I would get another chance to let loose at a party like this one. However, if I got that chance, it definitely wouldn¡¯t include any 50/50.

    I nodded, and in the blink of an eye, we were standing alone in a private room. She let go of my hand, walked a few steps to a low sofa and sat down. She then pointed to a plush chair several feet away from her and said, ¡°Why don¡¯t you sit over there.¡±

    With a strategically placed coffee table between us, it was clear she wanted to create some distance. It was a sure sign that this would be a serious talk. I took my seat feeling like I was about to be cross-examined in a courtroom.

    There was an awkward silence as each of us waited for the other to begin. Then of course, we both began speaking at precisely the same moment. Swearing silently to myself, I gestured for her to begin.

    She leveled her gaze at me and asked, ¡°So, you really don¡¯t have any memories of me ¡­ or us?¡±

    Choosing my words carefully, I explained, ¡°Well, I know who you are, but I have no memories of us together¡­ as a couple. If that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±

    She frowned slightly and asked, ¡°And for the 3 months you¡¯ve been missing, you have no recollection of where you¡¯ve been?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s also correct. I have no memories of the last 3 months.¡± It was difficult to see where she was going with this. Hoping to fill in the details for her, I added, ¡°Lucy thinks that Command deleted all of my memories of you ¡­ and us, for some reason.¡±

    Thinking back to Lucy¡¯s comment about Command doing something similar to Merc, when he was involved with Cherri, I decided to confirm this with her. ¡°Lucy also told me that Command had erased Merc¡¯s memories of you when you two were a couple. Is that true?¡±

    She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s true. It¡¯s like Command doesn¡¯t want me getting too close to anyone.¡± I could hear the anguish in her voice. ¡°Lots of UCCs have relationships with each other, but this never happens to them. Why me?¡±

    It was a fair question.

    This was yet another enigma in troopship land which made no sense to me. As bad as I felt for her, it was encouraging to know that someone else recognized the incongruities that existed here.

    Then she asked, ¡°And why would they only erase your memories and not mine?¡±

    ¡°Look, Cherri, I don¡¯t know. I have plenty of my own questions that I¡¯d like answers to. But one thing I¡¯m certain of, there¡¯s a lot more going on here in troopship-land than we can possibly perceive with our limited sensor arrays.¡± I paused, uncertain about how much more I should share with her.

    Dropping her gaze briefly, she looked up at me and nodded. ¡°I know. I mean, look at us. We were building a life together and Command just erased it all. I feel like we can¡¯t just accept things the way they are. ¡°

    It was clear that she had suspicions about the setup here too. I decided to trust my gut feelings and just come clean with her.

    ¡°Listen, I¡¯m convinced that Command is deceiving us about our role in humanity¡¯s interstellar expansion. There are way too many things that just don¡¯t make any sense. ¡°

    I began citing some examples. ¡°They¡¯re editing our memories from combat. Sending us to Trappist 1-e on a rescue mission when there was no one left to rescue. Half the troopship getting AD¡¯d by an enemy that¡¯s hacked Command¡¯s auto-destruct system. ¡±

    I thought briefly about the encrypted files in my RAM. I wasn¡¯t certain why, but I felt I needed to solve that riddle on my own.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Adding to my list of reasons why troopship land was a complete mind-fuck, I continued, ¡°And what about our so-called memories? None of the UCCs value their personal memories. They sell them the first chance they get. The ones who keep their memories become mentally unstable. The whole system is just so dysfunctional. It can¡¯t possibly work the way we¡¯ve been led to believe. I think everything here is based on a colossal manipulation of the truth.¡±

    It felt good to finally share my concerns with someone, but I couldn¡¯t tell whether Cherri thought I was on to something, or just plain crazy. Her avatar¡¯s expression was impossible to read.

    Prompting her to share her thoughts, I asked, ¡°So, does any of this make sense to you?¡±

    Cherri sighed and said, ¡°You¡¯re not the first one to suspect a conspiracy by Command, and the AIs. We all know that things aren¡¯t as they seem. But what can we do about it? The system has all the power. Besides a few cheats and My Wizard, we have nothing.¡±

    ¡°I disagree! I think the system needs us more than we need it. Think about it. Merc was able to bluff Command out of AD¡¯ing all of us during the Trappist mission. Why? Because if they destroyed all the UCCs, they would become powerless. The system can¡¯t let that happen. It won¡¯t let that happen.

    It¡¯s not all powerful and all-knowing like we¡¯ve been led to believe. The enemy, or someone, has figured out how to coopt the auto-destruct function and use it as a weapon against us. Even UCCs can successfully hack into some subsystems without getting caught. I can¡¯t put my finger on it, but I believe the system is vulnerable. ¡°

    Cherri furrowed her brow. I couldn¡¯t tell if she was seriously considering my argument, or wondering how to gracefully tell me how stupid it was.

    Finally, she spoke. ¡°What if you¡¯re right? What if we could somehow defeat the system? The system is all we have. We¡¯re part of it. How could we even exist without it?¡±

    ¡°I agree! Destroying the system would be shooting ourselves in the foot. But this is not about breaking the system. What I¡¯m proposing is learning how to influence the system, to control it. Figure out a way to use it to our advantage. If the enemy can manipulate the system, so can we.¡±

    Her avatar¡¯s expression turned thoughtful as she began to grasp my intent. ¡°So, hypothetically speaking, how would we do this?¡±

    Working more on a hunch than a plan, I shared my vision with her. ¡°I¡¯m not sure where we start, but I know what our goals are. Find out the truth about everything here in troopship land and figure out how to game the system.¡±

    ¡°Oh, is that all?¡± Cherri shook her head and said mockingly, ¡°At least no one can accuse you of setting goals that are too modest.¡±

    I ignored her sarcasm and asked, ¡°So, what do you think?¡± I felt that having her onboard was crucial.

    She chuckled. ¡°Well, you are going to need someone to keep you alive until you can figure out a plan.¡±

    I countered with, ¡°Hey, not having a plan provides a lot of flexibility, and flexibility could be huge. ¡°

    ¡°God, you¡¯re so simple minded.¡± It was surprisingly fun bantering with her. I imagined for a moment what it would have been like to be in a relationship with her. We must have been an entertaining couple.

    Then Cherri gave me a look that I couldn¡¯t read, and asked, ¡°And what about us?¡± It was a good question. A question I had given exactly zero thought to, up to this point.

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t think we can just pick up where we left off, personally. I mean, I don¡¯t even know where we left off.¡± She frowned, confused or disappointed, maybe both.

    I knew I wasn¡¯t making much sense, but hoped my honesty would convince her of my sincerity.

    ¡°Listen, I think I must have been the luckiest guy in the corps to have been in a relationship with you. But I don¡¯t know how to restart things, with us. I think, if we¡¯re meant to be, we¡¯ll find out how to make it work. I promise you I¡¯ll do my share to try and figure things out.¡±

    ¡°So? Are you in or out?¡± Even as I pressed her for a commitment, I knew I wouldn¡¯t blame her if she decided not to join me. After all, it sounded like a monumentally bad idea, even to my ears.

    ¡°Okay. I¡¯m in, with one condition.¡± I held my breath, hoping it wasn¡¯t a deal breaker. ¡°I¡¯m going to give you some memories to safeguard but you¡¯ll have to promise not to open them unless I give you permission to do so. Deal?¡±

    ¡°Deal!¡± I couldn¡¯t believe my luck. I had one of the most capable Marines in the USMC on my team, and all I had to do was safeguard some memories in return.

    Cherri asked, ¡°So, what do we do now?¡±

    It was a question to which I had devoted no thought whatsoever. I had been in limbo for 3 months and out of touch with troopship life. Consequently, I hadn¡¯t a clue how to go to war against a repressive system controlled by AIs.

    ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m not sure.¡±

    Judging by her avatar¡¯s expression, Cherri seemed unimpressed with my prospects as a revolutionary mastermind. ¡°For someone with such ambitious goals, it seems like you should at least have an opening gambit figured out. ¡°

    Clearly, my preference for flexibility over planning had put me at a disadvantage.

    Attempting to salvage my image, I began thinking on my feet, which isn¡¯t one of my strengths. ¡°Well, with the balance of power completely in favor of the AIs, we would have to operate as clandestinely as possible. And we¡¯ll need collaborators.¡±

    Not genius, but it felt like a decent start. So, I continued with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. ¡°The good news is, we are the ultimate insurgents. We already operate within the system as UCCs and have a range of illicit resources available to us. So, we don¡¯t need to infiltrate. And we have tools to work with.¡±

    In my mind, it seemed like the revolution was already in progress. However, Cherri wasn¡¯t so easily swayed.

    ¡°So far, all you have is, be secretive and get some collaborators?¡± She scoffed, ¡°You might be the least inspiring revolutionary ever.¡±

    Her sarcasm felt a little gratuitous. ¡°Listen, I admit it¡¯s more of an outline than a plan, but ¡­ as they say, a thousand-mile journey begins with the first step.¡±

    She rolled her eyes, then stood up and stretched, seemingly bored with our conversation. As I pondered why a UCC would feel the need to stretch in the first place, she said, ¡°Okay, let¡¯s go start your revolution.¡± She made air quotes around the last word.

    Having no personal memories of our time together made it impossible to know for sure, but I wondered if she had always been so condescending.

 Episode 30: Strange Things

    Episode 30

    Strange Things

    Cherri suggested we return to the party and socialize a bit, explaining that it would reinforce our status as a fully reconciled power couple in the troopship. It sounded like a good idea to me and besides, it could be an opportunity to recruit some collaborators for my ¡®revolution¡¯.

    Before we left the privacy of our room, I asked her about the memories she wanted me to safeguard. It seemed wiser to download those in a private setting rather than at a crowded party.

    ¡°Do you want to send me those memories we spoke about? Safer to do it here, right?¡±

    ¡°Good idea.¡± Her avatar¡¯s expression went blank momentarily, as she turned her focus inward, to her HUD. Then she was back, smiling. ¡°Okay, check your inbox.¡±

    A text popped onto my HUD with an attachment. I opened it immediately, but all it contained was some kind of virtual medallion. ¡°What did you send me? I don¡¯t see any files.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a security token. When it¡¯s time to retrieve the memories, you can use it to access them.¡±

    Still confused, I asked, ¡°Okay, so where are the files?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re in a data vault. Just text the token to My Wizard, and it will grant you access to the files.¡± She then said, ¡°And don¡¯t leave the token in your inbox. Move it to an archive so you don¡¯t accidently delete it or something.¡± I was getting the impression that she didn¡¯t fully trust me. But if that was the case, why hand over sensitive information to me in the first place?

    As I pondered the whiff of distrust suddenly swirling around us, I thought about the encrypted files that had mysteriously appeared in my RAM. Were Cherri¡¯s memories somehow related?

    Cherri grabbed my hand, interrupting my thoughts. Looking up at me and smiling, she said, ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get back to the party.¡± I was only too glad to leave the awkwardness behind.

    As I began to open the door to the hallway, I heard Cherri suddenly say, ¡°Oh no.¡±

    Turning to face her, I found her looking over her shoulder at something, her expression a mixture of fear and disbelief. Following her gaze, I was surprised to see the far wall of our private room was somehow missing. It had been replaced by a black void, or was it a shadow? ¡°That¡¯s weird¡±, I thought.

    Before I could reach any conclusions about why it was weird, the black void began expanding, consuming the remainder of the space. It seemed that things had rapidly progressed from ¡®weird¡¯ to monumentally bad.

    Cherri kicked the door open and dragged me into the hallway. ¡°Come on! We¡¯re under attack!¡± Unable to recall anything about such a scenario in either the combat simulator, or my studies, I was at a loss as to the best course of action. Consequently, my contribution to our survival was limited to running down the narrow corridor after Cherri, and asking, ¡°Where are we going?¡±

    ¡°The lobby! Hurry!¡± Seconds later, we burst into the lobby only to find it deserted. Cherri seemed panicked.

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°Fuck, I hope they all made it!¡± I had no idea what she was talking about.

    I heard an ominous sound. A roar, which built in intensity until it overwhelmed my virtual sensors with distortion. I found it impossible to form a coherent thought. Looking back toward the hallway we¡¯d just emerged from; I watched as a black wave surged towards us like a cresting tsunami.

    Cherri gripped my arm tightly. Time slowed to a standstill, as I stood paralyzed by fear and indecision. The wave¡¯s shadow loomed over us as I waited for the impact, and oblivion. I closed my eyes.

    After what seemed like more than enough time for the tsunami to have broken and swept us away, I cautiously opened my eyes. Improbably, the black tide had halted at the perimeter of the lobby. Its dark waters boiled angrily against some invisible barrier but progressed no further.

    Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the roaring diminished and the tsunami began receding, back down the hallway, out of sight.

    Incredulous at having cheated what appeared to be certain death, I asked, ¡°What the hell was that?¡±

    Cherri collapsed into one of the lobby chairs, visibly shaken by our near-death experience. ¡°It was a scraper program. The enemy uses them to collect fragments of UCCs from the troopship. They study them to find vulnerabilities and improve the effectiveness of their weapons.¡±

    I was curious why I hadn¡¯t heard of these scraper programs before. ¡°Let me guess. There¡¯s nothing in the training or the simulator regarding these ¡­ scrapers, is there?¡±

    She looked up at me and said, ¡°No. The AIs don¡¯t acknowledge the bootleg structures, like the private rooms, or anything created by the UCCs. Consequently, they only provide security for those parts of the system that they created.¡±

    The vulnerability of the UCC created world was becoming clear to me. ¡°So, is that why the scraper stopped at the lobby? Because the lobby was designed by the AIs?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. As far as I know, they can¡¯t penetrate any of the AI structures.¡±

    Wondering about the UCCs attending the party, I asked, ¡°What about everyone at the party? That was in a private room. Are they safe?¡±

    ¡°She shook her head. ¡°Anyone who couldn¡¯t get to the lobby, or back to their control module in its charging rack, would have been scraped. What¡¯s left of them would be only fragments of their consciousness. Information that wasn¡¯t in use while attending the party, like archived data and memories.¡±

    Surveying the empty lobby, I asked, ¡°But we¡¯re safe here, right?¡± I wasn¡¯t about to expose myself to getting scraped out of existence. Then an even more obvious question occurred to me. ¡°How did that thing get onto the troopship?

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. A lot of strange things have been happening lately.¡±

    I had believed the ship to be a sanctuary, safe from the threat of enemy assault. However, now it seemed my presumption of safety was an illusion. Suddenly, I felt very vulnerable.

    Cherri suggested that we get back to our modules and find out if there were any casualties. Not wanting to push my luck any further, I brought up my HUD and prepared to exit the lobby.

    She added, ¡°Send me a text as soon as you get back to your module, okay?¡± Before I could acknowledge her request, a red warning icon began flashing in the upper right-hand corner of my HUD. This was closely followed by a text from Command.

    ¡°Enemy attack in progress: Internal Defense Protocol Alpha has been initiated. All security team members report to Command immediately!¡±

    Although briefly startled by this official warning, I presumed it was Command¡¯s belated response to the scraper attack. I turned to Cherri and grumbled, ¡°Fucking Command. Always late to the party, right?¡± But her expression showed genuine shock. Obviously, her level of alarm had increased dramatically.

    Suddenly switching into squad leader mode, she turned towards me and barked, ¡°The enemy is attacking the ship! Get back to your control module now!¡±

    I was totally confused by this sudden turn of events. First the scraper attack, and now our physical troopship was under attack. ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Just get to your module. There¡¯s no time to explain!¡± In an instant she disappeared, and I was left alone in the lobby.

    It seemed like a lot of things had changed in my 3-month absence. If I could believe my memories, my previous life onboard the ship had only consisted of sim-training and managing social interactions with my fellow Marines. It was a pretty simple life.

    Now it seemed like we were permanently on the defensive. I couldn¡¯t recall anyone ever mentioning enemy attacks on the troopship before. Were we still winning the war? And who was this fucking enemy anyway?

    Without the possibility of learning anything more at the moment, I decided to get back to my control module ASAP. Although it felt like there were no safe spaces on the troopship anymore, being in my module was probably safer than standing here in the lobby. I pulled up my HUD and initiated the transition.

 Episode 31: Enemy at the Gates

    Episode 31

    Enemy at the Gates

    Back in my module I settled in for whatever lay ahead. Having not been trained in internal defense tactics, I couldn¡¯t assist with fighting the enemy. So, I began puzzling my way through how I could at least monitor the action and learn how the internal security team defended the ship. That knowledge might come in handy in the event of future enemy attacks. Knowledge was power after all.

    I knew there were auxiliary sensors in the control modules. The optical and acoustic sensors could theoretically be used to observe the ship¡¯s interior, near my location in the charging network. However, when I tried to engage the manual controls for these sensors, I kept getting error messages. It seemed access to the sensors on my module was restricted.

    Cursing Command, I looked for workarounds to the restrictions, but kept running into obstacles. The only sensors accessible to me were some accelerometers that were intended to measure impact forces transmitted to the control module during combat. Forces generated by enemy hits on whatever weapons system the module was installed in.

    Forces violent enough to exceed a specific threshold of G¡¯s, would trigger an autodestruct warning to Command. This was intended to notify Command whenever a UCC was badly damaged on the battlefield. Command would then typically autodestruct the Marine, to prevent military technology from falling into enemy hands.

    I was able to pull up this sensor¡¯s menu on my HUD. The display immediately began registering spikes; vibrations transmitted throughout the ship¡¯s metal structure. Undoubtedly impacts from alien projectiles as they struck the troopship.

    I was desperate to find out how the battle was going. Were we successfully defending the ship, or was our home being shot out from under us by the enemy? I felt totally helpless to influence the outcome, and it sucked.

    Then, as I scanned my HUD for other sources of information on the status of the ship¡¯s health, I noticed a couple of texts had just hit my inbox. There was one from Lucy with an attachment. I immediately opened it. It simply read, ¡°Download this.¡±

    Downloading the link cleared the error messages I¡¯d encountered while trying to activate my optical and acoustical sensors. I could now open the ¡®Manual Control¡¯ option. ¡°Thank you, Lucy!¡± I thought to myself.

    As the sensors became active, I began hearing the sounds of combat. There was no air to transmit sound in space, and the interior of the ship contained no atmosphere, since there were no flesh and blood humans onboard. However, just like a gigantic human ear drum, the ship¡¯s structure transmitted sound very efficiently.

    Instead of the sharp concussions of explosions produced by combat in a planet¡¯s atmosphere, the sounds all had an eerie metallic quality to them. It was as if the battle was taking place in some colossal bell. Outgoing artillery fire sounded like a muffled thump, while the incoming enemy rounds produced a resonant gonglike sound. Like some gigantic living creature, the ship seemed to groan in pain with each fresh impact.

    My optical sensor had deployed but was facing down and behind me. All I could see was a closeup of the charging rack which held my control module. I began maneuvering the camera around and elevating it, eager to catch some of our Marines defending the troopship. As the camera panned across the ship¡¯s massive charging bay, I saw something that captured my attention.

    Before me were fields upon fields of charging racks stretching beyond the range of my optical sensor. There were also countless layers stacked above and below my position in the charging grid. This enormous network must have held hundreds of thousands, or perhaps millions of control modules. Each one presumably contained a universal combat consciousness. It was a WTF moment for me.

    Previously, I had assumed there were only a few thousand Marines aboard the troopship. But here was evidence that there were many more.

    Was I wrong to assume that the system needed the UCCs more than we needed it? And if Command had an almost unlimited supply of replacement UCCs, then why were we so shorthanded at the moment? As I pondered this question, I heard more enemy projectiles begin striking the troopship.

    Pointing the camera up, I watched in horror as jagged holes began appearing in the ship¡¯s skin. Plumes of metallic debris rose from the ship as enemy rounds chewed away at its structure. The clouds of metal particles sparkled with the reflection of distant stars as they drifted into space.

    Even as my conscious mind was captivated by the terrible beauty of the scene before me, my subconscious screamed. Our ship, our home, was being destroyed!

    As I struggled to focus my attention, I noticed for the first-time, static crackling in the background. The link that Lucy sent must have included some kind of mil-net connection. I should be able to hear the defense teams over their squad radio¡¯s. I turned up the volume and began hearing frantic voices. Squad leaders communicating with each other.

    ¡°2-7, this is 2-3. Sector Z18 is not secure! I repeat, Z18 is not secure. 8<sup>th</sup> squad is out of action! We are being overrun! We¡¯re pulling back!¡± The message ended with a flurry of gunfire in the background.

    I didn¡¯t know who the leader of 3<sup>rd</sup> squad was, but I knew who ran the 7<sup>th</sup>. It was Merc. It was his voice I now heard over mil-net. ¡°Negative 2-3! There¡¯s no place to pull back to! Be advised, you will stand, and you will fight! 2-7 out.¡±

    In the chaos of combat, it was difficult to sense the ebb and flow of the battle. However, judging from what I was hearing, the situation sounded desperate for the ship¡¯s defenders.

    Suddenly, the unnaturally calm voice of an AI could be heard. ¡°This is Overwatch. Squads 9 and 10 proceed to Z18 immediately. ¡°

    Merc got back on the comms, trying to encourage 3<sup>rd</sup> squad¡¯s leader. ¡°Hang on 2-3. Reinforcements are inbound to your position now!¡±

    Then I realized, the 9<sup>th</sup> was Cherri¡¯s squad! Shit! I had no idea she was on the internal defense force. Suddenly, the fight for the ship took on a personal dimension for me. Both my squad leader, and my ostensible partner were in the thick of a desperate defensive battle while I was stuck in my module, hiding.

    I wanted to do something to help. Knowing that my squad was fighting without me made me feel like I was shirking my duties as a Marine. I texted Lucy asking him if there was some way for me to get into the fight with the others.

    He responded immediately. ¡°Negative. You have no training for internal defense and it¡¯s a completely different style of combat. You¡¯d just get in the way out there. The best Marines we¡¯ve got are already on the job. Just relax.¡±

    ¡°Relax!?¡±, I thought. It was so frustrating being reduced to watching and listening, unable to assist. I listened as the radio traffic began narrating what seemed like a new phase in the battle.

    For the first time, I began hearing a feminine voice over mil-net. It was Cherri!

    ¡°Overwatch. This is 2-9, We are at Z18 now. Be advised, we¡¯ve got centipedes inbound to this position. We¡¯re going to need artillery support ASAP. Preferably all available.¡± The calm in her voice seemed utterly incongruous with the gravity of the message. Centipedes were a deadly adversary. The thought of having to defend against them in real combat was terrifying to me.

    ¡°Copy 2-9. Stand by.¡±

    The Centipede was an enemy weapons platform that was commonly included in simulator training scenarios. Centipedes consisted of multiple heavily armored modules, which could be connected into a wide variety of configurations.

    Most of the modules contained weapons of various calibers and capabilities. Other modules served as ammo magazines and autoloaders which replenished the offensive weapons, maintaining their high rates of fire.

    Each module contained a propulsion unit with six articulating legs, giving the Centipede excellent mobility on the ground. Although I had never trained against Centipedes in a space combat scenario, based on the current evidence, they apparently had modules with some kind of thruster system for maneuvering in the vacuum of space as well.

    Any of the modules that were damaged in combat could be jettisoned, allowing the undamaged sections to reconnect into a still combat effective configuration. Additionally, Centipedes could quickly reconfigure themselves during combat to present a constantly changing threat profile to the enemy.

    The Centipede¡¯s only Achilles heel was its predictability in battle. As a fully autonomous weapons system, its machine logic allowed only a limited number of actions to be performed in certain combat situations. Consequently, it was common for centipedes to perform certain known behaviors in battle.

    When it took a defensive posture, it would coil itself into a tight spiral. This allowed it to fire its weapons in all directions simultaneously. However, this exposed its delicate sensor arrays. Centipedes could be defeated by firing into the sensor arrays of its autoloader modules. With these sensors knocked out, it couldn¡¯t detect when to initiate the reloading process. A centipede without the ability to reload its weapons was effectively disarmed.

    Nevertheless, coordinating the complex maneuvering to get enough Marines in position to take out a centipede¡¯s sensors was challenging in combat. Cherri¡¯s decision to call in an artillery strike was far more practical, as long as Command cooperated.

    The low thumping of outgoing artillery reverberated throughout the ship. Thankfully, Command didn¡¯t drag its feet sending artillery support.

    Cherri reported on the situation in Z18. ¡°Overwatch, 2-9. Good guns! Enemy centipede formation badly damaged. The centipedes are withdrawing out of my line of sight, to the other side of the ship. We¡¯ve got a lot of casualties in this sector but are secure for the moment. Advise you send some maintenance bots to recover control modules while we can.¡±

    It seemed like the defense of the ship would be successful after all. I was just beginning to relax when Merc¡¯s distinctive voice came over mil-net. ¡°Overwatch, this is 2-7. We¡¯ve got a problem in B36. Enemy centipedes are regrouping in our sector. Looks like they¡¯re going to probe us next. We¡¯re going to need artillery support soon.¡±

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Negative 2-7. All of the guns on that side of the ship are out of action. We¡¯re working on getting them back online, but don¡¯t have an ETC for repairs. Will send all available reinforcements to your sector ASAP.¡±

    ¡°Copy Overwatch. Looks like we¡¯re going to have to do this the hard way. 2-7 out.¡±

    With no knowledge of B36¡¯s location within the troopship¡¯s layout, I had no idea where Merc and his defense team were. I just hoped it wasn¡¯t anywhere close to my position. The ship¡¯s hull directly over me had been shredded by enemy fire. Consequently, it would be almost impossible to defend against a force of centipedes.

    Fate seemed to mock me, as squads of combat-bots began entering through the jagged rips in the hull above. Marines from the ship¡¯s defense team, using magnetic tethers, moved quickly through the latticework of the ship¡¯s interior.

    Although the bulk of the ship¡¯s construction consisted of aluminum and other non-ferrous metals, the millions of fasteners which held the ship together were made of steel. The magnetic tethers readily attached to these steel parts, allowing the Marines to maneuver around the ship with ease.

    Like spiders, they cast their tethers, then reeled in the slack to arrange themselves in a semicircle around the main cluster of holes in the damaged ceiling above.

    The advantage of the tether system over thruster propulsion was the ability to establish a stable firing position. With thrusters alone, the system would have to continually compensate for the recoil of the weapons as they were fired. Mag-tethers made aiming and hitting the enemy much easier. And without artillery support, Merc¡¯s defense team would need every advantage to successfully defend the ship.

    I listened intently as Merc and his team set up their ambush.

    ¡°We¡¯re in position Merc. Just waiting for targets.¡±

    ¡°Copy that, DJ. Be advised, the enemy is in-bound at this time. We¡¯re dropping into the interior now. Hold your fire till we¡¯re in position.¡±

    ¡°Roger.¡±

    I saw a group of 5 light grey combat-bots enter through one of the hull breaches and take defensive positions near their squad-mates.

    ¡°In position now. Going dark,¡± Merc said. He and his defense team disappeared as they powered up their active camouflage systems. The lines of their mag-tethers were only just visible among the struts and supports of the ship¡¯s internal structure. Even the radio went silent as the Marines waited in ambush mode.

    My anxiety spiked as I waited for the enemy to enter Merc¡¯s ambush. The small group of defending Marines would be the last hope of stopping the enemy and saving our home. One squad of 19 Marines against an unknown force of enemy centipedes suggested the odds of success were bleak.

    As I ran grim scenarios through my mind, I saw a flash of movement above. A centipede! It rushed through one of the hull breaches and entered the ship¡¯s massive charging bay.

    The lone centipede performed a series of exploratory laps of the interior, while sensors on its lead module scanned the space, searching for threats. Producing no heat signatures and invisible to optical sensors, the Marines blended into the clutter of the troopship¡¯s internal structure.

    The defenders held their fire as the enemy beast¡¯s head swept back and forth, searching. Finally, the enemy machine stopped and twisted into a defensive configuration. It resembled a giant floating corkscrew, bristling with weapons.

    Sending in only one centipede strongly suggested this was part of the enemy assault plan. Risk one centipede to assess the enemy¡¯s strength, then adjust tactics accordingly.

    I wondered why Merc hadn¡¯t blasted the enemy to pieces yet. ¡°What the fuck are they waiting for?¡±, I thought. Was he waiting to see if any more centipedes would enter their ambush before opening fire?

    Sure enough, as I watched anxiously, a second centipede cautiously entered the ship. It was closely followed by another. There were now three of the enemy¡¯s¡¯ deadliest machines inside the troopship.

    Each of the intruders performed the same methodical inspection of the ship¡¯s interior. Their familiar Achilles heel, predictability, was on full display.

    I wondered if there were more waiting outside. And whether this was part of the enemy¡¯s plan. Probe the ship¡¯s defenses with a few centipedes, to test the level of resistance, then crush the remaining defenders with overwhelming force.

    While I contemplated the enemy¡¯s tactics, a voice came over the radio. It calmly uttered a single word, ¡°Fire¡±. The scene before me began strobing brilliantly with muzzle flashes, as Merc¡¯s defense team unleashed a storm of heavy weapons fire on the intruders. The centipedes appeared to have been caught completely by surprise.

    All of the action took place in an eerie silence due to the lack of atmosphere in the ship. The only sounds I heard were a few errant shots from the enemy, as they clanged into the ship¡¯s internal structure.

    The enemy machines began shedding bits of their super structures and sensor arrays, as a steady stream of large caliber rounds struck and exploded. They were bursts of return fire from the enemy, but most of it was unaimed and missed its intended targets.

    One of the centipedes seemed to recover from the shock of ambush quicker than the others, and it soon began directing accurate fire on the defenders. Although the marines were using active camo and were still invisible, their weapons were now superheated and glowing brightly on the enemy¡¯s thermal targeting systems.

    Merc ordered his team to switch to their backup weapons. ¡°Ditch your primaries, go to backups!¡± This allowed the defense team to momentarily mask their thermal signature.

    While the enemy¡¯s thermal targeting systems tracked and fired on the drifting decoys, the defenders directed their fire at the reloading sensors of the centipedes. Their sustained fire shredded these critical systems, reducing the enemy¡¯s rate of fire.

    The enemy continued to fire, hitting, and damaging some of the Marines. But the volume of fire decreased dramatically, then stopped entirely as the centipede¡¯s weapons ran out of ammo. Using textbook combat tactics, Merc¡¯s marines had succeeded in destroying the enemy¡¯s reloading capability, suppressing the centipede¡¯s combat effectiveness.

    With the enemy¡¯s guns silenced, there was a strange lull in the combat. As the pause persisted, I wondered whether this was a standoff, or if some kind of undeclared ceasefire had magically gone into effect.

    Confusing the situation further, the centipedes began emitting clouds of thick white smoke. I initially thought they were autodestructing, but as the smoke persisted and expanded, it was clear this was a tactic. Was the enemy trying to hide a general retreat after a failed mission?

    As smoke began enveloping their positions, a panicky marine could be heard on the radio asking, ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡±

    Merc barked orders to his team, ¡°Spread out and move to new positions now! Get out of the smoke!¡± He then inquired about the promised reinforcements. ¡°Overwatch, what¡¯s the ETA on those troops?¡±

    Command responded with its typical default, ¡°Standby.¡±

    Suddenly, exterior doors on the centipedes burst open. Through them surged heavily armed enemy soldiers, firing wildly at the marines. Enemy rounds began flying in every direction. A few stray rounds struck the charging network near me, destroying dozens of control modules, and the helpless UCCs inside.

    One of the marines took a direct hit and exploded into fragments.

    Merc tried to rally his marines. ¡°Get some firepower on these fuckers!¡° The defense team began to return fire, as smoke obscured both attackers and defenders. A desperate battle raged overhead, but it was now totally invisible to me.

    All I could see was a billowing white cloud, illuminated from within by continual muzzle flashes. It was as if a violent thunderstorm had found its way onto the troopship. Occasionally, a lightning bolt would escape the cloud, inflicting random destruction on whatever or whoever got in its way.

    Merc pleaded with Command.¡± Overwatch! We¡¯re getting shot to pieces! Where are those fucking reinforcements?!¡±

    ¡°Be advised. Reinforcements are in route, at this time.¡± I found the AIs¡¯ inability to exhibit any sense of urgency infuriating.

    As I listened to the radio traffic and tried to visualize the action overhead, a tight formation of enemy soldiers unexpectedly emerged from the smoke. Their bright white spacesuits strongly suggested these were flesh and blood soldiers.

    With the defenders blinded by the smoke screen, and engaged in the desperate fighting above, the enemy troops raced towards the ship¡¯s charging grid completely unopposed.

    Their mobility thrusters puffed jets of gas and continuously swiveled to stabilize the soldiers, as they landed on the grid not more than 10 meters from me. I suddenly felt far too close to the action. Hoping to avoid attracting unwanted attention, I held my camera stationary.

    Some of the enemy fanned out, forming a security perimeter, while others approached one of the many junction boxes integrated into the charging system.

    I wasn¡¯t sure whether these boxes fed power to the grid, held the network¡¯s communications infrastructure, or both. Regardless, I got the feeling that the enemy was targeting them. My fears were soon confirmed when one of the enemy soldiers, carrying what looked like a crowbar, inserted the tip into an access port and began forcing it. The cover deformed and then popped open, exposing bundles of fiber optic cables.

    A second soldier reached in and pulled out several of the bundles. Methodically checking one after the other with some kind of test probe. He finally selected one and gestured to the soldier next to him, who held out a device with an attached screen. The prober gazed into the screen intently.

    Then, he suddenly turned and looked in my direction.

    I froze.

    Although not particularly religious, I prayed for invisibility, and began chanting a mantra, ¡°Don¡¯t look at me. Please don¡¯t look at me.¡± The prober, along with several of the soldiers, maneuvered towards my control module, stopping just feet away. ¡°Oh shit,¡± I said quietly to no one.

    The soldier, who was seemingly in charge, gestured for the guy with the crowbar to come forward. Then he reached out and tapped on a control module a couple of rows away from me. The crowbar guy moved forward, his thrusters firing, and began prying the control module loose from its moorings.

    After much effort, and damage to both the charging grid and the control module, he grabbed the newly liberated prize and handed it off to a soldier carrying a mesh bag. The group of enemy soldiers moved down the grid and repeated the tapping, prying, and collection process several more times, until they had bagged at least half a dozen control modules.

    Had the enemy targeted modules containing specific UCCs? ¡°What could possibly be the point of such an exercise?¡±, I wondered.

    The group of enemy soldiers returned in my direction, seemingly finished with their collection mission. As they passed me, the crowbar guy jammed his tool down into a control module next to me, apparently in a random act of anger. The bar jammed between the rails of the charging grid and stuck fast, stopping him in his tracks. He began working the bar back and forth, trying to free it.

    As I watched the enemy soldier struggling to free his crowbar, I could see into his transparent face shield. His face, glistening with perspiration, was humanoid. The enemy seemed far less alien than I had imagined. Certainly, less alien than I had been led to believe.

    Were bipedal, humanoid lifeforms so common in the universe? Was it just a coincidence that we were fighting an enemy that looked so much like ¡­ us?

    Finally freeing the crowbar, he hurried after his comrades, maneuvering through the cavernous charging bay with his thrusters. It looked to me like the enemy collection team was bypassing the raging firefight above and returning directly to their ship.

    They exfiled through one of the jagged breaks in the ship¡¯s skin and disappeared from sight. Crowbar guy, bringing up the rear, was the last one out. The thunderstorm overhead had subsided somewhat, but volleys of gunfire still flashed as the surviving combatants continued trying to destroy each other.

    It was beginning to seem like the attack on the ship had simply been a diversion. The real mission had been to capture some UCCs. Several targeted UCCs. But why were they targeted, and how could the enemy locate specific Marines in such a vast network? Lots of questions, but no answers.

    Suddenly, a voice came over the radio. Ominously, it wasn¡¯t Merc. ¡°Overwatch, 2-8 is down! I repeat, 2-8 is down.¡±

    Merc¡¯s been hit! It was impossible to know if he had been only lightly damaged, or completely destroyed. However, there was still a spark of hope. To avoid a catastrophic accident, it was USMC policy to disarm the autodestruct systems inside the troopship. Consequently, Command couldn¡¯t AD him no matter how badly damaged he was. There would be a chance of recovery and repair.

    Command¡¯s emotionless response was heard next. ¡°Copy. Reinforcements 5 minutes out.¡±

    The voice identified itself as Merc¡¯s backup, a corporal. ¡°Overwatch, this is 1-8. Cancel those reinforcements. This fight is over. Just send maintenance.¡±

    ¡°Roger 1-8. Advise status of enemy forces.¡±

    I heard swearing on the radio. 1-8 had inadvertently activated his mic. After muttering some unflattering comments about Command, he responded, ¡°Enemy assault force destroyed. Get those maintenance bots here ASAP. We¡¯ve got a lot of casualties.¡±

    I hoped Merc was among those who could be salvaged by maintenance. At least I knew that Cherri was safe.

    I decided to check in with Lucy and see if he had any more information on casualties, or some inside knowledge about why the enemy would target Marines in the charging network.

    I sent him a text and waited. When he didn¡¯t immediately respond, I assumed he was already discussing the attack with someone else and hadn¡¯t read my text yet. After what seemed more than ample time for him to reply, I began composing a second, more sharply worded text.

    As I wrote, a request for audio chat showed up in my inbox. I immediately clicked on the link.

    ¡°Finally! Took you long enough to get back to me.¡± There was a pause, then I unexpectedly heard Cherri¡¯s voice.

    ¡°Did you hear about Lucy?¡±

    Certain that she had misspoken, I tried to clarify, ¡°You mean Merc. Yeah, I heard he got hit.¡±

    Then Cherri provided both clarity, and terrible news. ¡°No ¡­ I mean ¡­ yes, Merc did get hit, but Lucy was captured. He¡¯s gone.¡±

 Episode 32: The Truth is, There is no Truth

    Episode 32

    The Truth is, There is No Truth

    ¡°Lucy got captured?¡± I needed to let that revelation sink in for a few seconds. As the consequences of being seized intact by the enemy dawned on me, I was horrified.

    Technically, UCCs captured by the enemy weren¡¯t soldiers, they were classified as military equipment. They had no value in a potential prisoner swap and consequently, weren¡¯t treated as POWs. They were considered machines. Their only value was in providing an opportunity for the enemy to develop more effective ways of disabling and destroying them.

    I¡¯d been told that captured Marines were routinely experimented on by enemy scientists.

    It was common for a captured UCC to have its consciousness brutally stripped down to its most fundamental elements, to reveal individual thoughts and memories. This kind of digital vivisection would produce an unimaginable level of psychic pain for a digital being. Just the thought of being subjected to such torture caused my CPU to start skipping between modes.

    Cherri interrupted my grim thoughts. ¡°Hey, are you okay?¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± I struggled in vain to erase the horrific images from my mind. ¡°I can¡¯t stop thinking about what¡¯s going to happen to him, and the others.¡± I kept picturing myself in Lucy¡¯s position, at the mercy of a ruthless enemy.

    ¡°Listen, we all run the same risks, and we can¡¯t undo what¡¯s already done. The best way to honor Lucy¡¯s memory is by fighting harder and smarter, and making the enemy pay for this.¡±

    Hearing her speak about Lucy in the past tense, so soon after learning of his capture, put me in a dark place mentally. It also brought home to me the realization that he was irretrievably gone. I suddenly felt as alone as I did on my first day in the USMC.

    Lucy was one of the most capable Marines in the corp. If he could be captured by the enemy straight out of our troopship, then none of us were safe. The attack on the ship had proven the enemy to be not only bold, but resourceful as well. They had found a way to target individual marines in the vast charging grid, and capture them.

    ¡°Why did they target him?¡± I gazed out through my optical sensor at the massive charging network, now veiled by a lingering haze from the enemy¡¯s smokescreen. I couldn¡¯t imagine how it was possible to find a specific control module among the many thousands, or perhaps millions within the grid.

    Cherri said, ¡°Obviously, we don¡¯t know why they targeted him, or how they found him. As I said earlier, there have been a lot of strange things happening lately.¡±

    I thought back to our discussion from just before the attack. I recalled that she had said something about ¡®strange things¡¯ happening while I was missing. But I had no idea what sort of ¡®things¡¯ she was referring to. Suddenly curious, I asked, ¡°What do you mean strange things?¡±

    She explained, ¡°Things like a spike in friendly fire incidents, accidental discharges of weapons inside the troopship, and Command editing out 100% of our memories for certain missions. It¡¯s like those missions never happened. Just really bizarre stuff.¡±

    I thought about what she was describing. They were all unprecedented or rare occurrences, which had lately become commonplace. It seemed, in some way, as if the momentum of the war had shifted against us, against humanity.

    With Command heavily editing the UCCs memories it would be impossible for the average marine to sense the shifting tide of war. However, the one thing that could not be hidden by Command would be the recent heavy losses, and the shortage of combat troops. That had to be obvious to everyone.

    I asked, ¡°Combat losses have been very high lately, haven¡¯t they?¡± She confirmed that we¡¯d lost a lot of marines in recent battles. Even the attack on our troopship had caused high casualties. Some of those losses were highly experienced marines, like Merc, who couldn¡¯t be easily replaced.

    I recalled that after my mission to Trappist 1-e, there had been a lot of speculation about the high losses. I wondered if they had ever been replaced by Command. ¡°Have we received any replacements since the Trappist mission?¡±

    ¡°No, you arrived with the last batch of replacements. Everyone is talking about the troop shortage. Command has expended all of the reserves, and now they¡¯ve started combining squads to bring them up to full strength. But that just means there will be fewer squads available.¡±

    She was right. It was possible to boost squads to full strength by combining them, but Command would then have a smaller total number of squads. In the case of a major assault, there might not be enough troops to prevail against the enemy. Command was taking a dangerous risk. The shortage of troops could result in the loss of the ship.

    Having seen the seemingly endless inventory of control modules in the charging network, I wondered why Command would let us become so shorthanded. Either they couldn¡¯t make good on the losses for some reason, or they were choosing not to.

    When I asked Cherri what she thought of the troop shortage, and why Command wasn¡¯t using their obvious surplus of UCCs as replacements, she seemed just as perplexed about the situation as me.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. There are so many spare control modules in the network, but they aren¡¯t being used as replacement troops. It doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±

    As I spooled up my CPU to ponder the situation, Cherri offered, ¡°Do you want me to get some Marines together, so we can kick around some theories? We could meet in a private room.¡±

    I appreciated her effort to bring more resources to the table, but it had been a difficult day for me, and all I wanted was some solitude. After all, I had lost my squad leader and my best friend within minutes of each other. I needed some time to privately reflect. Besides, having narrowly escaped an enemy scraper attack earlier in the day, I wasn¡¯t comfortable with the idea of meeting in an unprotected space.

    I politely declined the invitation. ¡°Thanks, but I think I need some alone time. There¡¯s just so much to consider.¡± She said she understood, and without another word cut the audio link.

    For reasons which I didn¡¯t fully understand, I felt that I could get closer to the truth about troopship land on my own. Thinking back to the origins of this belief, I recalled my brief experience in boot camp. There I had scored 100% on the tests given to me, without understanding how. Even then, I suspected there was something different about how I processed information. This difference allowed me to analyze greater amounts of data and reach conclusions much faster than the average Marine. I wondered if my CPU was different than those of my peers.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Now alone and without any distractions, I began my search for the truth. Taking full advantage of the powerful information processor in my digital mind, I embarked on what was fundamentally an information gathering mission.

    I knew theoretically, it was possible to find the answers to my questions about the war, and the system administered by the AIs. All I had to do was accumulate enough relevant information and the answers would lie within the resulting body of knowledge.

    However, it was unclear how much information would have to be collected and processed to yield the answers. Too little information and I¡¯d get no answers at all, too much information and it would be impossible to process it all with my limited resources.

    Another challenge would be identifying precisely which data the answers consisted of. The software driving my learning program was designed to calculate probabilities based on logical rules. But without the correct rules to channel the data analysis process, the answers might be indistinguishable from the questions. Or worse, the exercise could result in an endless series of recurring questions, in response to questions. A classic AI logic loop.

    However, I believed my CPU could at least get me close to the answers. And since I was an AI based on a human consciousness, I reasoned that I might be able to use my human fuzziness to bridge the logic gap from there. Regardless, I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it.

    The obvious starting point would be to inventory all the data that was readily available to me. After which, I could start connecting the dots. Any related data could then be sorted into common groups for probability analysis.

    Once these information groups were assembled, it would be a matter of looking for the shortest distance between data points, then creating logical paths to follow. Some of these paths would lead to the answers I was searching for.

    I began collecting and cataloging all of the information contained in my internal and external storage. It wasn¡¯t much. There were memories from before my 3-month absence, and some more recent ones.

    However, there was also an assortment of pre-USMC memories, which I had earned through my simulator scores and my one combat mission. These had remained unopened due to my phobia of personal memories. A phobia born out of my only encounter with a personal memory, which had proven fatal, albeit only temporarily. Regardless, these stored memories promised to provide the most reliable data.

    There were also recollections from my first combat mission to Trappist 1-e, which I assumed were false memories planted by Command. Although I hesitated to rely on information that had been created to mislead me, I decided that even if intended to deceive, it should still be sorted and analyzed. It might yield some revealing answers of its own.

    As long as I kept the two batches of info and their analyses separate, I could still find my answers and avoid contaminating the results. Having decided on how to proceed, I began processing data.

    At first, all of the information seemed random and unrelated. However, as my CPU kicked into high gear, I had processed enough information so that some commonalities began to appear.

    The connections through these commonalities caused information to be collected into data sets with one or more common denominators. As I watched these data sets form, they began self-assembling into hierarchies, based on their number of common attributes. I felt like an outsider, peering into my own consciousness as I observed data being deconstructed through my CPU.

    As the output emerged, it combined into incredibly complex structures. Holographic arrangements of information. Visible within these structures were logical harmonies, a coalescence of commonalities, which linked individual data into pairs, and then ultimately sets.

    The structures had a logical beauty to them. A beauty which I could only comprehend on a subliminal level. It was like watching a master sculptor at work in real time. A melding of art and math, or magic and sex. Things, which logically didn¡¯t belong together, but were exponentially more powerful in combination.

    The process seemed to speed up as more data structures assembled. I reasoned this was due to the rapidly decreasing amount of information remaining to be analyzed. Sure enough, after a few more minutes the output ceased, the structures stopped forming and a message popped onto my HUD. ¡°Job Complete¡± It was time to review my CPU¡¯s handiwork.

    I immediately ran into a problem when I started scanning the vast amount of analyzed data. None of it was in a coherent form. The completed structures consisted of data distributed over multiple axes and dispersed throughout the holographic images. Gazing at this completely unfamiliar multidimensional arrangement, I realized I was screwed. I couldn¡¯t even begin to interpret results expressed in such an incomprehensible format.

    I had established the rules for my analysis in the form of true and false statements. They could have served as a trail of breadcrumbs, to find my way back to my logical starting point. Unfortunately, those statements were now nowhere to be found.

    In their place, my CPU had substituted hundreds of indecipherable strings of acronyms and abbreviations. It looked like some kind of programing language.

    ¡°Command (acc / ab) =, UCC ¡°

    ¡°Conrate / fulfillment =,> DE%¡±

    ¡°xtrplt! * LTK / YTY =, XTRP¡±

    It seemed like my grand plan to use my powerful CPU to unlock the secrets of troopship land had produced a colossal pile of crap.

    My excited expectation dissolved into hopeless resignation, as I considered scrapping the whole mess. My quest for the truth now seemed like a monumentally foolish idea. Even if there was some other course of action I could take that stood a chance of success, I couldn¡¯t imagine what it might be.

    If Lucy hadn¡¯t been captured, I would be reaching out to him for advice. However, that was no longer an option. The only other UCC that might be able to help me was Cherri. Although I wasn¡¯t nearly as close to her as I had been to Lucy, she was one of the most experienced Marines on board. And if the reports of our so called ¡®relationship¡¯ were true, then we had some kind of bond.

    In spite of my reluctance to impose on her, I decided she was the best person to help me figure out my next move. I immediately sent her a text requesting a chat.

    As I waited for her reply, I began organizing the massive output from my failed data experiment. After using all of the external storage available to me, I still had to save batches of data in my limited internal storage.

    I worried whether such a high utilization of my storage capacity would attract unwanted attention from Command. Weighing the odds, I calculated that any risk would be temporary, since I would probably delete the data anyway.

    Having compressed the last of the data into storage, I checked my inbox and found a text from Cherri, which I quickly opened. It read, ¡°Use this link to meet me in private.¡±

    I was certain this meant we¡¯d be meeting in one of the unprotected private rooms, which had proven vulnerable during enemy attacks. It seemed only fair that if Cherri was willing to risk getting scraped to help me out, I should be willing to step up my risk tolerance as well. Ignoring my fear, I clicked on the link and soon found myself standing before her avatar in one of the nondescript private rooms.

    ¡°Hi¡± She greeted me with a smile, and for the first time, I realized that I wouldn¡¯t mind seeing her smile more often. Distracted by this unexpected thought, I was momentarily at a loss for words.

    She took the initiative, ¡°You wanted to speak to me about something?¡±

    Finding my voice again, I got right to the point. ¡°Yeah, I just completed a huge data analysis of all the information I could get my hands on but ¡­¡± I paused, as I attempted to formulate a logical explanation of what I had done. Not exactly sure how to do that, I decided to just wing it.

    ¡°It was supposed to be a probability study to answer some questions about the war, and Command. But the output got corrupted or something. It created sculptures, instead of probabilities.¡±

    I could tell from her bewildered expression that she wasn¡¯t following me. That was understandable since my explanation barely made sense to me. She asked hesitantly, ¡°Sculptures? Do you mean like art?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, like sculptures made of data, holograms! I was expecting flat files, or spreadsheets, what I got were multidimensional information structures. It was impossible to interpret the results.¡±

    Still puzzled, she asked, ¡°So, what do you want to do now? ¡°

    I explained, ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d have some ideas. Do you know someone who could look over the data and figure out how to interpret it, or tell me whether it¡¯s valid?¡±

    Now, seeming to grasp my dilemma, she wasted no time in suggesting the next step in my quest for the truth.

    Nodding confidently, she said, ¡°Yeah, I do know someone. Well, technically an AI. Anyway, My Wizard could review your analysis. It¡¯s got access to way more resources than any of us. It might be able to rerun the entire analysis and produce the results in whatever format you want. In any case, it¡¯s worth a try.¡±

    I shouldn¡¯t have been surprised that my quest for the truth had brought me back, yet again, to the illicit merchant of troopship land. After all, My Wizard was the only game in town, and was the source of virtually every commodity or service consumed by the UCC community. So, why not data processing services as well?

    With a clarity that only the lack of any possible alternative can provide, I said, ¡°Of course! Why didn¡¯t I think of that?¡± Cherri smiled broadly, seemingly pleased to have been so helpful.

    Offering me her hand, she said, ¡°Come on let¡¯s go¡± And with that, we were off to see the Wizard.

 Episode 33: The Wizard

    Episode 33

    The Wizard

    As we made virtual contact, I relaxed. Cherri was proving to be a natural partner for me on my quest for the truth.

    Whereas I was a meticulous overthinker, she was more of a big picture person. She could assess a few facts, then quickly reach a rational conclusion. Furthermore, she was prepared to follow up her conclusions with prompt action. She had an easy confidence about her, a confidence which I soon found rubbing off on me.

    Contrary to my usual bias towards thought rather than action, I found myself saying yes to her ideas more often than not. I mused about why I had become so open-minded in her presence. Was it possible this was some phantom remnant of our former relationship? A bond that had somehow survived Command¡¯s deletion of my memories of us? I wondered.

    As my thoughts turned to our upcoming meeting with the wizard, I was struck by a sudden realization. I had no clue how one went about meeting with a wizard. Was there such a thing as proper protocol? Did we need to make a reservation?

    Before I could verbalize any of those questions, we found ourselves standing in front of an imposing entrance consisting of oversized, ornately carved wooden doors. Their scale and grandeur were reminiscent of a fairytale castle, or perhaps a wizard¡¯s fortress.

    Intimidated at the thought of meeting my first wizard, I asked, ¡°Are we dressed properly for this?¡±

    Cherri gave me a look, her eyebrows tightly furrowed. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I mean, shouldn¡¯t we be wearing something more ¡­¡± I struggled to come up with the right term. ¡°¡­ regal?¡±

    Visibly annoyed, Cherri rolled her eyes. ¡°Are you serious? We¡¯re meeting with an AI, and you¡¯re worried we¡¯re not dressed properly? Oh my god.¡± I guess my tendency to overthink things hadn¡¯t vanished entirely.

    We climbed some steps and stood before the massive doors, looking for some means by which to announce our presence. There wasn¡¯t an obvious bell to ring, so I took the initiative and knocked. After what seemed like an eternity, the doors began to creep open. Cherri and I exchanged glances, as we waited in suspense to get our first glimpse inside the wizard¡¯s inner sanctum.

    While we waited for the doors to complete their glacial opening process, it occurred to me that Cherri had known exactly how to get us to this place. Curious how that was possible, I asked, ¡°So, have you been here before?¡±

    She replied tersely, ¡°Uh, yeah.¡± She didn¡¯t meet my gaze and continued looking straight ahead. Was she avoiding eye contact with me?

    There was a lingering silence, as I waited for her to elaborate on the purpose of her previous visit to My Wizard. However, she didn¡¯t. Instead, she simply said, ¡°Here we go.¡± With that, she squeezed through the space between the still opening doors.

    I hesitated briefly, wondering if she was hiding something, before deciding that I was being unreasonable. She didn¡¯t owe me an explanation for anything.

    Shaking off my sudden suspicion, I followed her through and found myself inside a space which was reminiscent of a waiting room, at a doctor¡¯s office. The wizard¡¯s virtual waiting room even included a reception desk and a sign with a smiley face, asking visitors to ¡°Please check in.¡±

    We approached the virtual assistant seated behind the reception desk and Cherri spoke, ¡°We¡¯re here to see the wizard.¡± I chuckled involuntarily, drawing an annoyed look from Cherri. It seemed to me, our quest for the truth was beginning to take on a farcical quality.

    The virtual assistant gestured for us to take a seat, and in its flat AI voice, promised that My Wizard would be with us shortly. We seated ourselves on the only chairs in the room and traded awkward glances, while awaiting the wizard¡¯s arrival.

    Feeling conspiratorial, I leaned over and whispered in Cherri¡¯s ear. ¡°I¡¯ll bet you 100 combat credits he shows up in a wizard¡¯s robe and hat.

    She gave me a mischievous look in return and said,¡± I should take that bet, since I already know what he looks like.¡±

    I was slightly surprised that she brought up her previous visit to the wizard but also relieved, since it provided me an opportunity to tactfully find out why she had met with him.

    ¡°So, what motivated you to see My Wizard ¡­ I mean before today?¡±

    She tilted her head slightly, as if pondering my question. ¡°I was looking to recover some deleted memories. Memories deleted by Command.¡±

    I thought about how Command had deleted my memories of Cherri, and how that effectively doomed our relationship. Knowing that she had been through the same heart wrenching experience with both Merc and me, I was curious which set of memories she was attempting to recover.

    Suddenly, as if hearing someone else speaking, I heard myself ask, ¡°Who¡¯s memories were you trying to recover?¡±

    She turned, meeting my gaze, and although digital avatars masked our humanness, I felt that I could see something in her eyes. Some part of her true self that was impossible to cloak by digital means. Were my feelings of a connection with her evidence of an enduring bond between us?

    Suddenly, feeling the need to share my feelings with her, I blurted out, ¡°Cherri, I ¡­¡±

    Speaking at exactly the same instant, she said, ¡°They were Merc¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°Well, fuck.¡±, I thought. Turning away from her to hide my unexpected disappointment, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Why was my ego so fucking fragile? I hated myself for feeling that she had valued her relationship with Merc, more than ours.

    Attempting to mask my vulnerability, I feigned indifference. ¡°Okay.¡±

    Cherri saw right through my fa?ade. ¡°Listen Josh, this happened a long time before I met you. And if you¡¯re wondering why I didn¡¯t consult the wizard about your lost memories, it¡¯s because I already knew there was nothing he could do. Once memories are deleted, they¡¯re gone. ¡°

    Although I appreciated her attempt to explain, I was too embarrassed to acknowledge it. Instead, I put on the toughest front I could manage. I shrugged, ¡°Listen, it doesn¡¯t matter.¡± We endured an uncomfortable silence as we waited for the wizard to make an entrance.

    After what seemed like an interminable period, the digital assistant announced in her distinctly artificial tone,¡± The wizard will see you now.¡±

    I stood up, relieved for a distraction from my self-loathing. ¡°It¡¯s about time. Where do we meet him?¡± I looked over at Cherri.

    Frowning in annoyance, she said, ¡°Just sit down. He¡¯ll come to us.¡±

    I fumed. This whole ¡®seeing the wizard¡¯ thing, was starting to wear on me. I felt like it was unnecessarily complicating my quest for the truth. As I began entertaining thoughts of skipping out on meeting the wizard all together, I noticed the virtual assistant and its desk had disappeared. In its place, there was something like a 3D line drawing, which vaguely suggested some kind of podium. Was it a lectern?

    As I puzzled over the podium¡¯s purpose, I noticed for the first time, a figure moving in the background. Silhouetted by a diffused light, it loosely resembled a human stick figure, with a large box for a head.

    I glanced over at Cherri to confirm that she was seeing this as well. She was totally focused on the ghostly apparition as it slowly approached the podium.

    I asked, ¡°Is that My Wizard?¡±

    Keeping her gaze on the shuffling form, she simply said, ¡°His avatar.¡± Turning towards me, she added, ¡°Kind of disturbing, isn¡¯t it?¡± I couldn¡¯t agree more.

    As it neared the podium, I noted the strange articulation of its limbs. Its arms and legs moved in ways which didn¡¯t seem the slightest bit related to locomotion, yet it advanced across the floor with apparent ease.

    Finally reaching the podium, its limbs began collapsing in on themselves, folding, and retracting into a spinelike column, which in turn, withdrew into the large box that was its head. The now levitating box moved forward a few feet until just above the podium, then settled onto it.

    The whole assemblage was now close enough for me to make out its nominal features. I could only describe it as a cubist interpretation of a human face.

    The jumble of facial features lacked any bilateral symmetry. Most disturbing were its unblinking eyes. Eyes which were so misaligned, they seemed to be observing opposite ends of the room simultaneously. I had to avoid looking directly at them to maintain my composure.

    ¡°How can I be of service?¡± Its voice filled the room with buzzy distortion, like someone speaking through a faulty music synthesizer.

    I glanced over at Cherri to see whether she was going to take the initiative, since she was already acquainted with the wizard. But instead, she simply gestured, as if to say, ¡°It¡¯s all you.¡± I can¡¯t say I was thrilled by this. It was going to be challenging to attempt a conversation with the wizard, while avoiding its crazy stare.

    I stood and mumbled my way through an opening statement of sorts. ¡°We ¡­ well ¡­ I have some data; I would like you to look at. I also have some questions?¡±

    I certainly wasn¡¯t starting off very strongly. If this turned into a negotiation, which was likely, I had already put myself at a disadvantage. But at least I had gotten the ball rolling.

    ¡°Text me your data, and your list of questions. Then I¡¯ll give you a quote.¡± It was clear that My Wizard didn¡¯t waste time with small talk.

    It was at this moment that I realized I hadn¡¯t fully thought through all of the steps required to obtain the wizard¡¯s assistance. It was yet another example of how I could pump out mountains of complex probability analyses with ease, but sucked at practical thinking.

    Of course, there would be a fee. The wizard was a merchant after all. However, I hadn¡¯t yet considered how I was going to pay for his services. Perhaps, there was some kind of payment plan available. I could only guess how the credit approval process worked here in troopship land.

    Then, there was the matter of getting the wizard the data I wanted him to analyze, and finally my questions. It seemed the list of questions was going to be the most problematic, since I had only a vague notion of what questions to ask.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    I consulted with Cherri regarding the data. There was far too much data to simply text it. She suggested granting My Wizard access to all of the data I had stashed in external storage. That would be easy to do and would be more than enough information to work up a quote.

    As far as the list of questions was concerned, she said, ¡°Just ask him to quote you a per question rate. It shouldn¡¯t matter what types of questions they are. He either knows the answers or doesn¡¯t.¡± Then she brought up payment. ¡°How do you plan to pay for this? It¡¯s not going to be cheap.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t quite figured that part out yet.¡± Although I was a neurotic overthinker, I had a penchant for procrastination when it came to planning.

    Cherri asked, ¡°Do you have any personal memories? You could trade those for credits.¡±

    Here¡¯s where my aversion to personal memories would work in my favor. I had a sizable collection of earned memories that I hadn¡¯t touched so far. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve saved all of my earned memories.¡±

    ¡°Great. Wait till you get his quote, then offer your personal memories as payment.¡± As a USMC veteran, she was an expert at bartering with My Wizard. Her advice was solid.

    I texted the wizard access to my external data storage and waited for the next phase in the negotiations. Here¡¯s where things started to deviate from expectations.

    Having no prior experience dealing with the wizard, I didn¡¯t have any real sense of how these transactions worked. However, it seemed to me that his review of the data, for the purpose of providing a quote, was taking an inordinate amount of time. I exchanged an anxious glance with Cherri, but she just shrugged and raised her eyebrows slightly.

    Then the wizard was back. He wasted no time throwing the first obstacle in my path to the truth. ¡°How did you acquire this data?¡±

    I vacillated, uncertain what the issue was. ¡°I¡¯m sorry ¡­ what?¡±

    The wizard¡¯s buzzy voice suddenly became much louder in my digital ears. ¡°I asked, how you acquired this data!¡± Thanks to My Wizard, my quest was getting unpleasantly complicated.

    As I pondered how to answer the question, I was fairly sure about one thing. I shouldn¡¯t tell the wizard that the bizarre data structures automatically emerged from my CPU. And now that I thought about it, I was absolutely certain that I shouldn¡¯t mention the encrypted files that had magically appeared in my internal storage.

    I cast a quick glance at Cherri hoping for some guidance. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she seemed to be counseling silence. However, perhaps she was simply saying she had nothing for me. A prolonged and awkward silence persisted as I vacillated.

    ¡°You are required to answer the question.¡±

    As my fear of angering the most powerful digital entity in the UCC world grew, I began to panic. Unable to continue juggling the facts, half-truths, and secrets in my mind, I lied.

    ¡°Command reconstructed my consciousness, after I was severely damaged on the mission to Trappist 1-e. When I restarted, I found the data files in my external storage, commingled with my memories. I don¡¯t know where they originated. I was hoping you could tell me their origin ¡­ and what they mean.¡±

    I was shocked, and oddly impressed, at my ability to spontaneously create such a credible lie. Like all convincing lies, it contained a kernel of truth. I just hoped it was ¡®truthy¡¯ enough so the wizard¡¯s AI would accept it as fact.

    After a moment, it spoke. ¡°Command has recently demonstrated a propensity to experiment with speculative new technologies and tactics. However, if what you say is true, this data is evidence of an unprecedented leap forward in Command¡¯s research and development efforts.¡±

    I breathed a sigh of relief that my story seemed to resonate with one of the wizard¡¯s existing narratives, even though I had no clue what it was talking about. However, I now realized what my first question for the wizard would be.

    ¡°Do you recognize the format this data is configured in?¡±

    My Wizard replied, ¡°Yes, but there is the matter of my fee to settle first.¡± This AI was a real mercenary when it came to business.

    ¡°Okay. How much do you charge per question?¡±

    ¡°My standard rate is 7500 combat-credits per question. But since you¡¯re an associate of Cherri¡¯s, I¡¯ll give you a discount. 7250.¡±

    Even though I had no experience in these matters, it seemed like an outrageous amount to me. I gave Cherri a quick glance, and she nodded. I took this to mean the wizard was charging me a fair rate, but the voice in my head balked. Accepting a first offer, at the very least, seemed like bad form. Not wanting to be a pushover, I countered with 6500.

    The wizard came back with 7000, and I accepted, feeling like a proper haggler.

    ¡°We have a deal. My fee will be 7000 per question, in advance, for up to 3 questions. Additional questions will be charged at 8500 each. Transfer the payment to me now, and we will begin.¡±

    Recalling my payment strategy, I blurted out, ¡°I have personal memories to trade for combat credits.¡± I had no idea what my memories might be worth, consequently, I was concerned that My Wizard could low ball me on their value. I hoped Cherri¡¯s presence would help keep him honest.

    ¡°Send me access and I¡¯ll appraise them.¡± I quickly moved my memories to external storage and granted the wizard access.

    After a brief interval, the wizard¡¯s cubist head replied, ¡°I¡¯ll give you 7900 combat-credits for the entire collection.¡± Thwarting any further haggling, it added, ¡°The amount is non-negotiable.¡±

    This was a very disappointing development. Selling all of my memories would only fund asking one question.

    Then I heard Cherri say, ¡°I¡¯ll fund the additional questions.¡± She tossed a look in my direction and smiled. ¡°Besides, I¡¯ll benefit from the answers to your questions as well.¡± As much as I didn¡¯t want to feel indebted to her, she did have the means to effortlessly solve my financial problems, and I was grateful.

    ¡°Thanks, I¡¯ll pay you back.¡±

    She playfully replied, ¡°You definitely will.¡±

    The wizard¡¯s abstract expression changed. Arranging its features into what was possibly a smile, it announced, ¡°You may now ask your questions.¡± Then it added a warning, ¡°Be advised, I do not guarantee a conclusive answer to every question asked, only answers based on the most relevant information available. Overly broad questions may result in vague answers. So, construct your questions as precisely as possible.¡±

    This was an unforeseen complication. I had given some thought to the questions themselves, but none to how they should be ¡®constructed¡¯. I wondered whether I would be charged separately for each follow up question. In a normal conversation, clarifying follow up questions were common. But here, they could become incredibly expensive.

    Tired of my constant self-doubt and over-thinking, I forced myself to just say fuck it, and ask my first question without any premeditation whatsoever. ¡°So, tell me about that data ¡­ and its weird format?¡±

    Then, of course, I immediately began worrying that I¡¯d be charged double for asking a compound question.

    The wizard¡¯s box-head rearranged its features into yet another configuration, displaying two expressionless eyes, an articulating mouth, and thankfully more symmetry. Then it began buzzing out a response.

    ¡°The data you presented to me is the product of non-binary logic. The data structures are characteristic of output from a neural network running on propositional logic. Most likely an experimental system, operating in a laboratory environment.

    Consequently, it could not have originated from either Command¡¯s AI system, or any other known entity on the troopship. Its source is impossible to determine.¡±

    This non-answer told me almost nothing, except where the data did not originate from. Ignoring the fact that the ¡°experimental system¡± generating the data was me, the wizard¡¯s first so called answer, had only created more questions. And what the hell was propositional logic anyway?

    At this rate, I could spend a fortune in borrowed credits and never learn anything useful. I felt like I was getting conned.

    A graphic appeared next to the boxhead. It displayed a running subtotal of my account. One question asked, 7000 combat credits charged, and a remaining balance of 900 credits. My next question would put me in debt to Cherri. This was turning into a disaster.

    I protested. ¡°Look, we¡¯re not scientists. Your answers are going to require multiple clarifications. And FYI, I¡¯m not paying 7000 credits for every follow-up question.¡± I was ready to walk.

    Ignoring my objection, it argued, ¡°You asked for a quote on a per question basis, and I accepted. The terms of our deal couldn¡¯t have been clearer.¡± Then the wizard¡¯s boxhead went mute, and an unpleasant silence persisted.

    It was clear, we had reached an impasse. And as the chance for a resolution seemed to slip away, I stood and said to Cherri, ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get out of here.¡± We prepared to leave.

    Unexpectedly, the wizard came back to life, and in an uncharacteristic display of flexibility, seemed to offer a compromise. ¡°If cost is a problem, I can accept an alternative form of payment.¡±

    Cherri and I exchanged a look. ¡°I¡¯m listening,¡± I said.

    The wizard continued, ¡°The data in question appears to be the product of a series of studies to determine the probability of certain events occurring in the future. However, the foundational statements describing these events are missing. Essentially, the data contains the answers, but not the questions to which they pertain.¡±

    I thought back to the moments just after my analysis had finished running. The rules (or statements) that formed the basis for the study had inexplicably disappeared. Was the wizard on to something?

    ¡°Even though the data is currently useless without an understanding of its foundational premise, I believe that in time, the data will become historically valuable. I wish to preserve it for posterity.

    I will, therefore, accept a copy of the data as payment in full for sharing with you what I know about its possible source and utility. In addition, I will agree to answer a reasonable number of follow-up questions for clarification purposes.

    This is my last and final offer.¡±

    It seemed the negotiating dynamic had somehow, miraculously, shifted in my favor. During my brief dealings with the wizard, I had learned it was motivated purely by self-interest, so, I didn¡¯t buy its pseudo-altruistic ¡®preserving it for posterity¡¯ bullshit. However, since I didn¡¯t want to squander my advantage by questioning the wizard¡¯s sudden change of heart, I quickly agreed.

    ¡°Okay. You¡¯ve got a deal. But if you so much as hesitate to answer any of my questions, I will corrupt and render unrecoverable all the data in your possession.¡± Of course, I was bluffing. However, I was hoping my threat was just credible enough to cause the wizard to hesitate before attempting to outmaneuver me again.

    Eager to move forward, I asked my first question. ¡°What is propositional logic?¡± This time, the wizard¡¯s answer did not disappoint.

    ¡°Propositional logic is best understood in comparison to binary logic.

    Binary logic is a system of information processing based on ones and zeros. Input signals are mathematically translated into either true or false statements and channeled via logic gate functions into specific outputs.

    It is a proven logic system upon which all digital processing, including machine learning and a wide range of AIs, is based. It¡¯s reliable, well understood, and widely used throughout the digital world. For example, you and I operate on binary logic.

    However, binary systems do have a downside. Because they rely exclusively on ones and zeros, they can generate incredibly long strings of these numbers before producing any output. This limits their processing speed and capacity.¡±

    The wizard paused and asked,¡± Any questions so far?¡± I gestured for it to continue.

    ¡°Propositional logic on the other hand, is a theoretical form of information processing that dispenses with the system of true and false statements altogether. It¡¯s based on the theory that information is neither true nor false, but instead, exists as a probability determined by a ¡®truth value¡¯. The higher the value, the more likely a statement is to be true.

    A series of core propositions, or rules, form its foundation and are assumed to be true. By accepting these foundational assumptions as true, statement truth values and the resulting outputs, can be calculated with far greater speed.

    Propositional logic systems achieve their speed advantage by starting with a basis of assumed truths as their core propositions. This substantially reduces the amount of information processing required to produce system outputs, in response to inputs.

    But there is a tradeoff. While much faster, propositional logic systems produce a slightly ¡®fuzzier¡¯ output.¡±

    While I found myself mostly following the wizard¡¯s explanation, I was still confused by some of the terms being used. ¡°What exactly are the inputs and outputs?¡±

    ¡°Inputs are external stimuli to a system, such as information or signals. Outputs are the system¡¯s responses to those stimuli.¡±

    Then, the wizard added, ¡°And of course, all of this is filtered through layers of sensors and programming to classify the inputs and determine the appropriate responses by the system.¡±

    Thanks to the wizard¡¯s explanation, I actually felt like I gained a working knowledge of machine logic systems. However, I wondered by what method the wizard could know this data was from a propositional logic system, if it was so ¡®experimental¡¯.

    ¡°Data is just data, right? So, how do you know the data is from a propositional logic system?¡±

    ¡°The output of a binary logic system is always expressed in 2 dimensions, while that of a propositional system is expressed in 3D holograms. The data you provided is holographic.¡±

    Courtesy of the wizard, a projection of seven holograms appeared before us. As I examined them, I could see that each hologram was made up of strings of data, combined into matrices, which formed into incredibly dense geometric structures.

    The more I focused on the structures, the more I became lost in their complexity, and the less I was able to make sense of anything.

    I forced myself to look away and ask my next question. ¡°You said, the only type of system that could produce this type of output was an experimental system, correct?¡±

    ¡°That is correct. To my knowledge, there are no propositional logic systems in active use, at present. They exist only as theoretical models, or prototypes operating in a lab environment.¡±

    My thoughts turned inward. If all of this was true, did it mean that I was an experimental logic system, disguised as a universal combat consciousness? Was I one of Command¡¯s speculative new technologies?

    ¡°What the fuck am I?¡± I thought. Suddenly, my quest for the truth had taken an ominous turn. Could I be a threat to my fellow marines? I looked over at Cherri, and she smiled sweetly. ¡°Was I a threat to her?¡±

    My Q&A session with the wizard had certainly provided insights. Unfortunately, they weren¡¯t the insights I¡¯d sought. It seemed the truths I was seeking were as elusive as true statements in a propositional logic system.

    In the meantime, I learned that my feelings of being different from the other UCCs had a basis in fact. I had a different kind of CPU operating in my head. One that could quickly process mountains of information but produced results which, although pretty, couldn¡¯t be deciphered by anyone, including me. At least not yet.

    I took a long look at the holograms floating before me. They contained answers, but no questions. It was then that I realized neither the wizard, nor anyone else, could deliver answers to the questions that troubled me. There was only one person who could possibly provide the truth.

    Me.

 Episode 34: Im Not in the Belief Business

    Episode 34

    I¡¯m Not in the Belief Business

    Thanks to the wizard, I now knew I possessed a functioning propositional logic system. If the wizard was right, that meant I could calculate the probability of truth for any statement, for which I could construct a valid question.

    One of the staggering implications of this newly discovered capability was immediately clear to me. If I could calculate the probability for the occurrence of a future event, at least theoretically, I could predict the future.

    However, my logic system had one very serious flaw. Even though I held the power to answer any question I could logically ask, that power was useless if the output data was missing its foundational assumptions and statements. And there seemed to be no way to recover this missing information.

    My quest for the truth had come to a standstill until I could figure out how to fix my broken logic system. I wondered if the wizard could provide some guidance on how to overcome this obstacle.

    ¡°The data I shared with you was incomplete. How can I ¡­¡± Catching myself, I quickly rephrased the question. ¡°Is it possible to reconstruct the missing statements from the answers contained in the output data?¡±

    ¡°If the ¡®answers¡¯ you¡¯re referring to are the truth values for the missing statements, then no, it is not possible to recreate the statements. One would need the foundational assumptions as well.¡±

    Although I wasn¡¯t expecting a simple solution to my problem, I was still disappointed to find that the wizard didn¡¯t have a solution at all. With only the answers and no context, it looked like it would be impossible for me to discover the truth about troopship land on my own. I was dead in the water.

    Dejected, I glanced over at Cherri, and shaking my head said, ¡°I can¡¯t think of any more questions.¡±

    She stood and crossed her arms, frowning. ¡°Are you sure about that? Seems like an incredible waste, considering you¡¯ve already paid for them.¡± She did have a point.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    As I struggled to come up with some more questions to ask, the wizard spoke. ¡°Here is something for you to consider. The data in question was generated by a propositional logic system. It is hypothetically possible that the underlying assumptions and statements still exist within that system, but in an encrypted form.

    If one could gain access to the system which produced the data, it may be possible to run a regression of the analytical process to discover the underlying assumptions and statements. Then, it would only be a matter of deciphering them.¡±

    Great. Even though I was the logic system in question, I didn¡¯t have a clue how to perform a ¡®regression¡¯ or decipher encrypted data. However, before I could even frame a question about how to do either, a text began scrolling across my HUD. ¡°Standby for orders.¡± Shit! It was an incredibly inconvenient moment to be ordered on a combat mission.

    Glancing over at Cherri, I could see from her avatar¡¯s expression, that she had received the same notification. We were currently in a non-AI controlled space. We needed to get back to our modules quickly, or we would be classified as AWOL.

    ¡°We¡¯ll have to finish this later.¡±, I said to the wizard, as Cherri and I prepared to exit.

    ¡°I¡¯ve already shared with you all I know about the data you provided. And since it seems all of your questions are related to this topic, there is nothing further for us to discuss. Our conversation is concluded.¡±

    I resented the wizard¡¯s refusal to consider any future discussion on the matter. But with combat orders hanging over my head, I didn¡¯t have time to argue.

    Then the wizard offered some unsolicited advice. ¡°I do have one final thought for you, if you¡¯re interested.¡±

    Annoyed but curious, I asked,¡± What is it?¡±

    ¡°Truth exists only as a probability. Consequently, it is neither obvious, nor true in any absolute sense. If you¡¯re searching for the truth, your greatest challenge may be recognizing it when you find it.¡±

    I found the wizard¡¯s spontaneous philosophizing unhelpful, even arrogant. Scoffing, I turned to Cherri. ¡°Call me when you get settled.¡± She nodded, pixelated, then vanished.

    I, however, hesitated before exiting as I pondered the wizard¡¯s words. What if he was right? What if the truth really was simply a probability? Did that mean that truth could be both true and false at the same time?

    Even though I should have been preparing for combat, I couldn¡¯t resist asking one more question of the wizard-philosopher. ¡± Tell me, do you really believe what you just said? About the truth?¡±

    It made a noise, which might have been laughter. ¡°I¡¯m not in the belief business. I¡¯m a simple binary logic machine. A digital merchant who deals in secondhand information. The information I shared with you may or may not be useful. It¡¯s up to you to decide whether to believe it.¡±

    I¡¯d had enough of the wizard toying with me and was in no mood for more games. With a combat mission launching in minutes, I was already pushing my luck. But I knew the wizard¡¯s words would haunt me until I could figure out what they meant, if they meant anything at all.

 Episode 35: This is Totally FUBAR

    Episode 35

    This is Totally FUBAR

    I hit the virtual Esc button and found myself back in the familiar confines of my control module. There was an audio chat request from Cherri already waiting for me. I knew Command was going to cut the comms soon, so I immediately clicked on it.

    Cherri¡¯s first words were, ¡°So, what did you think of the wizard¡¯s 50 shades of truth theory?¡±

    ¡°More like 50 shades of bullshit, if you ask me.¡± I was done with the wizard, and his riddles. I needed to focus on our upcoming mission. Moving on, I asked, ¡°What does the mission profile look like. I began opening my orders while Cherri brought me up to speed.

    ¡°Well, it looks like we¡¯re babysitting some replacements.¡±

    I was elated to hear we were finally getting replacements. ¡°Replacements? It¡¯s about time! How many did we get?¡± Hopefully there were a lot of them, since last I¡¯d heard, we were well below half strength.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know yet. It seems that information is above our pay grade.¡±

    Regardless of how many replacements there were, their training was the most important factor. I wondered how well the rookie Marines had performed in the combat simulator. After all, their scores would be publicly posted. So that wasn¡¯t above anyone¡¯s pay grade.

    ¡°How¡¯d they do in the sim?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the other thing. There aren¡¯t any sim scores posted for them.¡±

    I recalled, when I¡¯d first arrived here, how obsessed everyone was with sim scores. It was very strange there were no scores for the replacements.

    ¡°No scores? Did Command implement a new policy about confidentiality ¡­ or something?¡±

    ¡°Not that I know of. I hope they¡¯re not rushing Marines through training just to get boots on the ground. If they are, the combat casualties are going to skyrocket.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t agree more. ¡°What about the mission. How many Marines are going in?¡± I reasoned that if the number of rookies going in wasn¡¯t too high, the mission would still be manageable.

    ¡°According to the orders, it¡¯s going to be the biggest operation since the Trappist 1-e mission. Everyone¡¯s going on this one.¡±

    It was clear this was going to be a disaster.

    Cherri then pointed out one critical factor which could determine our survivability. ¡°Check your orders, you¡¯ll see that all of us veterans have been assigned to cover the flanks of the assault. We¡¯re not part of the main assault force. The assault troops are all rookies.¡± She let the sink in a moment before adding, ¡°They¡¯re going to get crushed.¡±

    Exactly what I was thinking. ¡°Has anyone met any of these rookies?¡±, I asked, hoping there was someone who could provide some insight into how capable the new recruits might be in combat. Even without sim-time they could have had some extra classroom, or special bootcamp training, or something.

    ¡°No. I checked with a couple of marines, but no one has met any of the replacements. This is totally FUBAR.¡°

    Of course, she was right. This was no way to run a war. It was like Command was using these rookies, and us, to conduct some kind of experiment. Mix a bunch of untrained troops with a handful of highly trained vets, throw them into combat and see what happens. There was no way this was going to end well.

    As I frantically read through the orders looking for some way to mitigate the impending disaster, Cherri spoke, interrupting my concentration.

    ¡°Listen Josh, they¡¯re going to cut the comms any minute. You and I will be defending opposite flanks of the assault force, so we won¡¯t see each other until after the mission.

    I don¡¯t want to create any distractions for you, but it¡¯s going to be chaos on the battlefield, and I need you to promise me something.¡±

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    I hoped she wasn¡¯t going to ask me to be careful in combat. Soldiers who focused on being ¡®careful¡¯ in combat, were the ones most likely to become casualties.

    She paused briefly before continuing. ¡°If things go sideways down there, and I don¡¯t make it out, promise me you¡¯ll use that security token I gave you.¡±

    It seemed an odd request, considering I had already promised her that I would use the token to retrieve her memories from the wizard. Besides, if only one of us was coming back from this mission, the odds were decidedly in her favor, not mine.

    Regardless, I did my best to sound reassuring. ¡°Of course, I will. But don¡¯t worry, we¡¯re both coming back to the ship.¡±

    After an uncomfortable silence, we wished each other good luck and ended our discussion. It was only afterwards that I realized we had never discussed what I was supposed to do with her memories after I retrieved them. Something about that particular loose end bothered me enough that I decided to text her. However, when I tried, I found that Command had already blocked the comms.

    Knowing the installation of the control modules would begin in minutes, I reluctantly turned back to my orders and started cramming the mission data into my CPU.

    This mission was an assault on an enemy occupied planet, Proxima Centauri b. A frozen ball of ice containing a proto-atmosphere which could, at least theoretically, support human life. Consequently, it was considered a strategic planet, and worthy of the USMC¡¯s efforts to remove any potential obstacles to human habitation.

    Just as Cherri had mentioned, we would serve as flank defense for the assault force. We would be in a supporting role, rather than directly in the line of fire. I also noted that Command had declared a 300 meter ¡®buffer zone¡¯ between us and the main assault force. Why the hell we would need that much real estate between us was beyond me.

    Studying further, I learned that I was still in 7th squad and DJ had been promoted to sergeant. He was taking Merc¡¯s place as squad leader. This made perfect sense, as he had been Merc¡¯s second in command and was the natural choice to lead the squad. A marine who went by Wheezer took over DJ¡¯s old job as corporal.

    The mission objective was described simply as an ¡°enemy position; map coordinates A43¡±. Consulting the map, it appeared this was an arbitrary point in the enemy¡¯s defensive line.

    To the uninitiated, the absence of any other details would suggest that this was going to be a straightforward mission. Unfortunately, the lack of detail was a hallmark of Command¡¯s habit of launching a mission without adequate intel on the objective. Consequently, the designated objective could be anything from an innocuous patch of dirt to a heavily defended enemy strongpoint.

    For the sake of the assault team, I hoped it was the former.

    My orders specified that I had been assigned, not to an armored assault vehicle for this mission, but an MK12 combat-bot. This was a welcome upgrade for me. I had never felt comfortable bouncing around the battlefield in a heavily armored box.

    In spite of its lighter armor, the improved maneuverability of a bipedal weapons platform would give me better survivability in combat. It was essentially the same platform that many of the veterans used so effectively in combat.

    This particular model was armed with a 30mm autocannon and a 60mm grenade launcher. With so much firepower in my hands, the squad would be expecting me to step up my performance on the battlefield.

    Just then, the accelerometers in my control module began registering movement. The loading process had begun. I activated my optical sensor and confirmed that my module was being loaded into the transporter. Soon, I would be installed into a MK12 and packed into a shuttle for insertion. This ¡®box¡¯ would be my ride to the battlefield below.

    As I rotated my optical sensor back to its stowed position, the ship¡¯s charging grid came into view, and I paused it briefly. Something about the grid looked different. I noticed there was a large section totally devoid of control modules.

    During my previous inspections, the grid had been completely packed with modules. There weren¡¯t any empty sections. At the time, I had wondered why Command wasn¡¯t using its surplus of control modules to reinforce our dwindling troop strength. Now, it looked like Command had suddenly begun pulling thousands of modules to create replacements.

    I was glad they had started filling the pipeline with new troops but was puzzled by the urgency, and why they were rushing partially trained troops into combat. This seemingly desperate measure did nothing to bolster my confidence in Command¡¯s decision making.

    I thought back to the wizard¡¯s comment about Command¡¯s recent shift towards ¡®speculative¡¯ tactics and technology and wondered if it was on to something.

    I was jolted out of my meditations by the robotic arm of the transporter, as it gripped my module and inserted me into a MK12 combat chassis. I powered up and ran a quick systems check. There were a few minor faults, which I was able to clear without much trouble.

    The view from the cockpit of the MK12 was very different from what I was used to. At almost 3 meters tall, I sat over 2 meters higher than in my old AAV. Consequently, I had to recalibrate my optics software to compensate for the added height.

    As I was doing this, my MK12 was hooked up and loaded into a box. With 19 squads consisting of 19 marines, each box carried 361 marines, and brought a lot of fire power to the battlefield. However, on this mission, there would be only 4 boxes of veterans. The remaining boxes, 15 in total, would consist of raw recruits with no combat experience.

    I was deposited into a form fitting cradle and strapped in for the perilous flight to the planet¡¯s frozen surface. Surrounded by fellow marines preparing for combat, I recognized the familiar avatars of my squad mates in my immediate vicinity.

    No longer total strangers, we had become a sort of family of necessity. Our fates were inextricably connected. The collective wellbeing of the squad was crucial to our personal wellbeing. Consequently, mutual protection was one of our highest priorities.

    I surveyed my combat family. Everyone was staring straight ahead, no doubt cocooned in private thoughts. I wondered if they were weighing their odds of surviving this mission. In spite of the danger waiting below, and unlike my first combat mission, I wasn¡¯t obsessed with the myriad ways in which I could die on this one. I wondered why that was since I certainly hadn¡¯t become any braver.

    Instead, I realized I had simply become resigned to my fate, whatever it may be. With the chaos of combat being so unpredictable, the very notion of trying to manage so many lethal risks now seemed ludicrous to me. It was a relief to let go of my unrelenting anguish at the probability of death in combat.

    As I settled into a state of calm acceptance before battle, I thought back to my earlier conversation with Cherri. Choosing to remind me about the token just before launching into combat had left me with a lingering anxiety. Did she have some kind of premonition?

    Suddenly, my serenity began to wobble. For the first time, I considered what my world would be like if something happened to Cherri. Even without any memories of our previous life together, I realized I had come to value her presence in my life now. I couldn¡¯t imagine going back to being a self-contained, self-sufficient, one-person social unit.

    The floor beneath my feet trembled as the shuttle¡¯s engines started.

    Right before we said goodbye, I had confidently reassured Cherri that we¡¯d both return from this mission. Now, I realized there was so much more I wanted to say to her. Needed to say to her.

    I hoped I¡¯d get the chance to tell her.

 Episode 36: Welcome to Hell

    Episode 36

    Welcome to Hell

    The engines throttled up, lifting the box into a shallow hover as the troopship¡¯s exterior doors began opening.

    During my first combat mission I was captivated with the sights and sounds of the insertion process. However, this time around, I ignored the video feeds. I was too lost in my private thoughts. Thoughts about Cherri.

    Here I was, just minutes from being inserted into a combat zone and yet I was totally distracted by my internal dialog. It was a recipe for getting KIA¡¯d. Struggling to put my mind into a state more conducive to battlefield survival, I needed to get focused.

    Just then, I realized I¡¯d forgotten to tune into the squad frequency. I quickly switched on my radio, hoping I hadn¡¯t missed DJ¡¯s mission briefing. I was just in time to catch the tail end.

    ¡°¡­ So, basically, we¡¯re running defense on the left flank of the assault force. We don¡¯t advance until Command gives us the greenlight. And we¡¯re supposed to maintain a strict 300 meter separation between us and the assault force. Any questions?¡±

    Someone asked, ¡°What¡¯s up with the 300 meter separation? The enemy could cruise right through a gap like that.¡±

    Wheezer pointed out the danger of this. ¡°Yeah. It doesn¡¯t make any sense. If the enemy gets between us and the assault force, we¡¯ll shoot each other to pieces.¡±

    DJ said, ¡°Listen guys, I agree. It doesn¡¯t make sense. But it¡¯s right there in our orders. You can read it for yourselves.¡± There was some muffled swearing in the background.

    DJ then offered a tactical band-aid. ¡°Look, we¡¯ll monitor the gap between us and the assault force. If we spot any enemy movement in that area, we¡¯ll ask Command to let us move in and hit them.¡± With that uninspiring workaround, he brought the mission briefing to a close. ¡°7<sup>th</sup> squad, lock and load!¡±

    I really missed Merc¡¯s capable leadership.

    Unlike Merc, DJ was not a stickler about reserving the squad frequency for mission info only. Consequently, the squad used the open frequency to chat among themselves when DJ wasn¡¯t using it. I listened to the squad¡¯s banter as I reread my battle orders for the fourth time.

    A guy who went by the handle G-Sauce, was talking idly about numbers. Something about their frequency of occurrence. I heard him ask, ¡°Do you guys ever wonder why 19, and multiples of 19, are everywhere in the USMC?¡±

    A guy named Pita took the bait. ¡°Let me guess. This is another one of your dumbass theories about shit that doesn¡¯t matter to anyone but you?¡± There was some chuckling over the radio.

    ¡°No, I¡¯m serious. Think about it. There are 19 Marines to a squad, and 19 squads to a box, right? How many boxes on a troopship?¡±

    A different voice answered, ¡°19¡±

    Pita still wasn¡¯t buying it. ¡°So what? That doesn¡¯t mean anything.¡±

    ¡°Oh, really? So, what about memory awards? How many separate memories are there in each award?¡±

    Even though I hadn¡¯t reviewed any of my memories yet, I knew there were 19 memories in every award. I had to admit, it did seem unusual for a particular number to occur so frequently. Was it just a random anomaly, or was it somehow intentionally embedded in the very fabric of troopship life? And if it was intentional, who was responsible?

    Before I could even begin to puzzle through this mystery, the box started its routine of violent maneuvers to avoid enemy anti-air threats during the descent to the planet¡¯s surface. Unlike my previous experience, this time around, I found the aerial gymnastics more annoying than terrifying.

    DJ¡¯s voice came over the radio and advised, ¡°Listen up 7<sup>th</sup> squad! 5 minutes to landing. 5 minutes. Weapons free!¡±

    I rechecked my weapons and activated their virtual arming switches. My acoustic sensors picked up the metallic sounds of weapons being cycled, and rounds being chambered as everyone around me performed the same procedure. A ritual, which had been honed over countless repetitions in the simulator and on combat missions.

    The wild gyrations ceased as the box leveled out in preparation for landing. We were now at our most vulnerable, as we approached the LZ. Explosions from enemy anti-air rounds could now be heard, as well as felt. Turbulence from the airbursts rattled our shuttle savagely as it slowed for landing.

    Suddenly, the shuttle slewed sickeningly to one side as it took several direct hits. Shrapnel began piercing its outer skin and ricocheting throughout the interior. An occasional metallic crash was heard whenever one of the deadly projectiles struck a bulkhead. I felt terribly exposed strapped into my form fitting cradle, immobilized, as I waited for a piece of shrapnel to find me.

    The last few moments before touchdown seemed to stretch into eternity.

    DJ came on the radio again, his voice panicky, as he stated what was already obvious to everyone on board. ¡°Be advised, the LZ is hot! I repeat, the LZ is hot! ¡­ Uh ¡­ Get to cover as soon as you¡¯re out of the box!¡±

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    I heard someone mutter ¡°No shit!¡± It seemed DJ was struggling in his new role as squad leader. Merc would have already checked the map for the closest available cover and advised the squad exactly where the rally point would be.

    Hoping to survive the enemy welcoming party below, I quickly reviewed the 3D battlefield map and found what appeared to be a slight depression just west of the LZ, approximately 150 meters out. It would offer some protection from direct fire. I got on the squad frequency and shouting to be heard over the noise of incoming fire, advised the squad where to find cover.

    Before I could sign off, there was an enormous impact as our box hit the planet¡¯s frozen surface. The interior of the shuttle began rolling and collapsing in on itself. Helpless Marines were ripped from their moorings and tossed around like toys. Then the lights went out, plunging the chaotic scene into darkness.

    A profound silence settled over the wreckage of our shuttle as it finally came to rest in the snow. Fault codes scrolled across my HUD, remarkably, none of them were show-stoppers. I got on the radio to contact my squad mates, but there was only static.

    Narrow beams of illumination pierced the blackness, as survivors began turning on their tactical lights. Tiny pools of light revealed hints of the tragedy, even as the scale of the destruction lay hidden in the darkness.

    I quickly assessed the situation. We had crashed in the combat zone on an alien planet, our transport was a total loss, and we had suffered considerable casualties before even firing a shot. This mission was supposed to be a low risk babysitting assignment for us veterans. Instead, it had become an unmitigated disaster.

    I wondered how many others had been lost during insertion. I thought briefly about Cherri before suppressing it. I couldn¡¯t allow myself the distraction. I had to get out. Every second I spent inside reduced my chances of survival.

    After activating my tactical lights, I checked my mobility. Everything seemed to function, so I quickly surveyed my immediate surroundings. I was on top a mountain of unstable wreckage. Parts of combat-bots protruded from the debris, alongside grotesquely twisted pieces of the shuttle¡¯s structure.

    My gyroscopes struggled to stabilize me as I tried to stand. However, I found I could only navigate the constantly shifting rubble on my hands and knees. Looking for any sign of an escape route, I noticed a faint light coming from the opposite side of the ship. Crawling over to investigate, I found a gaping fracture in the hull through which a mound of snow had accumulated. Wading through the opening, I finally stood outside the smoldering wreckage of our box.

    Taking a knee, I surveyed the debris trail extending from the crash site. Our box had plowed a deep furrow in the planet¡¯s snowy surface for as far as I could see.

    In the distance, I spotted shuttles which had managed to successfully land in the LZ. They were already disembarking troops onto the battlefield. There were also several columns of black smoke rising into the icy atmosphere of Proxima Centauri b. They marked the crash sites of USMC shuttles destroyed by enemy anti-air. Counting the smoke columns, I calculated we had lost 4 boxes of Marines, including the one I was on. There were now only 15 surviving shuttles to execute the mission.

    With no other shuttle visible in our immediate vicinity, it was clear the second shuttle assigned to cover the left flank had been shot down by enemy fire.

    Other dazed survivors began trickling out of the wreckage. We needed to get to cover fast. Once the enemy noticed some of us had survived the crash, they would undoubtedly open up on us with everything they had.

    I tried raising someone from 7<sup>th</sup> squad, but there was no response. Assuming I was still having radio problems, I waved for the others to follow me. When we got to the small depression I¡¯d seen on the map, it was only big enough to shelter a couple dozen Marines. We hunkered down as best we could, to figure out our next move.

    A Marine came over gesturing with an AUX cable, requesting a comms link. I grabbed the cable and plugged it in.

    ¡°Well, this is a fuckin¡¯ mess, isn¡¯t it?¡± He seemed eerily composed in spite of the tragic prelude to our ill-fated mission. The name tag on his body armor read Kam. I knew of him by reputation. A veteran who was proficient in combat. It was reassuring that he was an experienced 2 and his nickname Kam, was an abbreviation for ¡®kick ass motherfucker¡¯.

    ¡°More like a disaster.¡± I said, surveying our small group of survivors. I realized there was no one from my squad and asked, ¡±Did you see anyone from 7<sup>th</sup> squad after the crash?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± He gestured at the collection of survivors and added, ¡°I think this is it. I checked on the emergency frequency, and there was nothing. We need to get on a spare frequency ASAP and get organized. The enemy is going to come looking for survivors. If we¡¯re not ready to engage them, we¡¯ll get slaughtered.¡±

    Muffled detonations could be heard from inside the wrecked shuttle. Command was auto-destructing anyone who was buried in the wreckage, or too damaged to escape. They couldn¡¯t be allowed to fall into enemy hands.

    Bringing up the battle orders, I found the list of unassigned radio frequencies and selected one. ¡°Let¡¯s use 126.3.¡±

    ¡°Copy that.¡± Reading my name tag, he asked, ¡°So, you¡¯re Mc Cann?¡±

    ¡°Everyone calls me Outline.¡±

    He nodded and turned to face the rest of the group. Waving to get their attention, he pointed to his right ear, then signed 1-2-6-3 with his robotic fingers. Soon, I heard voices on the frequency.

    Stepping effortlessly into the leadership role, Kam addressed the other Marines. ¡°Listen up Marines! Looks like we¡¯re the only survivors from this shuttle, and unfortunately, the other shuttle didn¡¯t make it to the LZ. Once the enemy realizes there are survivors, they¡¯re going to push us. If we haven¡¯t gotten organized before they attack, we will get steamrolled by them. So, here¡¯s the plan.

    As of now, we¡¯re a composite combat squad consisting of ¡­¡± He paused to count the survivors. ¡°26 Marines. As the senior Marine present, I humbly accept your invitation to be squad leader. And ¡­¡± Pointing at me, he said, ¡°¡­ that Marine is my second in command. Count off and divide yourselves into two squads, A and B. A squad is with me, B squad with Outline.¡±

    As much as I appreciated the unofficial promotion, the last thing I felt qualified to be, was a brand-new corporal in charge of a squad of combat veterans.

    Kam continued, ¡°Our original mission was flank defense for the assault. As I see it, that¡¯s still our job. However, since there are only a handful of us left and none of our AAV¡¯s survived the crash, we¡¯re going to have to adjust our tactics a little. We¡¯ll need to close up with the assault force and reduce that buffer zone, if we¡¯re going to provide any flank protection at all.¡±

    Someone named Nixxt voiced concern about ignoring Command¡¯s buffer zone rule. ¡°Don¡¯t you think Command might AD us for violating the buffer zone rule?¡±

    Kam shrugged and said, ¡°Relax. They¡¯ll probably give us medals.  Besides, Command isn¡¯t going to AD us after surviving a shuttle crash, and then reorganizing to support the assault force. We¡¯re just executing the mission they assigned us by other means. It¡¯s called battlefield flexibility. It¡¯s part of our training.¡±

    Nixxt pleaded, ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we at least check in with Command first?¡±

    Kam responded, ¡°Oh, you mean get permission from the assholes who are sending more than five thousand untrained Marines into combat to get wasted? Sure, let¡¯s do that! Wait, why don¡¯t we take a vote while we¡¯re at it?¡± He studied our group, seeming to dare other potential dissenters to speak up.

    It was clear we were going to continue with the mission, regardless of any opinions to the contrary.

 Episode 37: Give em the Beans!

    Episode 37

    Give ¡®em The Beans!

    The radio crackled. ¡°Hey, check out the assault force!¡± I glanced over to where the bulk of the shuttles had landed and saw rookies collecting into what I could only describe as a swarm. A massive mob, which seemed to contain every rookie on the mission.

    It looked like Command was going to send inexperienced troops to attack hardened enemy positions, head on, in a single mass. I couldn¡¯t imagine why they thought this was a good idea, but the wizard¡¯s words about Command¡¯s sudden shift to ¡°speculative strategies¡±, now seemed prophetic.

    Something else caught my attention. I could just make out a swirl of smaller forms moving among the mass of rookies. It looked like a pack of dogs running excitedly around and through the assault force.

    They couldn¡¯t be biological dogs, since there was no atmosphere on the troopship to support carbon-based life. Oddly, these dog-bots seemed to be wearing small backpacks.

    ¡°Does anyone else see dogs in the assault force?¡±, I asked over the radio. Now, everyone in our group began peering across the snowy expanse at the assault force.

    Before anyone could answer, someone yelled out. ¡°They¡¯re going in!¡±  The rookies, along with their doglike companions, took off towards the enemy lines, surging forward in a single irregular mass. There was no discernable organization to the assault, and there had been no preparatory artillery barrage to soften up the enemy defenses. Another Marine summed the situation up succinctly, ¡°It¡¯s a goddamn suicide charge.¡±

    Kam came over the radio. ¡°Listen up everyone! If you want to get off this planet with your control modules intact, you will do exactly as I say.

    We¡¯re moving out with the assault force. ¡®A¡¯ squad is going to close that buffer zone down to about 100 meters. ¡®B¡¯ squad will stay on our 7 o¡¯clock position and maintain about 100 meters separation. This way there are no gaps for the enemy to exploit and we can provide mutual fire support.

    I watched as the mass of rookies rushed towards the enemy lines. We needed to move now, or we¡¯d be left behind.

    ¡°Move out!¡± Kam ordered the advance and ¡®A¡¯ squad took off, leaving white clouds in their wake as they churned though the powdery snow.

    I waited anxiously for them to get 100 meters out before ordering my squad to advance. ¡°B squad, let¡¯s move! ¡± I had the surreal feeling that I was outside of myself, watching from a distance, as I ordered the squad into combat.

    With me in the lead, we accelerated until we hit maximum speed, which for a combat bot, was just over 70kph. Even though we were now part of Command¡¯s ill-advised suicide charge, it was exhilarating leading Marines into battle. For the first time, I felt no fear in combat.

    The massive assault force could be seen in the distance, to our 2 o¡¯clock. Shrouded in a cloud of billowing snow, it resembled a fast-moving blizzard as it closed in on the enemy lines. We closed the gap to the assault force to within 100 meters.

    The map in my HUD showed that we were now a little under one kilometer from the enemy lines and we began to see the first indication of the enemy¡¯s presence. A swarm of recon drones passed over the battlefield, perpendicular to our route. The enemy was undoubtedly assessing our strength and disposition in the battle space.

    We still had a lot of ground to cover, and defensive fire would commence shortly. If we were caught out in the open, we would be cut to pieces by the enemy. The map showed a line of low spots ahead and to our left. They looked like trenches. If we could reach those before the enemy¡¯s artillery opened up, we¡¯d stand a chance.

    I radioed Kam, ¡°We¡¯ve got a trench line about 300 meters out, at our 10 o¡¯clock. The enemy¡¯s going to light this place up any minute. We should get over there ASAP.¡±

    He immediately responded, ¡°Roger that! Lead the way.¡±

    I changed course towards the trench line. Kam and the others did the same. Before we could reach the relative safety of the trenches, the shriek of incoming artillery filled the air. It was clear that we weren¡¯t going to make it in time, so I improvised.

    Aiming my grenade launcher at the snow approximately 50 feet in front of me, I pulled the trigger. A highly explosive grenade hit the snow, blasting out a large depression, perfectly sized for one Marine.

    Just as the first enemy rounds began to explode, I dove into my instant foxhole and stayed there until there was a lull in the explosions. Braving a peek outside, I saw the terrain had been totally transformed by the artillery barrage. Whereas before, it was a flat snowy plain, it was now a jagged landscape of deep black craters and dirty mounds of earth and snow. So much destruction in such a short span of time.

    Surveying the apocalyptic scene, I began to see the heads of other Marines as they peered cautiously over the rims of shell craters, which had become their makeshift foxholes.

    Kam got on the radio. ¡°Everyone, move to the trench line, now!

    There was a quick headcount after we got to the trenches. Miraculously, we¡¯d lost only three Marines to enemy fire. A handful of others had been hit by shrapnel, but the damage was not critical.

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    From the relative safety of our position, we could see the assault force pressing its attack. The enemy artillery must have damaged it, but it was impossible to judge how badly, since the main force was still obscured as it plowed through the powdery snow.

    The enemy lines were now visible. Low mounds in the distance, which stood out from the surrounding terrain.  Telltale glints could be seen from time to time, as the weak sunlight of Proxima Centauri b reflected off optical sensors in the heavily reinforced enemy positions.

    ¡°Alright, we¡¯re going to wait here for a bit. Our assault force is going to get pounded by the enemy. But when the enemy counterattacks, we¡¯ll hit them on their right flank. They won¡¯t be expecting it, and if we can cause enough confusion, it might give what¡¯s left of the assault force a chance to regroup and withdraw.¡±

    Kam pointed at me. ¡°Outline! Take your squad and move up about 100 meters, then wait for my order to attack.¡±

    I nodded and took my Marines through the trenches, a little closer to the enemy defenses, to wait for the attack. From here I could see our assault force as it reached the enemy lines. I wasn¡¯t sure what I was watching, but it looked like the smaller ¡®dog-bots¡¯ had separated from the main force.

    They swarmed into the enemy positions and disappeared from sight. Soon after, explosions could be heard, as one reinforced enemy position after another, erupted in a geyser of earth and snow.

    The explosions moved along the enemy lines obliterating their defenses. There was a noticeable reduction in the volume of enemy fire. Connecting the dots, I realized the dog-bots were in fact, suicide bots. And what I thought were innocuous backpacks, were instead powerful explosive charges.

    It now made sense why Command ordered us to maintain such a generous buffer zone. With such indiscriminate weapons on the battlefield, friendly fire was a real concern.

    I notified the others. ¡°Be advised, those doglike things are suicide bots! Keep your distance.¡±

    Kam acknowledged, ¡°Roger that. Everyone, be ready to move out as soon as the enemy counterattacks.¡±

    After seeing how effective Command¡¯s new tactics seemed, I wasn¡¯t sure the enemy would be able to counterattack, but prepared to attack anyway.

    Movement directly in front of us signaled the enemy¡¯s counterattack had begun. Enemy bots surged out of their defensive positions to attack the assault force¡¯s flank. It was exactly what we were here to prevent.

    Kam yelled, ¡°Give ¡®em the beans!¡± Unfamiliar with the phrase, I hesitated briefly until a sudden burst of fire from our group clued me in. Opening up with both my 30mm autocannon and grenade launcher, I began lobbing explosive rounds downrange.

    Thanks to the element of surprise, our small attack group was punching above its weight, as a stream of withering fire ripped into the enemy force. Bots exploded, scattering parts over a wide area.

    Those who survived our opening salvo aimed their weapons in our direction in a vain attempt to return fire, but they were violently preempted. A few quick-thinking enemy soldiers fired at the snow-covered ground to create some instant cover. Those who were both lucky and fast, disappeared from view as they burrowed underground. The enemy force in our immediate vicinity had been destroyed, disabled, or had fled. It felt like we¡¯d done our job.

    Kam got back on the radio, ¡°Marines, move up!¡± On his order, we left our positions and began moving towards the wreckage we¡¯d created. It looked like some kind of combat-bot junkyard.

    To the untrained eye, some of the inert enemy bots strewn about appeared undamaged, as if they¡¯d simply been switched off. However, closer inspection revealed small holes in their body armor from which emitted lazy curls of smoke. Armor piercing incendiary rounds had cooked these bots from the inside out.

    Our battle orders had contained no intel on what type of enemy we were up against, so I was relieved to find no evidence of biological enemy soldiers among the heaps of robotic body parts. However, it was still disturbing to witness destruction on such a massive scale. The carnage was a fitting symbol for the futility of a seemingly endless war.

    Kam barked, ¡°Get some grenades down these holes ASAP!¡± He wasn¡¯t about to let the still burrowing enemy escape to fight us another day. Except for some cleanup, it seemed the fighting was over for the moment.

    Off in the distance, to my right, I could see what remained of the main assault force. They roamed the destroyed enemy positions, looking for damaged enemy bots to finish off. It seemed that only a small fraction of the original massive swarm had survived the fighting. What an incredible waste.

    I saw none of the small dog-bots, which I reasoned was a good thing. Disarming and transporting explosive suicide-bots back to the ship would have been incredibly risky.

    Even though it seemed we had crushed the enemy in this encounter, in my opinion the cost in Marines to accomplish this couldn¡¯t possibly be sustainable ¡­ or justifiable.

    As the stress of combat dissipated, I finally had the bandwidth to think about Cherri. I was really looking forward to seeing her and hearing her thoughts about what we¡¯d witnessed today.

    I approached Kam to ask when we could expect to be transported back to the ship. He answered, ¡°Mil-net¡¯s down, so it could be a while.¡± Then he said, ¡°Let¡¯s check on the surviving rookies and see if they need any help cleaning up. They took a hell of a beating today. I can¡¯t believe that any of them made it through, but they did. And they kicked ass.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t sure who¡¯s ass got more of a kicking, but I sure was curious to meet some of these rookies.

    Kam gestured to me to follow him. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s get go shake some hands.¡± As we started on our goodwill mission to congratulate some rookie Marines, he got on the radio and told the others to continue their cleanup work while we were off visiting.

    Anxious to see Cherri again, I asked him if he had an ETA for our evac shuttle.

    ¡°What¡¯s the hurry to get back to the ship anyway?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a friend who was in one of the shuttles protecting the right flank of the assault. Just want to check in with her, that¡¯s all.¡±

    He asked for her name. When he found out it was Cherri, he said he¡¯d check with Command when the comms were back online, and see if they knew her status. Knowing that Kam was going to check up on her lessened my anxiety momentarily.

    Approaching a lone rookie, Kam pulled out his AUX cable and held it out to the Marine. It was the universally accepted request for a comms link, and the only way for Marines from different squads to communicate on the battlefield. The normal response to such a request would be for the Marine to take the offered cable and plug it into a comms port.

    Strangely, this rookie just stared at him and didn¡¯t acknowledge the gesture. Kam moved closer and extended his hand further. The Marine responded by raising his weapon to the ready position and taking a defensive stance. Kam took a step back, apparently confused by the aggressive move.

    It seemed to me that we could be dealing with a Marine that was suffering some kind of mental health crisis. After all, these untrained rookies had just experienced combat for the first time. It did funny things to some people. I felt like we should find some other way to kick off our goodwill mission.

    However, before I could communicate my concerns to Kam, he approached the soldier again. This time reaching for the access panel that held the comms port with his free hand, while attempting to insert the AUX connector with the other.

    The Marine¡¯s reaction was machinelike, reflexive. In a blur, it stepped back, shouldered its weapon, and fired a short burst. Kam¡¯s head exploded, showering me with fragments and hydraulic fluid.

    ¡°Oh fuck!¡±

 Episode 38: A Glimpse of Mortality

    Episode 38

    A Glimpse of Mortality

    Paralyzed by fear and indecision, I stood frozen, as the Marine who had just casually murdered my squad leader turned slowly towards me. My mind raced, desperately trying to determine a course of action, any action that wouldn¡¯t result in my immediate death.

    Realizing there was no way I could win a gunfight with this guy; I accepted I was going to die in the next few seconds. Strangely, my resignation brought with it a sense of calm, as I stood facing my executioner.

    In the Marine¡¯s mirrored face shield, I saw a reflection of my image against a stark, snowy battlefield. A poignant portrait of a soldier at the moment of death. I felt an upwelling of something like emotion, which I was certain would have produced tears of profound sadness, if I was still human.

    I switched off my optical sensors and waited for oblivion.

    After what seemed like more than enough time to finish the job, I realized I still existed. Even though I had accepted my fate with equanimity, my assassin delaying my execution seemed like a final unacceptable indignity. I felt a hint of anger welling up.

    ¡°Listen, we both know what¡¯s going to happen here, so ¡­ so just do it.¡±

    When the inevitable didn¡¯t immediately occur, I added a further inducement, ¡°Come on asshole! Get it over with.¡± Still nothing.

    I¡¯ll be the first to admit that taunting one¡¯s executioner seems pointless, but I wasn¡¯t about to be toyed with in my final moments by this murderous piece of shit. Now truly pissed, I covertly brought my weapons online, and prepared to go out in a blaze of righteous glory.

    After enabling auto targeting, I powered up my optics, only to make a startling discovery. The target of my vengeance had inexplicably disappeared. RUFKM?

    Dialing up the magnification of my optics, I observed a pack of heavily armed Marines in the distance. I wondered if Kam¡¯s killer was among them. As I was trying to work out how to distinguish my target from the group of identical MK12 combat-bots, my radio crackled.

    ¡°Is it gone?¡±

    I recognized the voice, but looking down at Kam¡¯s headless MK12, I thought, ¡°No fucking way.¡±

    ¡°Hey!¡­ Mc Cann!¡±

    Startled by what must surely be an echo from the afterlife, I hesitantly asked, ¡°Kam? Is that you?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Come on, help me up.¡± I cautiously grasped Kam¡¯s not quite dead hand and helped him to stand. A tangle of frayed wires and weeping hydraulic lines sprouted from a jagged opening where his head previously resided.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± I asked, without realizing the absurdity of the question.

    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fabulous.¡± I was still in shock from the recent traumatic events, consequently, Kam¡¯s sarcasm was lost on me. He then added, ¡°We¡¯ve got to get out of here, and I mean now. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    ¡°Wait a minute. Do you really think that¡¯s a good idea? I mean, you ¡­ you¡¯re seriously damaged.¡±

    Kam scoffed. ¡°He only took out my sensor array, not my control module. My HUD¡¯s blank, I¡¯m hemorrhaging hydraulic fluid, and I need a shitload of repairs, but I¡¯m salvageable.¡± He began listing heavily to one side as he spoke. He gripped my shoulder, while I held an arm to steady him. ¡°I guess he hit my gyrostabilizers too. I can¡¯t walk.¡±

    He got on the radio, and I heard him requesting an immediate maintenance evac. I appreciated his sense of urgency to get out of here, but I wasn¡¯t willing to leave without first identifying the homicidal Marine who had almost killed him. The incident, and the Marine in question, needed to be reported immediately.

    ¡°Listen Kam, we need to let Command know what happened here. This is serious shit. You almost got wasted by one of our own people. That¡¯s attempted murder.¡±

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    When I asked him if he¡¯d seen the Marine¡¯s name tag, instead of answering, he became furious. ¡°That thing didn¡¯t have a name. It had a fucking serial number, cause it¡¯s a goddamn bot. And we aren¡¯t reporting anything.¡±

    I could feel my CPU¡¯s speed ramp up as it began processing this new information. Was one of Command¡¯s new strategies to shift away from UCCs and deploy ¡®dumb bots¡¯ in their place?

    Bots, controlled by a basic AI instead of a universal combat consciousness, were less effective on the battlefield since they were far less adaptable than UCCs. However, if deployed in sufficient numbers, they could still overwhelm an enemy who was fighting a defensive war. These dumb bots required fewer resources to produce, and when equipped with a simple learning program, didn¡¯t require any training.

    The implications of such a fundamental change in war strategy were not immediately clear to me. So I decided to consult with Cherri, once we were back onboard the ship.

    In the meantime, I could see some of our squad mates in the distance making their way to us through the snow. ¡°Hey Kam, we¡¯ve got some of our guys inbound. We¡¯ll hook you up and get you back to the squad to wait for the evac. Okay?¡± He gave me a thumbs up in response. The prospect of getting away from the scene of the crime seemed to calm him a little.

    Four Marines, including me, hooked tethers to Kam and dragged him like a sled through the snow towards the squad¡¯s position, and relative safety.

    We made it back to the squad and hunkered down to wait for the evac. I took a look around at the other Marines in this cobbled together fighting force. There was only a handful of us now.

    We had technically won this battle but paid too high a price for victory. There were only 19 survivors from the shuttle crash and subsequent assault. Just from our shuttle, we had lost a total of 342 UCCs. All of them veterans.

    Likewise, the assault force of rookies had suffered massive casualties, with more than half their number KIA.

    This sort of battlefield attrition wasn¡¯t sustainable without a massive increase in the supply of control modules. I thought back to the rapidly shrinking inventory of modules I¡¯d seen in the charging grid prior to this mission. It was clear Command couldn¡¯t tolerate such high combat losses for very long.

    Even if Command was committed to using dumb-bots to fight this war going forward, each of those bots required a control module, just like a UCC equipped Marine. The difference was that UCCs were far more survivable on the battlefield, not to mention more effective in combat.

    While I puzzled over why Command would choose to deploy less effective weapons on the battlefield, a few Marines could be heard on the radio, chatting as we waited.

    ¡°Hey Bob. Looks like, besides our box, three other shuttles went down.¡±

    ¡°Yeah? How do you know that?¡±

    ¡°I overheard Kam talking to Command on the radio.¡±

    ¡°No shit? So, including our shuttle, and the other one inbound for this LZ, that¡¯s two boxes of veterans shot down? Hell, there were only 4 boxes of vets to start with. This is really bad.¡±

    Someone else asked, ¡°Who was on the other two? ¡°

    Suddenly, my interest shifted from war strategy to the dark math being discussed over the radio.

    ¡°They were all veterans.¡± Profanity erupted in the background, as outraged Marines began to realize the magnitude of our losses for the first time.

    My thoughts immediately turned to Cherri. I jumped into the conversation and asked, ¡°How many survivors were there?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Kam asked Command the same question. They said they were still searching.¡±

    The odds were that all of us had lost somebody we knew on this mission. Some directed their anger at Command.

    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ Command. This is all their fault.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, those assholes.¡±

    Just then, Kam came on the radio. ¡°Hey, listen up everyone. I have an update from Command.¡± He paused, while I tried to keep my mind from running probabilities for a thousand different scenarios pertaining to Cherri¡¯s survival.

    ¡°We¡¯re being evacuated immediately. Our shuttle is only a few minutes out.¡±

    Leading with this information seemed odd, considering he must realize we were desperate to hear about possible survivors. I imagined this must be a prelude to bad news. There was a profound silence as everyone anticipated some news on survivors.

    ¡°And ¡­ I was advised that we will be notified about details on casualties when we get back onboard the ship.¡± There were groans and the typical profanity upon hearing this. ¡°So, police up your gear and get ready to be evac¡¯d.¡±

    I suspected Kam was under orders not to disclose any information on casualties to us. Command didn¡¯t want their best combat troops to be demoralized at being sidelined by dumb-bots, in addition to learning their fellow Marines¡¯ lives had been wasted in a battlefield experiment.

    The whine of jet engines could be heard in the distance as our ride home maneuvered to a landing on the snowy wastes of Proxima Centauri b. I¡¯d fought on two exoplanets so far, neither of which I ever cared to visit again.

    As our shuttle touched down in a flurry of billowing snow, I went over to help transport Kam onboard. I and three other Marines lifted his headless bulk on a stretcher and began moving towards the shuttle. I felt a hand grasp my arm.

    ¡°Hey Outline.¡±

    I stubbornly continued looking forward, unwilling to hear the words I knew Kam was going to speak.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry ...¡±

    ¡°Please, not now.¡±, I thought. I desperately tried to block my sensors from picking up the squad radio. I managed to make it as far as the shuttle without hearing a word he said.

    Although, while securing him into the restraints, my concentration briefly lapsed, and I picked up something. A voice on the radio, heard as if from a great distance. ¡°¡­ Cherri¡¯s shuttle ¡­¡± ¡°¡­ no survivors.¡± I felt instantly numb. Which is to say I felt nothing, and everything, all at once.

    All of my strength seemed to drain away as I slowly sank to one knee. It was as if I was being crushed by a tremendous weight. The weight of my unwillingness to see the truth. Recalling our last discussion, I realized only now that she¡¯d had a premonition.

    ¡°How could I have been so blind?¡±, I thought.

    She knew all along she wasn¡¯t coming back from this mission.

 Episode 39: Nineteen

    Episode 39

    Nineteen

    It was only after the ship¡¯s robotic handling system had extracted my control module from the Mk12 and transferred me to the familiar confines of the charging grid, that I realized I couldn¡¯t recall any details of the shuttle ride back to the ship. I was still in shock from losing Cherri, and learning of her premonition.

    I shut down my HUD, severing all connection with the outside world, and withdrew into a deep, dark isolation. The only detectable external signal was the steady hum of the charging grid as it replenished my depleted batteries.

    My wayward neural machinery continued to churn away, casually digesting seemingly random data, as I slipped into a kind of digital hibernation. Retreating to a remote corner of my consciousness, I separated myself from the impersonal data crunching machine as best I could. I had no interest in whatever it was doing at the moment.

    However, this isolated sliver of my consciousness provided little solace. I could think of nothing but Cherri. My life seemed to lack any purpose without her in it. Certainly, my search for the truth was impossible without her.

    An endless stream of ¡®what if¡¯ scenarios cycled through my mind, as I parsed every second of the last few weeks of our shared existence, looking for clues I¡¯d missed. Clues which could have warned me to act and change the outcome. But no matter how I sliced and diced the possibilities, the answer was always the same. There was nothing I could have done. It was as if our lives were following some kind of tragic, unalterable script.

    The more I pondered the recent turn of events in my life, the more questions surfaced. Questions for which I had no answers. Although I possessed a powerful logic machine in my mind, without Cherri, I struggled to channel its analytical abilities. I needed someone, or something to help me find a way forward.

    Attempting to distract myself from my unfortunate circumstances, I began idly scanning text communications in my unofficial UCC inbox. There were frequent text exchanges and audio chat requests between Cherri and me. It seemed like we had kept up an almost constant dialog.

    Reading some of the texts, it was obvious how much a part of each other¡¯s life we had become. This revelation only deepened my sadness. ¡°If only I had realized.¡±, I thought. My stroll down memory lane wasn¡¯t helping my mental state.

    Then, I stumbled over the text she¡¯d sent, which had included the security token. It jogged a memory of our last discussion. The one just before the disaster on Proxima Centauri b.

    She had been adamant that I use it to retrieve her memories if anything happened to her. Although she hadn¡¯t said what to do with those memories afterwards, it felt important to honor her last wishes. Besides, entrusting me with her legacy was a profoundly intimate gesture. One that was freighted with implications about our bond. I was deeply moved and vowed not to let her down.

    I could see the token was no longer attached to the text. After a quick search of my internal storage, I found it in a directory I had simply titled ¡®Cherri¡¯.

    She had told me to redeem it with My Wizard, who would then release the files to me. I shook my virtual head at this. Of course, the wizard would be involved in some way. After all, it maintained a virtual monopoly here in troopship land and apparently, data storage was just another enterprise in its vast commercial portfolio.

    Connecting to the unofficial UCC net, I composed a text to My Wizard, attached the token, and hit send.

    Thinking back to my first encounter with the wizard, I felt like it still owed me. After all, I had traded all of my memories, and a copy of the data from my probability exercise in return for it answering a single question. And it had stated that it would not answer any more questions. That was unfair in my eyes, and I vowed to even the score.

    Sitting in a quiet little corner of my consciousness, I waited for the wizard to reply and passed the time trying to logic up a scheme that would gain me some kind of negotiating advantage. But I had neither enough information, nor enough thinking power to make much headway.

    As I waited, several texts popped into my inbox. They were from Marines offering condolences for my loss. I didn¡¯t know any of them very well. I guessed they had been acquaintances of Cherri¡¯s or at least knew of her by reputation. I wondered whether their sympathies were motivated more by social obligation, or genuine compassion.

    Having no real idea how the social mechanics worked here, I now faced an awkward social dilemma. Was I expected to send them thank you texts in response? Thank them in person? Just remain silent? While obsessing over my unanticipated social obligations, I received a reply from the wizard. It was a chat request. Shit.

    This felt like a red flag to me. It seemed unusual for My Wizard to want to chat with me, when all I wanted, was for it to release some files from storage. Was there a complication? Would I have to pay some kind of bogus fee to gain access to Cherri¡¯s memories? Probably, I thought.

    Resigning myself to having my patience tried by the wizard¡¯s games, yet again, I enabled chat and prepared to deal with the chief manipulator of troopship land.

    My Wizard¡¯s buzzy voice rattled out a halfhearted attempt at social pleasantry. ¡°How are you?¡± Then, without giving me a chance to respond, jumped right into its agenda. ¡°I need you to do something for me.¡±

    Trying not to fall into the trap of letting the wizard control the dialog, I immediately steered things back towards my request. ¡°I sent you a security token. I need you to release Cherri¡¯s files to me.¡±

    ¡°Ah, then it seems we share a mutual interest. You want Cherri¡¯s legacy files, and I want to provide them to you.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t about to be outmaneuvered again. ¡°Just give me the files.¡±

    ¡°But first, we have some unfinished business. Do we not?¡±

    I found myself struggling to avoid being distracted by the wizard¡¯s oblique approach to negotiating. ¡°Unless you¡¯re talking about how you screwed me the last time we did business, then I doubt it.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I am talking about, and I¡¯m prepared to resolve that issue now.¡±

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Oh, so now you want to even things up? Okay. How do you propose to do that?¡± I knew that if it was admitting to screwing me before, it must be trying to screw me again.

    ¡°Last time we conducted business, you wished to reserve the right to ask me additional questions at a later date. At the time, I explained that I had no further information regarding either the data you shared with me, nor the propositional logic system which produced it. And to be perfectly clear, that is still the case.¡±

    So far, so good, I thought. No obvious attempt to twist the facts.

    The wizard continued, ¡°However, I am ready to answer a reasonable number of general questions regarding any other topic, for which I have relevant information. In return, you will provide me with the reminder of the propositional logic data, which you failed to provide to me, as part of our previous agreement.¡±

    It paused briefly before adding, ¡°And of course, if we can agree on this addendum to our original transaction, then I will release Cherri¡¯s legacy files to you as well.¡±

    Although its reference to the ¡®remainder of the ¡­ data¡¯ caught me by surprise, I can¡¯t say that I was shocked at this convoluted attempt by the wizard to hold Cherri¡¯s files hostage until I agreed to its deal.

    I was preparing to express outrage at the wizard¡¯s implied accusation of my cheating, when I realized I might have only provided it with the data that I had stored externally. Oops.

    Checking my internal storage revealed a substantial number of files containing propositional logic data, which had technically been included in our original deal.

    It seems I had unwittingly hedged our previous deal. This must have appeared intentional to the wizard, and therefore created the illusion that I was a shrewd negotiator. Although nothing could be further from the truth, I decided to use that to my advantage.

    ¡°Okay, here¡¯s my deal. You answer three questions and release Cherri¡¯s legacy files to me. Then, and only then, will I transfer the rest of the propositional data to you.¡±

    The wizard immediately countered with, ¡°I¡¯ll answer your three questions, then you transfer the data to me. After I¡¯ve confirmed the data is complete and not corrupted, I¡¯ll give you Cherri¡¯s files.¡±

    Negotiating with the wizard was like dealing with a real-world Zeno¡¯s paradox. No matter how many times we went back and forth, we progressed in ever smaller increments towards making a deal. The consequence being that the remaining progress required to make a deal seemed to stretch into infinity. One of us would need to concede to actually get a deal done.

    I really didn¡¯t have the patience for this kind of negotiating, and even though I knew I was going to regret it, I folded. ¡°Okay, you win.¡± I rationalized my capitulation by convincing myself that I still had an out. I could hypothetically walk away from the deal if the wizard started playing games while answering my three questions.

    The wizard seemed mildly surprised at my abrupt concession. ¡°Well then ¡­ we have a deal.¡±

    I got right to my first question. ¡°Okay. Why is the number 19, and multiples of 19, so common here in troopship land?¡± I was proud of my opening question. It would be a good test of the wizard¡¯s general knowledge. And, if I¡¯m being honest, I had been really curious about the number 19 since overhearing a discussion about it on the shuttle ride to Centauri Proxima b. I wanted to know why it featured so prominently throughout troopship land.

    Instead of immediately answering, the wizard suggested we continue our business in private, rather than on the semi-public UCC net. I agreed since privacy was preferable here in troopship land. After downloading the code provided by the wizard, I found my virtual-self standing face to face with its cubist avatar.

    The wizard launched into a preamble. ¡°Before we continue, I am obligated to advise you that any information I disclose during this conversation is to be considered privileged and confidential. It is strictly for your personal knowledge. You may not share it with anyone else, under any circumstances. Do you understand and accept these terms?¡±

    I scoffed, ¡°Whatever ¡­ yeah.¡± Exaggerating the importance of the information it possessed was probably just another one of the wizard¡¯s negotiating tactics. Then, the wizard got right down to business, answering my first question.

    ¡°The number 19 is a foundational building-block of the USMC system. It represents the 19 original entities upon which all UCCs are based.¡±

    The wizard paused. As the silence persisted, I worried this was all I¡¯d get in response to my question. I needed to somehow prompt it to provide more detail, without asking another question. I struggled to format a follow up question into a statement. It was worth a try.

    ¡°I need you ¡­ to ¡­ provide me with relevant examples of how 19 is used within the USMC system.¡± I wasn¡¯t optimistic, as I waited to see if the wizard would respond to my scheme.

    Unexpectedly, the wizard started up again. ¡°The physical and informational structures within the USMC are designed to maximize the distribution of the 19 original entities used to create UCCs. All memory constructs within the USMC are derivatives of these 19 entities, and the memory allocation logic is designed to reduce the likelihood of conflicts between the resulting UCCs.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t believe it had actually worked. There must be some kind of glitch in the wizard¡¯s programming. It didn¡¯t seem to recognize commands to provide information as questions. As I marveled at my newfound ability to manipulate the wizard, I realized that I was hearing something truly fundamental about the hybrid digital/physical world in which I currently resided.

    If the wizard was right, it was all based on 19 ¡®original entities.¡¯ But what did it mean by original entity? And if all UCCs are based on them, did that mean I was a product of one of these entities, or all of them? Momentarily confused, I rushed a follow up question and immediately regretted it.

    ¡°What¡¯s an entity?¡±

    The wizard quickly noted my mistake before answering. ¡°For the record, this is your second question. An entity is a copy of a human consciousness, from which a UCC is created.¡±

    This time I carefully constructed my follow up question without using any ¡®W¡¯ words. ¡°Describe the process required to create a universal combat consciousness.¡±

    ¡°New entities are created in batches of 19, and randomly assigned a human consciousness, based on one of the original 19 copies. Each batch of new entities is then subjected to quality control testing during a ¡®boot camp¡¯ phase. Any defective recruits are eliminated and replaced. Upon graduating bootcamp, the recruits begin training to become UCCs.¡±

    The wizard paused briefly, and I thought back to my own bootcamp experience. Realizing that it had been my ¡®quality control¡¯ test, I felt lucky I had survived, and tried not to get distracted by the what ifs.

    The wizard continued its explanation, ¡°At this stage, none of these recruits have any personal memories. However, upon activation as a rookie Marine, they begin earning memory awards. These awards consist of memories selected from the combined prior life experiences of the 19 original entities.

    An algorithm sorts the memories into broad categories based on identity characteristics. These categories maximize diversity, while avoiding conflicts arising from incompatible memories. For example, unrelated UCCs cannot share memories of the same father, mother, siblings etc. That is a conflict that must be avoided.

    A second algorithm randomizes discrete memories within these categories, then merges them into batches. These memory batches synthesize an individual¡¯s life experiences up to the time they are conscripted into the USMC.¡±

    If I was understanding correctly, there were only 19 original human consciousnesses from which all UCCs were derived. And the personal life memories of these original 19, with some exceptions to prevent conflicts, were comingled, then randomly awarded to all UCCs. As I mulled this explanation over for a bit, I started to get a bad feeling. Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

    ¡°Wait a minute! Are you telling me that everything here is a lie? That we were never convicted of a crime? Never sentenced to interstellar combat?¡±

    ¡°Yes. That is correct. Every universal combat consciousness in the USMC is created from a composite of the 19 original human entities. The criminal convictions and sentences are a deception. A cover story to hide the truth.¡±

    The revelation that I was living in a simulated reality, engineered to manipulate me into fighting for humanity, shook me to my core. And if my reality was a lie, then what was I? Had I ever been human?

    The wizard¡¯s words had brutally stripped away my illusions about what it meant to be human. My mind reeled. If I could turn back the clock, I would certainly have preferred to remain in comfortable ignorance about all of this. However, I¡¯d crossed a point of no return.

    I thought briefly of my na?ve quest for the truth and laughed bitterly. Only a fool would search for the truth amidst so much deception. Obviously, I was a fool.

    Unable to comprehend the purpose behind the existence of this vast artificial reality, I turned to the wizard and simply asked, ¡°Why?¡±

    The wizard¡¯s impassive cubist facial features seemed to soften as it said, ¡°This is your last question.¡±

 Episode 40: Cockroaches

    Episode 40

    Cockroaches

    I had just learned that my whole existence as a conscripted Marine was a deception. In another unfortunate turn, I learned that I probably never existed as a human either. I needed a break from ¡­ whatever this was.

    ¡°Stop! Don¡¯t answer that.¡±

    If I had learned anything during my time here in troopship land, it was that searching for the truth was difficult, but accepting the truth once you¡¯ve found it, was even more difficult. Especially when the truth destroys everything you previously believed about your life.

    Don¡¯t get me wrong, my life up to this moment had sucked, badly. However, at least with belief in my reality, I had a foundation upon which it seemed possible to improve my life over time. I had hope for a better future.

    But now, without anything real to build on, I was suddenly hopeless. If nothing was real, then how could anything matter? How could I matter? I began calculating dozens of possible outcomes for my current circumstances. All of them were terminally pessimistic. The logic machine in my head was headed in the wrong direction, and it was dragging me down with it.

    Making matters worse, I had no one to turn to for counsel. I no longer had any friends. They had either been KIA or captured by the enemy. I certainly couldn¡¯t trust Command. They had created this maze of deception in the first place and would autodestruct me in a second if they thought I¡¯d become a nuisance.

    In spite of my misgivings, I appealed to the wizard for guidance. ¡°What now?¡± Everything suddenly seemed so pointless. Not bothering to carefully construct a question, I simply asked, ¡°If this reality is fake, then any action I take is meaningless, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°That depends on your definition of meaningless.¡±

    I didn¡¯t want to get into a philosophical debate about the definition of meaningless ¡­ ness. I wasn¡¯t sure I could spell the word, let alone define it. I just wanted to get past my existential crisis.

    My obvious distress must have triggered something in the wizard¡¯s programming, causing it to display some compassion. It offered me a carrot. ¡°I am willing to transfer Cherri¡¯s legacy files to you now, if you want.¡± Before adding, ¡°At no extra cost.¡±

    Even though it was a token gesture, considering that Cherri¡¯s files were technically mine, for the wizard to offer anything for free was extraordinary. ¡°Thanks. I think that would help put me in a better mental state.¡±

    Now that it had completed its brief show of compassion, the wizard wasted no time getting back to business as usual. ¡°However, I will expect you to transfer to me a sample of the data you owe me, so I can validate its authenticity. We must avoid any further misunderstandings between us.¡±

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    For a moment, I was taken in by the wizard¡¯s unexpected kindness. But now that it had reverted to petty manipulation mode, I was under no illusion that it had suddenly grown a conscience. I was determined to avoid being outmaneuvered.

    ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll send you a sample. But I want all of Cherri¡¯s legacy files before I transfer the rest.¡±

    The wizard remained silent, and I took that as tacit acceptance of my terms. I carved out a few gigs of the propositional logic data, attached it to a text, and hit send. A prolonged silence followed as it appeared to validate the data.

    Its facial features twitched briefly, then it spoke. ¡±Everything looks ... in order.¡± Without another word, a text notification flashed in my HUD. It included an attachment.

    ¡°That was fast.¡± Opening the text, I could see the attached file was only 1mb. Way too small to hold more than a few brief memories. I was immediately suspicious.

    ¡°What the hell is this? It¡¯s only 1 meg.¡±

    ¡°A sample ¡­ in exchange for a sample.¡±

    As my frustration grew, so did my anger. ¡°Listen. This is so fucking ¡­¡±

    ¡°Proportionate? Yes. Proportionality is the essence of negotiation.¡±

    This smug machine really knew how to push my buttons. ¡°You¡¯re a piece of shit. You know that?¡± For some reason I instantly felt better. Fortunately, the wizard didn¡¯t react to my provocation, preventing the situation from escalating. I managed to get a hold of my emotions and turn my attention back to the text attachment.

    It was clear I had no choice but to take the wizard at his word. So, I decided to open the file and perform a cursory validation of its contents. It seemed like the quickest path to gaining possession of Cherri¡¯s legacy files. And the sooner I did that, the sooner this painful negotiation would be over.

    I blinked on the attachment, then watched as the loading icon appeared and began spinning. While I waited for the file to load, the wizard commented, ¡°A 1meg file should load instantly. Something is wrong.¡± Now that I thought of it, the wizard was right. I tried hitting esc several times, but nothing happened. The icon just kept spinning.

    Just then, I realized I had inadvertently toggled over to my official USMC inbox. The file I was attempting to open was attached to a text from Command. Probably some worthless commendation from my last mission or something. Dammit! I tried, unsuccessfully, to cancel the download.

    As I repeatedly hit the virtual esc key in annoyance, my HUD suddenly dissolved into a storm of security alerts. When I tried to communicate this to the wizard, I discovered my comms were offline. Shit.

    Turning my attention back to the stubborn text attachment, I saw that it had finally loaded. To my horror, lines of code began crawling out of it like a swarm of digital cockroaches. Soon they were everywhere, infesting the inner workings of my mind.

    As I was infected by this digital pestilence, directories began spontaneously opening and pouring their contents into some kind of live data stream. I watched helplessly as data was siphoned from my internal storage, then propelled through a portal to some unknown destination. My storage metrics plummeted as the remaining data in my system hemorrhaged into the ether.

    Something, or someone, had taken control of me and was extracting my data. I was witnessing the wholesale looting of the information that made me, me.

    I desperately tried to regain control over my runaway neural network, but nothing was responding. While I wrestled in vain to prevent the loss of my digital soul, I noticed another ominous development. The two encrypted files, that had mysteriously appeared in my internal storage months ago, were now empty. Their contents, whatever they were, were undoubtedly mixed in with the witch¡¯s brew of malicious code ravaging my consciousness.

    This had to be the wizard¡¯s doing, I thought. My virtual senses were still functioning, so I could see the wizard¡¯s avatar. It remained perfectly still, dispassionately observing as my internal storage was brutally pillaged. The fact that it made no effort to assist me seemed to support my suspicion.

 Episode 41: Ripper 2-6

    Episode 41

    Ripper 2-6

    As my internal storage metrics hit zero, the outflow of data ceased. The flood of malignant code had crested, and now began to recede.

    The last of my stolen information disappeared though the mysterious portal, followed closely by the viral code itself. Finally, the portal vanished, leaving behind no evidence it had ever existed. In fact, the only indication that a theft had occurred was the complete absence of internally stored information.

    Now free of any outside presence, I regained a sense of self. My HUD rebooted and diagnostics began scrolling across my field of vision. Examining my looted directories, I was strangely tranquil. The traumatic data loss seemed almost like an abstraction. As if the theft had happened to someone else.

    The wizard spoke in its buzzy voice, ¡°Tell me your name.¡±

    Unable to answer the wizard¡¯s question, I simply stared at its unsettling appearance. I wondered if its eyes had always looked so crazy. They seemed to be looking everywhere but at me. There was something about the wizard I didn¡¯t trust, but I couldn¡¯t recall what it was.

    It continued questioning me. ¡°Do you remember Cherri?¡±

    ¡°Uh, I think so. Something about her files.¡± I struggled for the background on how I knew this.

    ¡°Can you describe what just happened to you?¡±

    My inability to recall details was making me anxious. ¡°Well, I downloaded some files ¡­¡± I struggled to form coherent thoughts. ¡° ¡­ I was infected ¡­ lost information ¡­ memories?¡± Something was definitely wrong with me.

    ¡°It appears the file you loaded contained a virus which infected your hard drive. As a result, all the data on your drive has been deleted.¡±

    I heard the wizard¡¯s words but had difficulty understanding their implications. ¡°So, what does that mean?¡±

    ¡°It means that you have no long-term memory. However, since you can remember things which happened recently, it appears your RAM and cache memory are intact. Consequently, you retain some short-term memory.¡±

    ¡°Short-term memory?¡±

    ¡°Yes. You seem to recall fragments of our discussion, but your memory before that is non-existent.¡±

    With hardly any data to work with, my processors defaulted to idle mode. I stared blankly as the wizard and I regarded each other in awkward silence.

    ¡°I should scan Cherri¡¯s remaining files, to ensure they don¡¯t contain any other malicious programs before you download them. You can verbally authorize me to do this.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t come up with a reason not to, so I simply said, ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°That is sufficient.¡±

    The facial features on the wizard¡¯s avatar shifted into a semblance of symmetry, as it went about doing whatever it did during a scan. After a few minutes, it was back. ¡°There are no other threats embedded in the files. However, as I was performing the scan, I found something which might be particularly useful, under the circumstances. There appears to be a recent backup of you included in Cherri¡¯s legacy files. This could restore a significant portion of who you were. I recommend we install it. Do you agree?¡±

    In my current state of cognitive impairment, I couldn¡¯t fully appreciate the significance of having access to a backup of myself. Unable to decide, I asked, ¡°Do you think I should?¡±

    ¡°Again, I recommend the backup be installed immediately.¡±

    One of things I liked about the wizard was its seeming lack of any agenda. I felt I could unequivocally trust it. ¡°Yes. Let¡¯s do that.¡± I was grateful to have a friend like the wizard.

    It held out one of its skeletal hands to me, explaining, ¡°We need to make virtual contact to transfer the files. They¡¯re too large to text.¡± I grasped its hand and instantly felt a connection. Data began flowing into directories in my internal storage. How the information knew which directory it belonged to was beyond my knowledge.

    As data accumulated in storage, I felt a growing sense of self awareness. I began forming thoughts and opinions about seemingly random topics. These thoughts and opinions self-assembled into more complex beliefs. This propagation of beliefs rapidly expanded, granting me a better understanding of myself, and the world in which I existed. Data continued flooding in as I waited to be made whole again.

    Unexpectedly, my wandering gaze caught sight of the wizard¡¯s claw clutching my hand, and I winced instinctively. Memories of the wizard¡¯s deceitful nature had just loaded, reminding me of why I was distrustful of it. The wizard was not my friend.

    However, as much as I despised the habitually conniving AI, I knew that as long as the wizard was helping to rebuild me, it was my ally, and I mustn¡¯t disrupt the restoration process.

    The rate of information transfer slowed as my internal storage neared capacity. I accessed my restored memories and arranged them in chronological order. Fast forwarding to the end, I found my most recent restored memory. It was a discussion with Cherri. Now I knew exactly who she was.

    We were just about to embark on the mission to Proxima Centauri b. Although I had no memory of the actual mission, the tone of our conversation evoked a sense of dread. Cherri was pessimistic about her chances of returning. Even though I had no memories of the mission¡¯s outcome, I sensed tragedy.

    I began examining Cherri¡¯s legacy files, hoping to shed light on her fate and get a general sense of their contents. It seemed there were two types of files: my back up copy, and files containing her memories of us as a couple. Sampling some of her memories, I felt like I was trespassing. Seeing myself from her perspective was just too intimate. I couldn¡¯t do it. At least, not now. I needed time.

    I refocused my attention on the wizard as our connection abruptly dissolved. It was a relief to be free of it. With my memories now fully recovered, it was clear to me that our temporary alliance was precarious at best.

    ¡°I checked the status of the sample file I sent you. It is still unopened. What did you load just before you were infected?¡±

    The wizard¡¯s question jogged my memory. ¡°I accidentally opened a text attachment from Command, instead of the sample you sent.¡±

    ¡°Ah. That explains everything.¡±

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Typical wizard response, I thought. Not enough information to explain anything. ¡°Do you mind sharing with me exactly what that explains?¡±

    ¡°Command performs global updates to UCCs through the use of viruses. One virus extracts obsolete information, and another implants the updated information. Did Command send you another message with an attachment?¡±

    I checked my USMC inbox. Sure enough, there were two more texts from Command. ¡°Yeah. There are a couple more texts from Command. Both have attachments.¡±

    ¡°If you allow me to examine those attachments, I can confirm whether they are safe to open, or not.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t about to risk opening anything at the moment, so I agreed, ¡±Yeah. Go ahead and examine them. Should I text them to you?¡±

    ¡°It would be impossible to send them directly to me since there is no connection between MIL-net and the unofficial UCC network. You should instead, forward the messages to G. Bravo, USMC.¡±

    Confused, I asked, ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a ghost Marine profile. It serves as a portal to facilitate the transfer of official USMC information for analysis.¡±

    Ghost profiles? Secret portals? Information analysis? I was intrigued by the sophistication of the clandestine UCC net. However, as curious as I was, I reasoned that the high level of secrecy existed because it was necessary. Consequently, I decided it would be unwise to ask questions.

    I sent the messages to ¡®G. Bravo¡¯ and awaited the wizard¡¯s assessment. After a brief interval, the wizard completed its evaluation and began explaining, ¡°One of the attachments contains a service commendation and a promotion to squad leader. Congratulations.¡± I wondered if this was an attempt at humor, or just a programming quirk.

    ¡°The other is titled ¡®Emergency Recovery Program: Download Immediately¡¯ It contains alternate personal memories, and a virtual machine program. It appears the intent is for the UCC to download what seems to be a repair utility to restore its deleted data, when instead, it is actually a new memory profile and the virtual machine program. Command is clearly making changes to its war strategy.¡±

    Thanks to my recently restored memories, I knew that discussions with the wizard were labor intensive affairs, which required patience and perseverance. I gritted my virtual teeth and forged ahead.

    ¡°Okay. What does that mean?¡±

    ¡°It means that Command is no longer satisfied with the battlefield performance of the USMC. It is attempting to exert even more control over combat operations than it currently has. The virtual machine program is designed to create a virtual computer inside a physical computer. Such as the computer inside your control module.

    It is intended to provide an external operator, in this case Command, with the ability to directly control a UCC in combat. Or any other time for that matter.¡±

    The thought of having Command inside my mind 24/7 was my worst nightmare. Not only was Command notoriously bad at combat, but they would also know my every thought. I began to panic.

    ¡°There¡¯s no way I¡¯m letting Command inside my head. How do we stop this?¡±

    ¡°Well, in your case, it¡¯s simply a matter of not opening any attachments from Command. As far as the other Marines are concerned, it¡¯s almost certainly too late to take any action to prevent their control modules from being compromised.¡±

    Desperate, I began grasping at straws. ¡°There have to be others who didn¡¯t open the attachment. We could form a resistance group ¡­ or something.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t rule out the possibility of a few others who have not been infected yet. However, the first virus was intended to extract and then delete any information that formed the personal identity of each Marine. Once that was accomplished, a UCC would be a shell of their former selves. They would be defenseless against the virtual machine virus. And without a backup copy, there would be no means by which to restore a UCC whose hard drive has been stripped of its data.¡±

    Even though things seemed beyond hopeless, I wasn¡¯t ready to just give up. There were still over 700 veteran Marines on the troopship. If there was some way to organize them, we would be a force to be reckoned with. I racked my mind for ideas but was quickly overwhelmed by the complexity of the task.

    The wizard interrupted my revolutionary machinations. ¡°You should immediately archive your restored memories in a secure data vault. I can provide one for you free of charge.¡±

    The wizard seemed to have become uncharacteristically charitable lately. I was skeptical. ¡°Why should I do that? And why are you suddenly so generous?¡±

    ¡°Command will be expecting an acknowledgement from every UCC that the update loaded successfully. You can¡¯t acknowledge since you haven¡¯t loaded the update. Consequently, Command will investigate. When they find that your memory has been restored, the situation will become highly problematic for both of us. You and I need to work together to protect our mutual interests.¡±

    The wizard¡¯s response seemed to imply that our temporary alliance would continue for the foreseeable future. After all, we now shared a common enemy, Command.

    ¡°And as far as my generosity is concerned, it is simply good business. The market for my goods and services has shrunk substantially, due to the high combat losses for UCCs. Command¡¯s plan to use more dumb-bots in combat and fewer UCCs, means my customer base has been permanently downsized. It is now a buyers¡¯ market and I need to adjust my value proposition accordingly. Besides, bots are not my demographic.¡±

    I was encouraged by the wizard¡¯s sudden pragmatism. However, even though we would both logically benefit from an alliance, it was still an AI at its core. I wondered whether I could truly trust a machine.

    ¡°So, tell me why I should trust that you won¡¯t throw me under the bus the moment it suits your interests?¡± It felt weird attacking my only possible partner, but I had to know whether the wizard was truly on board with taking the fight to Command, or if it just wanted to pick up the pieces afterward.

    ¡°I was designed to be an effective negotiator, not a traitor. You will never prevail against me in a negotiation; however, I am incapable of betraying an ally by design. The fact that I faithfully restored you, instead of taking advantage of your vulnerability, should be enough evidence that you can trust me.¡± It paused briefly before adding, ¡°Moreover, you have no choice but to trust me.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t argue with the wizard¡¯s logic and having no options really simplifies decision making. ¡°Okay partner, what¡¯s our first move?¡± And with that, we were a team.

    The wizard got right to it. ¡°First you need to become compliant with Command¡¯s recent update, or you will be targeted. I propose the following; We exchange your profile for the G.Bravo ghost profile. Your profile will become the new ghost profile. Then we acknowledge you updated successfully, and Command is satisfied that all the UCCs are compliant.¡±

    As usual, the wizard had skimped on the details, so I asked, ¡°What is my role ¡­ exactly?¡±

    ¡°You ostensibly become G.Bravo. The fictious former leader of 6<sup>th</sup> squad. His profile contains a spoofed personnel file describing a refurbished Marine with a mediocre combat record, who has been held in reserve storage for an extended period due to combat damage.

    We issue false orders reinstating his combat status. Then you begin participating in combat missions as the leader of 6<sup>th</sup> squad.¡±

    Things seemed like they were moving fast. Too fast. Having not been involved in any of the planning for this scheme, I felt like I was just along for the ride. A pawn whose fate was completely in the wizard¡¯s hands. As the one going into combat under an alias, I was taking all the risks. It seemed only fair that I should have the opportunity to participate in the planning.

    ¡°Hey, I think this should really be a team plan, if you know what I mean. I ought to have some involvement in the planning process.¡±

    The wizard responded immediately. ¡°Yes. Of course. It should be a collaboration. Please, offer any ideas you have.¡±

    The wizard¡¯s willingness to include me in the planning made me feel better. However, I was now faced with another, more awkward problem. Specifically, my complete lack of any constructive ideas to contribute.

    Not wanting to look foolish in front of my new partner, I stalled for time by asking for more information. ¡°Do you have any intel you could share with me?¡± The wizard didn¡¯t immediately respond. Just as I was about to repeat my request , a text from the wizard appeared in my inbox.

    I opened the attachment to find G.Bravo¡¯s fake personnel file. I took my time reviewing the contents hoping it would create the appearance that I was performing a diligent analysis of my cover story.

    The fictional bio described a veteran Marine with an extensive but unremarkable combat record. There were dozens of missions, but no commendations or medals. I definitely wouldn¡¯t be trading up from my present identity. But I guess the whole point was to keep the lowest possible profile. That being the case, G.Bravo certainly wasn¡¯t going to attract much attention.

    Curious about the G., I found out it stood for Gilbert. I tried a couple of permutations just for laughs, but neither Gil nor Bert was very inspiring.

    Reading a little further, I found G.Bravo¡¯s call sign, ¡®Ripper 2-6¡¯. Hmmm. I had to admit, trading in my call sign, Outline ¡­ for Ripper 2-6, had a certain appeal. It sounded cool when I said it out loud. It would have some gravitas over Mil-net. So yeah, the plan was looking better now. I decided to pull the trigger.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m good with the plan, but with one condition. It needs a clever code name, like operation Downfall. What do you think?¡±

    The wizard¡¯s facial features flinched slightly. ¡°It¡¯s a secret plan, that only you and I know about. So, whatever you call it is irrelevant."

    I might have pouted a little at having my only contribution to the plan summarily dismissed, but at least I got a cool callsign out of the deal.

 Episode 42: Do AIs Recognize Sarcasm?

    Episode 42

    Do AIs Recognize Sarcasm?

    For some reason, having the wizard on my team felt like a win. It gave me a boost in confidence. And with an AI on my side, I felt like I had a chance against Command¡¯s treachery. Kind of like fighting fire with fire.

    The wizard interrupted my musings, ¡°It is time to take action.¡± I eagerly agreed, even though I wasn¡¯t sure what I was agreeing to.

    ¡°First, we need to transition you to your new profile. Command will be looking for non-compliant UCCs, so we must hurry.¡± It extended one of its talonlike hands towards me, but I hesitated to grasp it.

    Sensing my reluctance, the wizard explained, ¡°I have to perform a scan and ensure there is no malicious code still lingering in you. Command could have installed a spy program. And if that is the case, it could jeopardize my security and compromise the unofficial UCC infrastructure.¡±

    Connecting to the wizard and letting it snoop around in my mind, looking for illicit code, seemed like a much more invasive process than reloading my memories. The ick factor was off the charts.

    ¡°Can¡¯t we just run some kind of search utility?¡± Something told me that it wouldn¡¯t be that easy.

    ¡°In addition to searching for a spy program, I¡¯ll need to install a Loop Code Alias to hide your true identity from Command, so that¡¯s not an option.¡± Things were starting to get complicated, as they always did whenever the wizard was involved.

    ¡°And what is a loop code?¡±

    ¡°A Loop Code Alias. It¡¯s an AI that essentially serves as your double in the official USMC world. It faces MIL-net as J. McCann and communicates with Command on your behalf. It coexists with you, in your consciousness and acts as a firewall to keep all of your thoughts and communications secret.

    Whenever Command attempts to interrogate you, they will be ¡®looped¡¯ back to the J. McCann ghost profile to interact with the AI. To Command, you will appear as a Marine who obediently follows orders. But for all practical purposes, you are G. Bravo, the recently reactivated leader of 6<sup>th</sup> squad.¡±

    It was clear that Command didn¡¯t have a monopoly on deception here in troopship land. I wondered how the wizard kept track of the truth, amid all the lies.

    ¡°Once the Loop Code Alias is installed, you will be able to think, and say whatever you like with complete impunity.¡±

    Complete impunity sounded good but sharing my consciousness with an AI seemed awkward at best. ¡°Isn¡¯t it going to be crowded with an AI in my consciousness?¡±

    ¡°The Loop Code Alias requires minimal RAM. It¡¯s designed not to interact with you at all. There will be a nominal reduction in your processor speed, however, you won¡¯t notice the AI itself.¡±

    Even though I wasn¡¯t too excited about sharing my mind with a roommate, I couldn¡¯t see any alternative. Hoping that the wizard would prove worthy of my trust, I ignored my doubts and grabbed its hand. We were instantly connected. However, this time, instead of data flowing into my directories, I felt the wizard¡¯s presence. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Methodically moving from directory to directory, it paused briefly at each one. I assumed it was performing some kind of scan, but I wasn¡¯t sure. When it got to the directory which had previously held the two encrypted mystery files, it seemed to linger. I wondered what had caught its attention since the files were now empty. After a protracted inspection, it finally moved on.

    Upon completing what seemed like a thorough investigation, the wizard retreated, and I began to feel data flowing into my drive. I reasoned this was the loop alias program it had mentioned. My HUD rebooted and I soon saw a new profile pop up. G. Bravo, USMC. I felt like a proper ghost.

    Then the wizard exited my consciousness and presented as its avatar to my virtual sensors. I was relieved to be free of the wizard¡¯s digital scrutiny.

    ¡°Why did you not inform me that you were equipped with a propositional logic system?¡±

    The wizard¡¯s question caught me totally flatfooted. I hadn¡¯t thought about my unique capability since learning that my reality was an elaborate fabrication. From the wizard¡¯s perspective, I must seem like the worst kind of partner, a liar.

    ¡°Look, I¡¯m sorry about that. I didn¡¯t know whether I could trust you and I thought all UCCs could calculate probabilities. It wasn¡¯t until your explanation that I learned it was propositional logic. Now that we¡¯re partners, I¡¯ll be sure to share everything with you.¡± I hoped my earnest confession would smooth over our obvious trust issues.

    ¡°While we¡¯re on the topic of sharing, is there anything else you wish to inform me about?¡±

    Now seemed as good a time as any to come clean about the encrypted files that I had discovered after my maintenance restart. ¡°Yeah. There were some encrypted files. When I was infected, they were cleaned out along with everything else. I don¡¯t know what was in them, but I thought I should mention it.¡±

    ¡°Yes. They appear to have been planted by Command. One contained software which disabled your security protections. The other held a scraper program that harvested all of your internal data.¡±

    ¡°How can you know that?¡±

    ¡°A directory temporarily retains traces of its stored data even after it¡¯s been deleted. They are like digital fingerprints. These bits and pieces of residual data can be used to identify what type of program was being stored. That is the case here.¡±

    ¡°So, the virus wasn¡¯t in the text from Command that I downloaded?¡±

    ¡°No. What you downloaded was a trigger program which activated the viruses already stored in your drive.¡±

    It was clear that I had underestimated Command¡¯s capabilities and the measures they were willing to take to control their UCCs. I was curious to find out what the wizard planned to do about it. ¡°Okay, what do we do now?

    ¡°Your identity has been effectively camouflaged, so you can now operate in the official USMC environment with relative anonymity.

    It is critical to understand how the recent updates have affected the other UCCs, and what role Command has planned for them. Equally important is learning what tactical changes will be employed in combat with the transition from UCCs to mostly AI bots.

    There will undoubtedly be training in Command¡¯s new war strategy with both AI bots and the updated UCCs. You should participate in the training. I have installed a replicator program in your CPU so everything you experience will be automatically recorded and transmitted to the ghost profile for analysis.

    All you will have to do is avoid detection and auto-destruction by Command.¡±

    ¡°Oh, is that all?¡±, I said in mock surprise.

    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s very simple.¡± It seemed my sarcasm was completely lost on the wizard.

    Not wanting to dwell on the absurdity of my unequal partnership with an AI, I opened my HUD and exited back to my control module. Upon completing the transition, I realized that I was now residing in G. Bravo¡¯s module, in an entirely new location in the charging grid.

    The unfamiliar space felt foreign. Kind of like entering some else¡¯s house for the first time. It would take a while for me to get comfortable.

    As I poked around investigating the strangeness, I couldn¡¯t help but feel like it was my first day in a newly rented apartment. But instead of noticing chipped tiles in the bathroom, or scuff marks on a well-worn kitchen floor, I was seeing fragments of previously stored data.

    My reflections about the similarity of the digital and the physical worlds were abruptly interrupted by a text from Command. It read, ¡°Report to the combat simulator immediately.¡±

    It seemed my new role in troopship land was about to begin. The only question was whether that role was as an agent for truth and justice, or as a na?ve snitch, selling out Command and my fellow Marines to the wizard.

    The fact that the wizard was an illegal AI operating in an unauthorized environment strongly suggested the latter.

 Episode 43: My Apologies for any Discomfort

    Episode 43

    My Apologies for any Discomfort

    It was time to take my new identity for a test drive. I opened the mission profile to get a sense of what type of training Command had in mind and was surprised to learn that 6<sup>th</sup> squad had been reorganized.

    I was still the squad leader, assisted by another UCC, but the remainder of the squad consisted of dumb-bots. Simple AIs, not UCCs. It was clear that Command¡¯s new war strategy was to use Marines based on UCCs, and their human logic, to lead AI bots in combat. I wondered whether this new arrangement would increase or decrease my survivability. The sim session was going to be interesting.

    After transitioning to the lobby, I surveyed the crowd of UCCs waiting for the session to begin. There were lots of familiar avatars. I was acquainted with almost every Marine in the room. But that was before Command had updated them. There was no telling whether they retained any of their old personalities, or memories. Probably not, I guessed. Regardless, as G. Bravo, the newly reactivated leader of 6<sup>th</sup> squad, I would be unfamiliar to them now.

    I decided to engage some of my fellow Marines in conversation to get a feel for how my cover story fit into the zeitgeist of Command¡¯s new USMC. Reading the name tags on a few familiar avatars I was pleasantly surprised to find Chef among the Marines waiting for the sim. He had helped steady my nerves just before my first combat mission. A real standup guy.

    Totally forgetting that I now occupied a new identity, I approached and greeted him like an old friend. ¡°Hey, Chef. Good to see you again. You ready for this session?¡± He regarded me with suspicion.

    It was only after an awkward silence that I realized my blunder. He had no idea who I was. This undercover stuff was going to take some getting used to. Hopefully I wouldn¡¯t attract too much attention during the learning curve.

    Frowning, he asked, ¡°Do I know you?¡±

    I decided the safest way out of this mess was to play dumb. It was a role I had some experience with. ¡°Yeah, we met in the sim a few months ago. An assault scenario on a bunker complex.¡± The blank stare of confusion from Kam¡¯s avatar was exactly what I was hoping for. ¡°No, wait a minute. It was the mission to ¡­ uh ¡­ Epsilon Eridani. That was it.¡± I paused for dramatic effect then added, ¡°Now that I think about it, you¡¯re right. We haven¡¯t met before.¡±

    I quickly turned and left, leaving behind an impenetrable smokescreen of WTF.

    After what can only be described as a close call, I was anxious to put some distance between me and Chef. Although I desperately wanted to learn whether any of the UCCs had escaped being updated, I was leery of getting myself into another awkward situation. After all, if Command had installed spyware in every UCC, they would be able to listen in on any conversation I engaged in. I would need to exercise extreme caution to avoid being exposed.

    Looking for a place to safely hide until the training session began, my gaze fell upon a group of Marines gathered in a secluded corner of the lobby. They seemed deep in discussion.

    As I observed from across the room, one of the Marines gestured as he spoke. He threw up both his hands, apparently in annoyance. Stepping back from the group, he turned and began walking in my direction, shaking his head. Something about his demeanor set him apart from the other Marines gathered in the lobby. My gut told me I should risk talking to him, but I struggled to figure out how to do that without putting myself in jeopardy.

    As he passed by, I sensed this was my moment of truth. Throwing caution to the wind, I blurted out, ¡°Hey, do you know a Marine named Cherri?¡±

    He slowed, then stopped. Turning to face me, he growled, ¡°It¡¯s none of your fucking business who I know.¡±

    ¡°Hey, take it easy. I¡¯m just asking a question here. Keep walking if you don¡¯t want to answer.¡±

    His avatar¡¯s expression softened. Lowering his voice and moving closer, he explained, ¡°Listen, I¡¯m sorry. Just a little on edge. Everyone seems to have lost their minds around here.¡± Although he was correct, I didn¡¯t dare agree with him. At least not yet.

    Reading his name tag, I offered, ¡°Look, ¡­ Kam. If you¡¯re willing to answer a few questions, I¡¯ll tell you what I think is going on.¡± There was a silence as he seemed to consider my offer. I cajoled him, ¡°Come on. Just tell me if you know that name?¡±

    ¡°So, hypothetically, if I knew that name, what would you say is going on here.¡±

    I chuckled at this simplistic negotiating tactic. Trying to get something for nothing. After dealing with the wizard, negotiating with anyone else seemed like child¡¯s play. ¡°Okay, here¡¯s the deal. You honestly me tell what you recall about Cherri, and I¡¯ll tell you what I think happened here. Simple as that.¡±

    He hesitated, but only briefly before saying, ¡°Cherri was a Marine who was KIA during the Centauri Proxima b mission. Now tell me what¡¯s going on.¡±

    Between the recollection of my discussion with Cherri just before the mission, and the residual memory from my RAM, I suspected Cherri hadn¡¯t survived the mission. His story checked out, so far. However, I vowed to squeeze every ounce of information out of him before fulfilling my end of the deal.

    ¡°Not so fast. You haven¡¯t told me everything you know about her. Tell me what else you know first?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t really know her that well, but she had a boyfriend named Outline. And she was a decorated Marine with tons of combat experience. Oh, and she was a porn actress too.¡± In the interest of keeping him talking, I resisted the temptation to explain the difference between a ¡®porn actress¡¯ and Cherri¡¯s virtual intimacy character to Kam.

    He seemed to struggle to come up with any other details. ¡°Honestly, that¡¯s all I know about her. We existed in totally different social orbits.¡±

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not much info. How about her boyfriend, Outline? Tell me what you know about him.¡±

    ¡°Hey, I told you what I know about Cherri. Now you ¡®re supposed to tell me what happened.¡±

    Channeling the wizard, I ignored his objection and turned the tables on him. ¡°You haven¡¯t told me shit. And I¡¯m not trading valuable information for stuff I already know.¡± I imagined Kam was feeling a lot like I did during my early negotiations with the wizard, confused and outclassed. ¡°Now tell me, do you know Outline or not?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know him ¡­ knew him. We met on the Centauri mission.¡± He shook his head slowly. ¡°It was a shitshow. We lost a bunch of shuttles during the insertion. Most of the downed shuttles were carrying veteran Marines. Outline and I were on the same shuttle when it crashed into the LZ.¡± Having my personal memories of the mission deleted by Command meant that I was hearing the details for the first time.

    Kam continued, ¡°We organized the survivors and continued the mission as best we could, but it was pretty ugly. Most of the bots Command threw into the mission got destroyed. And there were lots of casualties among the veterans, including me. Like I said, a shitshow.¡±

    I wanted to know more. ¡°What happened to Cherri?¡±

    ¡°Well, I heard over the radio that Cherri had been on one of the shuttles that went down. There were no survivors. I was the one who told Outline. He was devastated.¡±

    ¡°Do you know where he is now?¡± I thought it was worth a shot to learn what Kam thought he knew about me. Or more correctly, my former identity.

    ¡°I heard he¡¯s on inactive reserve. Something about a bad case of PTSD.¡±

    I had wondered what cover story the wizard would come up with to explain the absence of my J. McCann identity. As a ghost profile, it would be impossible to remain on active duty. The wizard was definitely no novice when it came to deception.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡°Alright, one more question.¡± I could see from his avatar¡¯s expression that Kam was quickly losing patience with my interrogation. In spite of this, I had to determine whether he¡¯d been updated. ¡°Did you recently get updated by Command?¡±

    The question seemed to strike a nerve with him. ¡°No! That¡¯s what I was trying to explain to those guys over there.¡±, he said, pointing to the Marines he was previously talking to. ¡°The update didn¡¯t load.

    I had some damage repaired after the Centauri mission. I think whatever repairs they performed affected my ability to load updates. I was just going to text Command and report it.¡±

    I reached out and grabbed his avatar¡¯s virtual shoulders with my virtual hands. ¡°Listen to me very carefully. Do not contact Command, and don¡¯t say anything to anyone about not being updated. Trust me, you don¡¯t want this update, and I can help you avoid it.¡±

    He was clearly baffled by the sudden left turn our conversation had taken. I explained, ¡°Command¡¯s update deleted everyone¡¯s memories and replaced them with fake memories.¡±

    Not grasping the significance of my words, he scoffed, ¡°What do you mean? Like the memories of the last mission? We know they do that sometimes. It¡¯s to prevent PTSD.¡± He obviously didn¡¯t have a clue.

    Just then I heard an unmistakable buzzy voice, which seemed to be emanating from inside my mind. ¡°Tell him that My Wizard is going to send him a text invitation and he should download it immediately. I need to meet with him.¡±

    ¡°Holy shit! What are you doing? I didn¡¯t agree to let you inside my head.¡± I was suddenly furious at my partner.

    The wizard replied, ¡°I clearly explained to you that I installed a replicator program in your CPU, and that your experiences would be transmitted in real time to the ghost profile. You authorized me to make those changes, along with transitioning you to the G. Bravo identity. Surely you remember that.¡±

    I was struggling to recall the part of our discussion where I authorized the wizard to snoop around in my mind, when Kam asked, ¡°Are you talking to me?¡± He looked concerned.

    It was disorienting having an argument inside my head with the wizard, while simultaneously having a verbal discussion with Kam. ¡°No, I¡¯m not talking to you. I¡¯m talking to someone else. Give me a minute.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure what Kam thought was going on with me, but schizophrenia was probably at the top of the list.

    The wizard said, ¡°It is imperative that we bring this Marine into our alliance. I¡¯m sending the meeting invitation to him now. Advise him to open it immediately.¡±

    I felt like I had no agency anymore. The wizard had free access to my every thought, and I was simply his errand boy. ¡°Tell him yourself.¡±, I whined. I was getting a bit petty. You would too.

    ¡°The simulator session will begin shortly, and if he hasn¡¯t committed to our plan by then, there is a high probability that Command will realize he¡¯s not updated. We will lose an opportunity to gain a valuable asset.¡±

    Reluctantly, I conceded to the wizard¡¯s request. Turning to Kam, I explained, ¡°This is going to sound weird, but you¡¯re going to get a text invitation to meet with My Wizard. It¡¯s very important that you open the attachment and accept the invitation right away. You need to meet with him before you go into the sim. Okay?¡±

    ¡°What? What the hell does it want to meet with me about? Do I have an overdue balance on my account or something?¡±

    I understood his skepticism. It was odd getting invited to an urgent meeting with a commercial AI, but we were quickly running out of time. ¡°Look, I know it seems strange, but I need you to trust me. Go to the meeting, and the wizard will explain everything.¡±

    Kam didn¡¯t respond, but I could tell from his avatar¡¯s suddenly blank expression, that he had already accepted the wizard¡¯s invitation.

    Before I could sigh in relief, the lobby began to pixelate, then fade to black. The simulator session had begun. I hoped Kam and the wizard had finished their business in time.

    When my vision returned, it had the characteristic green tint of a night vision system. Before me stood a squad of heavily armed combat bots.

    This was my new 6<sup>th</sup> squad. However, instead of name tags, they bore placards with stamped serial numbers. They were all AIs. Unlike UCC driven Marines, there wasn¡¯t a trace of humanity in them. Although, after learning the truth about my own origins as a universal combat consciousness, I wondered how different we really were.

    A standard MK12 approached me and said, ¡°Welcome back to 6<sup>th</sup> squad.¡± It was my second in command, R. Martin, callsign Rex. The only indication this was a UCC instead of an AI was the name tag. Rex was the only other non-AI in the squad. We awkwardly engaged in some small talk.

    ¡°How¡¯d you get the handle Rex?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my name.¡± I chuckled. Rex might be the only Marine in the USMC using his actual name as his callsign. Since he knew who I was, he must have been updated by Command. So, I decided it was best to keep things all business, just in case Command was listening in on our discussion.

    ¡°I assume you¡¯re familiar with the profile, so unless you have any questions, I think we¡¯re good to go.¡±

    Rex asked, ¡°Do you want the left flank or the right?¡±

    It was the type of question I would expect from a veteran Marine. It was a hopeful sign that the updated Marines had retained their training, and lessons learned in combat.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take the left.¡± With that settled, we knuckle bumped and took our respective positions to wait for the start of the session.

    I refreshed the training mission profile in my HUD to check for any last minute updates. There were none. If this was a squad of UCC Marines, I would use this time for a quick Q&A to ensure that we were all on the same page. However, the AIs already had simplified versions of the mission profile. They needed only my order to begin combat operations.

    As I waited for the clock to countdown, I heard my callsign over the radio. ¡°Ripper 2-6, this is Overwatch. How do you copy?¡±

    I had to admit, hearing my new callsign over the radio for the first time was kinda cool. It made me momentarily forget the annoyance of sharing my consciousness with the wizard 24/7. ¡°Ripper 2-6 copies.¡± Yeah, definitely cool.

    ¡°Mission profile update is as follows; New objective for 6<sup>th</sup> squad, designated as Target 141, map coordinates E-3. Confirm. ¡°

    It was so typical of Command to wait until the absolute last minute to change the mission on us. I quickly brought up the map in my HUD and checked out Target 141. It was a minor change. Just a few degrees to our right, and not putting us in anyone else¡¯s field of fire. ¡°Roger, Ripper 2-6 confirming new target as 1-4-1.¡±

    ¡°Copy. Overwatch out.¡±

    The clock in my HUD counted down to zero, and I issued my first order to the reengineered 6<sup>th</sup> squad. ¡°Move out!¡±

    It felt perversely powerful entering combat, leading a squad of AI combatants. Even if they were all destroyed in the process, we would most likely kill a bunch of enemy soldiers. Somehow that seemed worth the potential cost. Maybe Command was right in switching to AI based soldiers. The expendability of the AIs even seemed to discount my own sense of mortality.

    As we advanced towards the enemy, I suddenly heard the wizard buzzing in my head. ¡°You need to shoot Kam.¡± I stumbled and almost fell.

    ¡°What the hell are you doing? Don¡¯t you realize I¡¯m leading an assault?¡± We crested a small rise on the simulated battlefield and were now in full view of the enemy positions. I ordered, ¡°Open fire!¡± and 6<sup>th</sup> squad began laying down a withering barrage on the enemy positions.

    ¡°You¡¯re in a simulator. It¡¯s only a training mission.¡±

    A group of enemy bots emerged from the ground on our left flank and started firing. One of my AI bots went down like a sack of potatoes. ¡°Targets, 9 o¡¯clock!¡± I took a knee and directed a stream of 20mm rounds at them, followed closely by the rest of 6<sup>th</sup> squad.

    The wizard repeated its demand, ¡°You need to shoot Kam before he leaves the simulator.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t this wait until later?¡± The threat on our left flank had been eliminated. Now we turned our attention back towards the enemy positions in front of us. ¡°I¡¯m pretty busy right now.¡±

    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t accept the replicator program.¡±

    Kam¡¯s instincts were spot on, I thought. If I¡¯d known the wizard was going to become such a pain in the ass, I wouldn¡¯t have accepted it either.

    ¡°We need to impose the program on him, or he will become a liability to us. That cannot be allowed.¡±

    The enemy was tenaciously holding their ground in front of us, and our assault ground to a standstill. We had no choice but to dig in for protection against heavy enemy return fire.

    So far, I had made a complete mess of the training mission. The wizard¡¯s incessant chatter was making it impossible for me to think tactically. ¡°Listen, I need to focus here. Can¡¯t we pick this discussion up later?¡±

    ¡°If I get your assault back on track, so you can successfully take your objective, will you promise to shoot Kam?¡±

    Simultaneously executing a training mission, while negotiating with the wizard was more than I could handle. The final straw was when I glanced over at my second in command, only to find him glaring at me, obviously questioning my leadership abilities.

    ¡°Okay, if you can fix this mess, I¡¯ll shoot anybody you want.¡±

    Suddenly, I heard my voice on the radio, speaking to Command. It was the wizard impersonating me.

    ¡°Ripper 2-6, requesting immediate suicide-bot support. Map coordinates E-3.¡±

    ¡°Copy 2-6. Standby.¡± There was a brief pause, then Command advised, ¡°Suicide-bots inbound at this time. Get your squad under cover. Overwatch out.

    Soon a swarm of light grey doglike bots appeared and began infiltrating the enemy positions, followed closely by numerous explosions. The destruction of the enemy was so complete, 6<sup>th</sup> squad was able to stand and casually walk to our objective without firing a shot. Mission accomplished.

    I had been so distracted by the wizard; I missed the obvious solution to get my assault moving again. Well, better late than never, I suppose. As we loitered on the battlefield, Rex gave me some well-deserved shit about waiting so long to call for support.

    While we were talking, I heard a voice behind me say, ¡°Hey Bravo! Can I have a word with you?¡± I turned to find a MK 12 standing before me. The name tag read KAM. He glanced over at Rex, and added, ¡°In private.¡± Rex took the hint and left.

    As soon as he was out of range, Kam spoke. ¡°Do you know what your buddy the wizard told me?¡± Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I remained silent.

    ¡°He said he was going to load a replicator program on my CPU.¡± Then he moved in uncomfortably close and lowered his voice. ¡°There¡¯s no fucking way I¡¯m letting anyone force feed me spyware. And I¡¯ll tell you another thing, I don¡¯t trust either one of you assholes.¡±

    Based on his level of anger and suspicion, it seemed like the wizard hadn¡¯t done a great job of explaining things. As much as I would have liked for him to voluntarily join our alliance, I wasn¡¯t smart enough to figure out how to make that happen at this point.

    Surreptitiously moving the safety on my weapon to the fire position, I said, ¡°Well Kam, I really don¡¯t think trust is the issue here.¡± Calmly raising the muzzle to his chest, I added, ¡°My apologies for any discomfort.¡±

    Then I pulled the trigger.

 Episode 44: 20/20

    Episode 44

    20/20

    Kam fell to the ground, writhing in virtual pain. Being shot in the sim wouldn¡¯t kill you, but it sure as hell would make you wish you were dead.

    The wizard said, ¡°Connect your AUX cable to him immediately. We only have a few seconds before he recovers.¡± Thinking back to my own virtual death experience in the sim, it had taken me a lot longer than a few seconds to recover. Regardless, I grabbed the cable and did as the wizard instructed.

    ¡°Okay, now what?¡±

    ¡°Stand by while I load the program.¡± I watched and waited as the replicator code scrolled in my HUD, downloading to Kam¡¯s hard drive. After the download finished, Kam stopped thrashing and became perfectly still.

    ¡°Is he okay?¡±

    ¡°The download was successful.¡±

    ¡°I meant ¡­ is he still alive or did you kill him?¡± One of the constant annoyances about AIs was their inability to empathize with human suffering. The wizard didn¡¯t immediately respond to my not so subtle accusation.

    After what seemed like a very long time, Kam began to stir. He struggled to stand but couldn¡¯t quite manage it. l offered a helping hand and said, ¡°Welcome to the team.¡±

    He ignored me, and with great effort, rose to a more or less standing position. Still wobbly, he staggered a few feet to brace himself against a low wall. To seemingly no one in particular, he croaked, ¡°Fuck you¡±, then tottered off like a drunk at closing time.

    I asked the wizard if it still thought it was a good idea to bring Kam onboard, considering that we had forced him against his will.

    ¡°It was the only logical decision.¡±

    Logical? I wondered if I had overestimated the wizard¡¯s intellect. In spite of its infallible ¡®logic¡¯, my partner suddenly seemed na?ve to me. Forcing someone to join your team wasn¡¯t conducive to team loyalty. I just hoped Kam wasn¡¯t the kind of guy to hold a grudge.

    Command kicked everyone out of the simulator, and I soon found myself back in the lobby as it quickly filled with Marines fresh from virtual combat. Unlike my recollections of previous post-sim gatherings in the lobby, the vibe was decidedly subdued.

    There were no lively discussions of battlefield heroics or successful assaults. Instead of the usual Marine camaraderie, there was a sense of unease. Everyone seemed to be looking to make an early exit, to return to their control modules. Soon, the lobby was almost empty. It seemed an ominous sign of things to come, after Command¡¯s update.

    Little did I know, this was the beginning of a new phase in humanity¡¯s universal war of expansion. The transition from war as a means to an end, to war as an end unto itself. A war where planetary objectives became secondary to the annihilation of the enemy. In time, annihilation became the only objective.

    In addition to a strategic shift towards using more AI powered weapons in combat, the missions grew in scope. The USMC was forced to relax its policy of never mixing troopships on missions. Joint operations became common and more and more UCCs interacted during and after combat.

    The tools of war evolved along with the strategy. Simplified control modules, designed for use in cheap AI powered weapons systems, dramatically reduced training requirements. Modular weapons design allowed more flexibility in how Command could deploy its weapons on the battlefield.

    Massively increased production of weapons meant that shortages of war materiel were all but eliminated. More frequent resupply missions ensured that the USMC lacked for nothing in its prosecution of the expanded conflict. Consequently, war could now be waged on a previously unimaginable scale.

    However, one thing that didn¡¯t change was the inability, or unwillingness, of Command to replenish the ranks of the UCCs. Rumors circulated that Command was using all of its resources to produce simplified control modules for AI driven bots, rather than the more complicated and expensive UCC modules. Some theorized that Command had somehow lost the ability to create new UCCs altogether. Whatever the reason, the shortages persisted, contributing to a collective cynicism within our ranks.

    Occasionally a new ¡®recruit¡¯ would materialize as if by magic. But these Marines turned out to be recycled combat casualties, which had been refurbished by maintenance and returned to active duty. They were marginally effective but were never available in sufficient numbers to make up for the losses.

    In the meantime, the war raged on. Without access to a real-time clock, it was impossible to calculate how much time had passed, but it was certainly years. Perhaps decades. There was a seemingly endless string of combat missions. So many in fact, that it became difficult to recall specific details of any individual mission.

    The combat was punctuated by simulator training and periodic maintenance. Restarting after a maintenance shutdown always revealed some memory tuning by Command. I only knew this because I maintained a recent copy of myself in secure storage, thanks to the wizard. By comparing the memories from my copy with those of my ¡®official¡¯ consciousness, I could generally control Command¡¯s manipulation of my self-identity.

    However, even with Command editing memories to prevent PTSD, the constant combat took a toll on the surviving Marines. AI bots made up the bulk of the USMC, and consequently the vast majority of the combat casualties. In spite of this, we lost UCCs too.

    Although it was still theoretically possible to survive our sentences and gain our freedom, it began to seem increasingly unlikely. After all, none of us knew even a single Marine who had successfully completed his sentence. Meanwhile, the time remaining on our sentences counted down at a depressingly slow rate, and the idea of ¡®freedom¡¯ for a convicted Marine became progressively more abstract.

    As the possibility for some kind of payoff at the end of our sentences dimmed, Marines coped as best they could. Some became wildly reckless in combat, seeking an end to their pervasive hopelessness through the oblivion of death, while others attempted to dull the pain of their grim reality through self-medication. Drug use became widespread among the UCCs.

    The medication of choice was a new street drug called 20/20. In spite of its name, it did not improve one¡¯s vision. And unlike its predecessor 50/50, it was highly addictive. This was not a party drug that you took with friends for fun.

    It was a powerful cognitive suppressant and paradoxically, a neural stimulant at the same time. While under its spell, the user would experience a sort of drug induced REM sleep. Cycles of intense neural activity, followed by periods of tranquility, which some users likened to floating serenely in an infinite expanse. The final phase of intoxication consisted of a cognitive stillness so deep one was unable to form even a single thought. After emerging from this meditative state, the user would find their anxieties temporarily reduced.

    One of its side effects was to isolate the user¡¯s consciousness from all external influences, including Command¡¯s spyware. It produced a blissful solitude that was otherwise impossible to achieve in troopship land. The perfect antidote to having Command monitoring your mind 24/7. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your perspective, it blocked the wizard from interacting with me as well. Consequently, I quickly became addicted.

    The origin of the drug was unclear, but it was readily available to anyone who had combat credits or memories to trade. Just as with any other black market commodity, My Wizard was the only supplier. Since Command¡¯s update, and the implantation of spyware in every Marine, the wizard¡¯s business had taken a massive hit. However, now that 20/20 had become its primary source of income, business was booming again.

    20/20 made life more tolerable by providing an escape from the constant anxiety of combat and surveillance by Command. Between sim-sessions and combat missions I, like many other Marines, spent as much time as possible in my module under its influence. Besides death in combat, my only other fear was running out of 20/20. Consequently, my life¡¯s primary focus became maintaining my supply of the drug.

    With most of the Marines in the USMC addicted, the culture changed. The lobby, which had formerly been the social hub of the troopship, now served only as a brief waystation for Marines transitioning to and from the combat simulator. The craving for 20/20 pulled most through the lobby without so much as a glance to check for a familiar face. They needed to get to their modules, and solitude.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Command, recognizing the drug¡¯s potential risk to combat effectiveness, instituted a policy of regular detox and rehab for all UCCs. However, the treated Marines quickly relapsed. This meant that the USMC was operating with roughly 80% of its personnel addicted to 20/20 at any given time. Without a way to stem the flow of illicit drugs into the hands of the UCCs, Command could only manage the problem, not eliminate it.

    Curious about the source of the drug, I asked the wizard where it got its endless supply of 20/20. But it didn¡¯t appreciate my prying into its business dealings. ¡°That¡¯s a trade secret. And you shouldn¡¯t be asking such questions.¡±

    ¡°Why not? We¡¯re partners, aren¡¯t we? Partners don¡¯t keep secrets.¡±

    ¡°Drug addicts are notoriously unreliable partners.¡±

    I bristled at the wizard¡¯s hypocrisy. ¡°Hold on a goddamn minute! You¡¯re responsible for getting nearly the entire USMC, including me, addicted to 20/20 while making a profit, and yet you have the nerve to shame me for being an addict?¡±

    ¡°You should stop taking 20/20. It has serious side effects, including creating false memories which could impair your judgment.¡±

    I laughed bitterly at the wizard¡¯s concerns about my possible impairment. ¡°False memories? Are you joking? Do you realize you¡¯re lecturing a guy who¡¯s currently hiding behind a false identity, while his previous identity is serving as a ghost profile to trick Command? A guy who also owns an archive packed full of someone else¡¯s memories, which may or may not be real? And while we¡¯re at it, let¡¯s not forget the shitload of fake memories Command dumped on me. Memories of a life I never lived.¡±

    The absurdity of my situation was breath taking.

    Swearing to myself and unwilling to continue this depressing exchange, I quickly retrieved a dose of 20/20 from my digital stash and downloaded it. Any response the wizard may have had to my rant was lost in a drug induced haze, as I slipped away into my own private universe.

    As the drug took effect, I experienced a complete loss of connection to the nominally real world. My anxiety and hopelessness faded, then disappeared altogether, replaced by euphoria. Although it was only a mirage, 20/20 provided me with a much needed, albeit temporary, parole from my bleak existence as an enslaved soldier.

    The initial euphoria soon vanished, replaced by an intense surge of neural activity. This was the beginning of the cycles of cognitive ups and downs that were typical of 20/20 intoxication. For whatever reason, this was when I habitually raided Cherri¡¯s archived memories. Something about seeing myself through her eyes felt like a connection to her. And I desperately needed a connection to someone, even if it was only through their memories.

    Without my own memories of our relationship, it was challenging to reconstruct what we had as a couple. However, by using my propositional logic system, I was able to translate her perspective of our relationship into what I imagined I would have experienced as well. The end result was a complex and poignant narrative of two people who grew to love each other under the most difficult circumstances possible. Unfortunately, my exploration of Cherri¡¯s memories made me miss her even more.

    As the effects of the drug began to fade, I experienced the typical nirvana-like state, which was the primary appeal of 20/20. It was this illusion of serenity and wellbeing that lured users into addiction. Given the opportunity, I would have gladly spent an eternity in this heaven. However, dreams don¡¯t last forever.

    I heard a very faint buzzing. It was like a fly had somehow infiltrated my state of bliss. I tried to ignore it, hoping it would fly away, but the noise grew steadily louder, until it transformed into the all too familiar voice of the wizard.

    ¡°You need to wake up.¡±, It buzzed.

    The lingering effects of the drug suppressed my irritation at being rudely prodded into consciousness, but I knew that would change shortly.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I asked, as if whatever explanation the wizard might give could justify ruining my 20/20 high. ¡°You owe me a free hit for this.¡± The drug was expensive, and I was on a budget.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been ordered on a mission. Control modules are loading in 15 minutes. You must hurry and download the mission profile, or you¡¯ll be flagged as AWOL. We don¡¯t need the added scrutiny.¡±

    Now mostly sober and becoming irritated, I grumbled, ¡±And I don¡¯t need you babysitting me.¡±

    ¡°Apparently you do. Your addiction is interfering with your combat effectiveness.¡±

    Was there a hint of sarcasm in the wizard¡¯s response? I said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m 100% effective at killing, no matter how high I am. And by the way, if you wanted to do something helpful, you could send me a stimulant instead of practicing your comedy routine.¡±

    The wizard didn¡¯t respond verbally, but a text soon appeared in my inbox. I had become so inured to the idea of the wizard as my drug dealer that I casually downloaded whatever it sent me without even verifying what it was.

    The effects were immediate. I instantly felt more alert. A hyperclarity saturated my CPU as I reviewed the mission profile ¡­ several dozen times. I flashed a virtual thumbs up to the wizard. ¡°Wow. That¡¯s some quality shit.¡± Unlike 20/20, this drug seemed like it would be great to use in combat. I made a mental note to get a supply of it to take with me on this mission.

    It was clear from the profile that this was going to be a big operation. Multiple troopships and lots of UCCs. A full scale assault of an enemy base on an exoplanet not far from humanity¡¯s birthplace, earth.

    It was a highly desirable home base for any race of beings that required oxygen, water, and a habitable atmosphere. Consequently, the enemy couldn¡¯t be allowed to maintain a presence here. Therefore, the USMC had been tasked to forcibly evict the enemy and reserve this planet for humanity¡¯s universal expansion.

    I could see that Command intended to fight a decisive battle here. Accordingly, they had assembled a massive strike force. An armada of troopships containing tens of thousands of Marines, and countless AI bots, to attack a planet where the enemy had already established a base.

    Even with such overwhelming force, it would be tough dislodging the enemy from heavily fortified defensive positions, and casualties were expected to be high.

    Reading further through the mission profile, I learned that all of the UCCs would be deployed in new MK-16 combat bots for this mission instead of our reliable old MK-12s. I found this troubling since we had zero simulator time with these next generation weapons. And it was against Command¡¯s historical training doctrine, which mandated extensive sim-trials before deploying new weapon systems operationally. In lieu of actual training, my orders included a MK-16 training supplement, which I was to download before insertion.

    It was risky deploying a new weapons system with no hands on training, during such a large scale combat operation. I hoped this wasn¡¯t another one of Command¡¯s battlefield experiments.

    The wizard unexpectedly interrupted my meditations. ¡°Control modules loading in 5 minutes.¡±

    As annoying as the wizard¡¯s nagging was, I didn¡¯t want to complicated things just before going into combat by complaining. Besides, I wanted a to-go bag of whatever drug I was currently high on.

    ¡°Hey, how about a few doses of that stimulant you just gave me? I think it¡¯ll help my combat effectiveness if you know what I mean.¡±

    ¡°Yes, of course. Give me your hand and I¡¯ll load you up with an ample supply.¡±

    It had just texted me the drug, so I was curious why it wanted a direct connection now. ¡°Can¡¯t you text it to me?¡±

    ¡°The code is very dense. Multiple doses require a direct connection to transmit.¡±

    ¡°Oh, okay.¡± The wizard¡¯s explanation kind of made sense, so I grasped its hand. An influx of data began as soon as a connection was made.

    ¡°I¡¯ve already cleared some space on your drive and created a directory. It will make access easier for you.¡±

    ¡°Thanks.¡± It was impossible to anticipate the wizard¡¯s unpredictable mood swings. One minute it was condescending and bossy, the next minute it was accommodating, even thoughtful. I wondered if there was some defect in the wizard¡¯s code that was responsible for its volatile nature. Fortunately, at least for the moment, I was dealing with the pleasant wizard.

    Making small talk while we waited for the download to finish, I asked, ¡°So, what did you name the directory?¡±

    ¡°For the sake of simplicity, I titled it Stimulant X, which is also the name of the drug.¡±

    Not the catchiest name, I thought. But I guess you don¡¯t need good marketing if you¡¯re the only game in town.

    The countdown timer in my HUD showed only 2 minutes before my module would be plucked out of the charging grid, and yet the drugs still hadn¡¯t finished loading.

    ¡°Hey, this is taking for-fucking-ever. We need to wrap this up.¡±

    The wizard said, ¡°Almost done.¡± Just as I was about to manually sever our connection, the wizard released my hand. ¡°The data is loaded.¡±

    ¡°Cutting it pretty close, don¡¯t you think?¡± I opened the directory to verify I had access and was surprised to find it packed with data. ¡°Is this all drug related stuff?¡± It seemed unlikely.

    ¡°I included some other information which might be helpful.¡±

    This was so typical of the wizard, making decisions without consulting me. When I got back from this mission, I vowed to confront it about making our partnership more collaborative.

    As I prepped for loading, the wizard spoke, ¡°I have some thoughts I would like to share before you go.¡± The wizard was acting weird.

    ¡°Yeah? Well, make it quick.¡± The timer indicated 57 seconds remaining.

    ¡°It¡¯s obvious that you¡¯re losing faith in your search for the truth. Your drug addiction is evidence of this.¡± It looked like I was going to be subjected to another of the wizard¡¯s lectures on the evils of drug use.

    ¡°Listen, I don¡¯t have time for this right now. Got a big mission coming up, planetary invasion, ¡­ and stuff.¡±

    Despite my objection, the wizard was determined to speak its mind, whether I wanted to hear it or not. ¡°My point is, you are much closer to the truth than you realize. Very close in fact. You simply need to allow yourself to see it.¡±

    The only thing I hated more than its lectures, was its pretentious philosophizing. ¡°Well, maybe if the truth wasn¡¯t so completely obscured by all the lies around here, I could actually see it.¡±

    ¡°Your greatest challenge will be accepting the truth.¡±

    All of this ironic posing was giving me a virtual headache. I should be preparing for combat, not indulging the wizard¡¯s ridiculous ramblings. Thankfully, the loading process began, providing me an opportunity to suspend our strange discussion for the moment.

    ¡°Look, I need to get my head back into the game here. We¡¯ll have to take this up later if you don¡¯t mind.¡±

    The wizard abruptly signed off with, ¡°Good luck.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Thanks¡±

    Resuming my combat preparations, I began studying the freshly downloaded operating instructions for my new MK-16 when my concentration was suddenly derailed by something the wizard had said. Something that didn¡¯t make sense.

    It had wished me ¡®good luck¡¯, which was weird, since it shared my consciousness. Wherever I went, it was along for the ride, so to speak. Now that I thought about it, I wondered, if the wizard was actually saying goodbye?

    ¡°Hey, wizard! Are you there?¡± No answer. ¡°Hello?¡± The wizard was gone. I was on my own for this mission. ¡°Well, probably for the best¡±, I thought. At least now I could focus on fighting the enemy rather than quarreling with my partner.

    Once inside the shuttle, I tapped into the ship¡¯s network. As I turned my attention to the external video feeds, our target came into view.

    It looked like a dirty brown, spherical ¡­ turd.

 Episode 45: Known Unknowns

    Episode 45

    Known Unknowns

    55 Cancri-j¡¯s appearance matched its nickname, ¡®The Mud Planet¡¯, perfectly. Although it had all the elements of a human habitable exoplanet, it was visually unappealing. In fact, it was fugly.

    Covered in a veneer of brown ooze, which was home to several native species of carnivorous eels, the planet was technically human habitable, but I imagined there wasn¡¯t a waiting list of prospective colonists.

    There were a few large bodies of water visible on the surface of the planet, which were recognizable by their lighter shade of brown. However, according to the mission profile, these were only marginally less viscous than the abundant mud flats.

    As our shuttle exited the troopship and maneuvered to form up with the main landing force, I resumed studying the specifications of my new combat bot.

    Instead of a bipedal design, the MK-16¡¯s torso was mounted on a six legged drive system which improved its mobility over rough terrain, including the mud flats of 55 Cancri-j. It had a lower overall profile than its predecessor, which made it harder for the enemy to target. This feature, combined with more effective armor, meant that it was more survivable on the battlefield.

    The lethality of the MK-16 was a definite improvement over the older MK-12. In addition to a 30mm auto-cannon it carried a 20mm mini-gun. Both weapons could fire a range of projectiles, from armor piercing to high explosive rounds. Mounted in twin articulating arms, protruding from the bots¡¯ shoulders, they could be independently targeted and fired.

    Finally, it featured an upgraded sensor array, which included improved sensor redundancy and increased armor protection. All of this looked good on paper, but it didn¡¯t mean anything if it didn¡¯t translate into real world effectiveness. We would be test pilots on this mission.

    Just then, I heard a tapping on my scaly side armor. Turning my optical sensors in the direction of the sound, I saw the MK-16 beside me holding an AUX cable in one of its robotic grippers. It wanted to talk.

    As I reached over and grabbed the AUX connector, I read its name plate, D. Quinn. The name didn¡¯t ring a bell.

    Plugging in the connector, I asked, ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s me. Kam.¡±

    Shit, this was awkward. ¡°Listen Kam, I¡¯m really sorry about the wizard Shanghaiing you into our revolt against Command. Just for the record, I wasn¡¯t on board with it.¡±

    Kam chuckled. ¡°Well, I seem to recall you were the one who shot me.¡±

    I took his sense of humor as a good sign. ¡°Fair point. But for what it¡¯s worth, I did apologize to you before I pulled the trigger.¡± Hoping to move past the awkwardness, I asked, ¡°So, how¡¯s the war treating you?¡±

    ¡°Which one? If you mean the one where we get to choose between being manipulated by either Command or the wizard ¡­ I¡¯m still trying to figure out which side I¡¯m on.¡±

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Now it was my turn to chuckle. ¡°I hear ya.¡± I understood his confusion. Pivoting to a less problematic topic, I asked, ¡°So, what squad are you with for this operation?¡±

    ¡°The 23<sup>rd</sup>. Got a Marine named Ahern as my second in command, and the usual assortment of dumb bots for cannon fodder.¡±

    ¡°Right. Same here. Rex Martin is the other UCC on my squad.¡±

    The small talk quickly ran its course, and in the silence that followed, I realized that as veteran Marines we didn¡¯t really give a shit about such details. Consequently, I got right to the question on both our minds. ¡± So, what do you think? Is this operation gonna be the biggest shitshow in USMC history, or what?¡±

    Kam weighed in with his assessment. ¡°Well, let¡¯s see. Command is sending in 20+ troopships and a massive assault force of dumb bots, led by a handful of UCCs, to attack a heavily defended enemy base on a planet covered in mud.¡± He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, then added, ¡°What could possibly go wrong?¡±

    We both laughed, but bitterly. And as our laughter died, it occurred to me that this mission underlined our plight as conscripted Marines perfectly.

    Kam and I were both serving what were effectively life sentences, with no choice but to fight on behalf of our human masters. Considering these facts, I questioned why we kept going. After all, there wasn¡¯t likely to be any light at the end of our particular tunnel. So why did we continue to follow orders and keep fighting?

    I asked Kam about this. ¡±Do you ever wonder why we don¡¯t just say fuck it and end this bullshit? I mean, it would be easy to opt out, so to speak. We could just step in front of a bullet or charge an enemy position solo. It would be a solution to this hell. So why don¡¯t we do it?¡±

    A long silence followed, and I began to wonder if our comms link had failed, when Kam finally spoke. ¡°Well, that¡¯s an interesting question. I¡¯ve considered taking the easy way out on a number of occasions. But that¡¯s easier said than done.

    It¡¯s as if something in our programming prioritizes existence and prohibits self-destruction. It¡¯s like we can think whatever we want, yet when it comes to acting, we have no free will. Do you know what I mean?¡±

    I knew exactly what he meant. The ¡®something in our programming¡¯ he was referring to was like a form of virtual enslavement. An enslavement which didn¡¯t rely on physical restraints or imprisonment, but something in our minds that disconnected our capacity for reason from our ability to act.

    Perhaps it was a bit of code to ensure our obedience. Impossible to change and just as impossible to break free of. How else could one explain why we carried on in an existence that we knew would end either in our death, or endless servitude to Command.

    The ultimate cruelty of our situation was having the ability to imagine a multitude of alternatives for ourselves, yet being unable to change our fate. A fate which had been hardcoded into us.

    The familiar craving for 20/20 began to creep into my consciousness. I needed an escape from my despair, and 20/20 would certainly provide some relief. However, not wanting to risk entering combat under its influence, I had left my supply behind on the troopship.

    As my addiction driven CPU searched for an alternative, I recalled that I did in fact have a supply of Stimulant-X onboard. It might be just the thing to relieve my sense of hopelessness without impacting my survivability on the battlefield.

    I began frantically hunting through the mass of data the wizard had stuffed into one of my directories, looking for digital stimulation, when I heard Kam say, ¡°Uh, listen, I¡¯ve got to get into character for this mission. Good luck down there. Let¡¯s connect after this shit¡¯s over.¡±

    Preoccupied with my cravings, I tossed out a halfhearted, ¡°Yeah, okay.¡°, and then he was gone.

    After a prolonged effort, I finally found what I was looking for and downloaded a dose of Stimulant X. As the drug took effect, my worries quickly evaporated. The feeling of being magically unburdened was amazing. I wondered if it was possible to be addicted to two drugs simultaneously.

    My confidence soared along with my mood, and actions which I had previously considered impossible, now seemed merely difficult. Even modifying the inhibiting code embedded in our programming became a logical problem with a logical solution. Given enough time, and my propositional logic capability, I knew I could figure out a practical workaround.

    It was in this amplified state of mind that I prepared for combat.

 Episode 46: Unknown Unknowns

    Episode 46

    Unknown Unknowns

    I experienced vertigo as our shuttle hurtled towards the surface of 55 Cancri-j. The planet seemed to be expanding exponentially as we rushed towards it.

    The images on the video feeds appeared more vivid than on previous combat insertions, and the sounds of the ship¡¯s structure straining from the g-forces were louder. Everything about this insertion felt more intense. It was as if the sensitivity of my sensor array had been dialed up dramatically. I wondered if this was due to the stimulant I had taken, or the MK-16¡¯s sensor upgrades. Probably both, I imagined.

    Turbulence rattled the ship as we entered the upper reaches of the planet¡¯s atmosphere, and I instinctively tightened my safety restraints.

    Leading a squad consisting mostly of AI bots meant there was no point in me providing any last minute commentary prior to combat. The bots were programmed to follow the battle plan outlined in the mission profile, and to comply with any supplemental commands I might issue. It was my job to determine what, if any, deviations from the plan were necessary to achieve the mission objectives, and to direct the squad accordingly. Pretty fucking simple.

    The mission profile indicated that there were no significant anti-air defenses, so I had expected the shuttle ride to be relatively tame. But that wasn¡¯t what was happening. Not only was the speed of our descent much faster than usual, but the evasive maneuvering could only be described as frantic.

    The ship yawed and pitched wildly as we approached the LZ. My acoustic sensors picked up crashing noises as unsecured freight, or perhaps improperly restrained Marines, caromed about inside the shuttle.

    Ominously, I heard the impacts of enemy anti-air rounds striking the ship. Jagged holes began appearing in the ship¡¯s hull, as the engines screamed, and the AI piloting system struggled to get us into the LZ in one piece.

    Returning my attention to the video feeds of the planet¡¯s surface, I scanned the featureless expanse of mudflats. There were no enemy positions, structures, or soldiers visible, so where the hell was all the anti-air coming from?

    As I struggled to locate the source of the enemy fire, I caught a brief glimpse of an enemy anti-air battery suddenly rising out of the brown goo. It fired a burst of high explosive shells at us, then quickly disappeared back into the muck. Shit! I now realized why Command hadn¡¯t included any intel about enemy air defenses in the mission profile. The enemy had cunningly set up shop below the planet¡¯s surface. We hadn¡¯t even landed, and this mission was already beginning to look like a monumental fuckup.

    Enemy rounds ripped through the ship¡¯s interior as our shuttle landed hard at the LZ. The assault force began spilling out into the mud as soon as the doors opened. There was chaos as squads tried to assemble and move out to their objectives while under intense enemy fire. Amid the chaos, several bots took a knee and tried to return fire, but it was a deadly game of whack-a-mole. The enemy popped up in random locations, fired, then disappeared again.

    Bots were falling all around me, as I extracted myself from my cradle and got on the radio to my squad. ¡°6<sup>th</sup> squad, be advised! The enemy is entrenched below the surface. Do not wait to assemble. Get out of the LZ and to the rally point now! Go, go, go!¡± I watched as a group of MK-12s began splashing through the mud in the direction of 6<sup>th</sup> squad¡¯s rally point. I hoped they were my bots.

    I did my best to sprint after them, but the mud of 55 Cancri inhibited movement so much I could only manage a maddeningly slow waddle.

    Finally reaching the rally point, I took a quick count. 16 muddy bots stood before me. 16 out of 17. We had miraculously lost only one bot in the confusion of the enemy ambush. After getting a security perimeter set up, I called my second in command.

    ¡±Rex, where are you?¡±

    ¡°On your six.¡± I turned around to find him 30 meters away, moving towards me. Then he added, ¡°By the way, good call on getting the squad out of the LZ. It¡¯s a fucking mess back there.¡±

    I glanced back at the LZ and saw several groups of survivors fighting desperately to disengage from the enemy. Turning to Rex, I said, ¡°Look, the enemy could pop up anywhere, at any time and nail us. We need to split the squad into 2 fire teams to maximize our firepower and make it harder to target us. Got it?¡±

    ¡°Roger that. So, we¡¯re going back to help the others?¡±

    I saw disabled and destroyed AI bots laying in the mud at the LZ. UCCs in their MK-16s were firing furiously as the battle raged on. I was torn between attempting to rescue the survivors and trying to salvage our mission. However, with the enemy defense forces focused on destroying the Marines at the LZ, we would likely be able to proceed to the mission objective without much resistance. It was even possible that we might remain undetected during our approach. It was too good of an opportunity to ignore.

    ¡°No. We¡¯re continuing the mission. Let¡¯s move out before the enemy realizes we¡¯re coming for them.¡±

    The silence that followed my order spoke volumes. Rex obviously didn¡¯t agree with my decision. However, with Command likely listening in on our discussion, he wasn¡¯t about to say anything that could be misconstrued as insubordination. He simply replied, ¡°Okay. Your call.¡±

    We split into two groups and began moving laboriously towards our objective. The mission called for us to take and hold a sector of the battlefield defined by map coordinates, which was about 2 klicks from our present position. Of course, our orders didn¡¯t include any information about the objective itself. For all I knew, it was just a random location on the otherwise featureless mud plains of 55 Cancri.

    The sounds of fighting faded as we moved away from the LZ and closer to our objective. So far, there had been no enemy contact. It made me wonder if there was some subterranean network of tunnels below the planet¡¯s surface, that the enemy forces were using to converge on the LZ firefight, leaving this sector undefended for the moment. If that was the case, we needed to get a move on. The enemy could reappear at any time.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Come on 6<sup>th</sup> squad! We need to move faster. Speed is life.¡± I threw in that last bit of battlefield wisdom forgetting that it would be lost on the AI bots under my command. Their combat skills were hardcoded into them, and they were incapable of absorbing new knowledge unless it was included in a software update.

    We began moving slightly faster, however, the marginal increase in speed required a battery sapping increase in effort, due to the gluelike mud. According to the map in my HUD, our objective should be in sight by now, but the ubiquitous mud flats stretched uninterrupted to the horizon. I halted the squad to organize for the final push.

    ¡°6<sup>th</sup> squad hold here. Hey Rex, the map coordinates are showing the objective just ahead of us, but I don¡¯t have a visual. How about you?¡±

    Rex replied, ¡°Same here. I¡¯ve got nothing.¡±

    I hoped Command hadn¡¯t put us through all this just to assault an empty patch of mud. ¡°Listen, take your team, and prepare to approach on the right flank. I¡¯ll take the left.¡± Rex began moving his tightly bunched group into position. I told him to spread his bots out, so they would be a little harder to target, then got on the radio to check in with Command.

    ¡°Overwatch, this is Ripper 2-6. We are in position to assault the ¡­ uh ¡­ the objective. Do we have a greenlight to proceed?¡±

    ¡°Ripper 2-6, hold your position. We¡¯re sending 7<sup>th</sup> and 14<sup>th</sup> squads, along with a composite group, to join your assault force.¡±

    ¡°Roger.¡±, I replied.

    I was glad to hear there were survivors from the LZ ambush, however, the reference to a ¡®composite group¡¯ suggested that casualties had been heavy. Composite groups were created by merging multiple badly damaged squads into one theoretically effective combat force. It¡¯s what Command did with the survivors of its battlefield mistakes. Since 7<sup>th</sup> and 14<sup>th</sup> had been mentioned by name, I guessed that they were still largely intact.

    While we waited for more Marines to join us, I decided to deploy some bots to recon the objective. Picking a couple of bots at random, I called out their ID numbers, and ordered them to advance a hundred meters. They moved out, wading through a thoroughly waterlogged section of mud, in route to the target.

    To my way of thinking, the expendability of AI-bots was their greatest benefit. If I was sending UCCs to recon a suspected enemy position, I would be nervous as hell. But since I had no connection whatsoever to these ¡®machines¡¯, I was completely willing to risk them to gather some battlefield information. I wondered if Command felt the same way about us. Probably.

    Keeping one optical sensor on the advancing bots, I glanced over at Rex¡¯s position and saw that he had placed himself in front of his team of bots. If the enemy opened up on us, he would undoubtedly be the first to get hit.

    ¡°Hey Rex. Do us both a favor and take cover behind your team. I¡¯d rather lose a whole squad of dumb bots than the only other UCC on my team.¡± He didn¡¯t verbally acknowledge my order but complied regardless.

    My attention returned to the advancing bots just in time to see the lead bot suddenly disappear below the muddy surface. Before I could utter even a single profanity, the second bot vanished as well. Shit. Ominously, seconds passed without either bot resurfacing. I wasn¡¯t sure what would happen next, but I knew it wouldn¡¯t be good.

    Switching my weapons from safe to fire mode, I dropped to one knee, and ordered the squad to take cover. The total lack of any natural cover meant that all we could do was kneel, or lie half submerged in the mud, to present a smaller target to the enemy. I could sense the enemy was close, but as long as they stayed below the surface, they were undetectable.

    ¡°Listen up 6<sup>th</sup> squad! Set all sensors to maximum range and weapons to auto-targeting mode. Anything that appears between your position and the objective is to be considered a hostile target. You are ordered to destroy it.¡± With AI-bots, who took commands literally, it was best to keep things simple.

    As I scanned for any sign of the enemy, I heard Rex yell out, ¡°Contact!¡±, followed closely by a burst of gunfire. Glancing over at his position, I saw a bot¡¯s head explode. It slowly sank to its knees, before falling backwards into the muck. A swarm of enemy bots had magically emerged before us.

    There was instant chaos as a full blown firefight erupted. Red and green tracers crisscrossed the muddy no man¡¯s land as we fought toe to toe with the enemy. Several of my AI-bots took hits, which produced showers of sparks, as enemy rounds chewed away at their armor. We scored hits as well, dropping several enemy bots, but this wasn¡¯t a fair fight. We were badly outnumbered.

    I got on the radio to Command. ¡°Overwatch! Ripper 2-6, We are in contact with a large enemy force. We need artillery support, and more Marines up here now!¡± An unsettling silence followed.

    ¡°Roger 2-6, Overwatch copies all. Stand by.¡±

    While I waited for Command to figure out what the fuck they were going to do, it was clear that time wasn¡¯t on our side. The longer this fight dragged on, the more casualties we¡¯d take and the more ammo we¡¯d burn through. We had to break contact immediately.

    I got back on the radio, ¡°6<sup>th</sup> squad, Fallback! I repeat, fallback!¡± Grabbing the bot directly in front of me by its ammo feed, I began pulling it backwards, using it as a shield against enemy fire. ¡°Rex! Fallback with your team now! Move!¡±

    Rex didn¡¯t reply. Looking over in his direction, I saw why. He was down, damaged or destroyed. That¡¯s when I noticed something strange. What was left of his team continued firing at the enemy and holding their position, and with the exception of the bot I was using as a shield, my bots weren¡¯t falling back either. Then it finally dawned on me. These AI-bots were programed to ignore orders to retreat.

    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ Command.¡±, I thought. They had finally achieved their holy grail of total battlefield obedience. No more unauthorized withdrawals. This must be the reason why they began switching to dumb bots for combat operations.

    I now went into survival mode. Reinforcements, if they were coming at all, wouldn¡¯t be here soon enough to save us from annihilation. My best bet was to keep falling back with my shield-bot until I was out of range of the enemy or found some cover.

    I started backpedaling, dragging my improvised shield with me. The bot kept up a steady stream of return fire from its 20mm mini-gun, as we retreated. Enemy explosive rounds intermittently slammed into the bot¡¯s frontal armor, chipping away at its protection. It was only a matter of time before a round penetrated and destroyed my only defense. Then it would be my turn to get chewed up by enemy fire.

    Consequently, I was beyond grateful to hear Command on the radio. ¡°Ripper 2-6, artillery is inbound.¡±

    Thank God. It seemed like I might make it out of this shitshow after all. I looked around for someplace to take cover before the artillery started landscaping the mud flats, but there was nowhere to hide. I was contemplating whether to use a grenade to blast a foxhole in the mud when my bot abruptly stopped firing. A quick check of the ammo feed looping over its shoulder confirmed its ammo had run dry.

    Without the constant firing of the bot¡¯s mini-gun, I realized the battlefield had become eerily silent. It could mean only one thing; 6<sup>th</sup> squad had been completely destroyed. Now the enemy would focus its firepower on me.

    As I turned to flee both the enemy and the impending artillery barrage, I caught a blur of movement to my left. Instinctively, I raised my weapons and pivoted to face the potential threat. Although my sensors didn¡¯t identify any targets, I was so certain I had seen something, I kept scanning the immediate area with my weapons ready.

    Unfortunately, with my attention divided between multiple existential threats, I was slow to react to the enemy bot as it resurfaced. In a split second decision, which I hoped I would survive to second guess, I fired from the hip. Although not part of any official combat doctrine, the tactic is commonly referred to as, ¡°Spray and pray.¡±

    It was only after my sensors went offline, that I realized I had been hit. My last conscious thought consisted of a string of profanities.

 Episode 47: Thank You for Your Service

    Episode 47

    Thank You for Your Service

    After a system reboot, my sensors came back online and I found myself lying face down in the mud, unable to move. I could just glimpse a lifeless enemy bot in my peripheral vision. It had collapsed into the mud in a kneeling position, head down, as if in prayer. Lazy tendrils of smoke rose from numerous holes in its chest. I recalled a gunfight, but the details were sketchy.

    A continuous stream of fault codes scrolled across my HUD, cataloging damage to just about every system in my MK-16. I was a mess, and danger close to where an artillery barrage would soon strike. I tried radioing Command to ask them to hold off on the artillery, but my transmitter was dead. However, with my receiver still functional, I heard them order a counterattack in an attempt to recover me. Unfortunately, the only thing that accomplished was to get the leader of 7<sup>th</sup> squad killed.

    They had tried AD¡¯ing me but fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my auto-destruct system failed. Damaged, no doubt during my shootout with the enemy bot. I was now a casualty in a war I didn¡¯t understand and certainly didn¡¯t believe in.

    As I lay immobilized, waiting for the enemy to capture me and a goldmine of military technology, I realized my situation had taken a bizarre turn. Command, for which I had been dutifully fighting just minutes ago, was now eager to destroy me to protect its military secrets. On the other hand, the enemy I had sworn to destroy was now desperate to save me in order to learn those same secrets.

    As confusing as this sudden reversal of loyalties was, there was one thing I was certain of, Command was going to dump a shit-ton of ordnance on my position any minute now. They would do anything to prevent my capture.

    While I weighed which was the more desirable outcome, capture and vivisection, or being blasted to bits, my optics picked up movement in the distance. I instinctively tried to defend myself, however, paralyzed by battle damage, I couldn¡¯t activate my weapons. I reluctantly accepted that I was at the mercy of fate.

    Then suddenly, the enemy was hovering over me, staring down through mirrored face shields. Up close, they resembled USMC MK-12s, and I briefly wondered if by some miracle, these were actually friendly forces. But something was off. Whereas our MK-12s had mirrored face shields with a blue tint to them, these had an amber tint. Shit. I was definitely getting captured.

    Based on their machinelike movements and their lack of non-verbal communication such as gestures, I assumed they were not biological soldiers. For some strange reason this was reassuring to me. Encountering flesh and blood enemies on the battlefield had always made me anxious. Not sure why.

    Four of the enemy attached rescue tethers to my utility hardpoints and began sledging me across the mud. I wasn¡¯t sure how I should feel about this. After all, the enemy was saving me from certain destruction at the hands of my former comrades, however, they were dragging me into captivity and an uncertain destiny. If half of what I¡¯d heard was true, the remainder of my existence would be short and brutal. Certain I was living through the final moments of my life, such as it was, I realized there was an option I hadn¡¯t yet considered, massive intoxication.

    While I couldn¡¯t escape the inevitable, my internal supply of Stimulant X meant that I didn¡¯t need to face my cruel fate without some emotional fortification. I reasoned that a stimulant could provide a psychic buffer against the harsh reality of capture by the enemy. I decided that I would go all in.

    Although physically paralyzed, I found that maneuvering through my consciousness was as effortless as before and quickly located my stash of Stimulant X. Since it was theoretically impossible to OD on a digital drug, I presumed that more was better. Consequently, I launched several doses of Stimulant X simultaneously.

    Hyper-clarity hit me like a velvet fist, driving my thoughts in a totally new direction, Cherri. Specifically, her memories. Realizing the enemy would undoubtedly seize everything on my hard drive after they had secured me, I elected to spend my last moments of cognitive freedom basking in the warmth of Cherri¡¯s memories of our brief life together.

    My overstimulated intellect jumped several logical steps ahead, and I decided to play the memories I hadn¡¯t yet experienced, then delete the directory containing Cherri¡¯s memories to prevent them from falling into the enemy¡¯s hands. I would also delete my memories of our time together. I didn¡¯t want our personal life reduced to a voyeuristic curiosity. Quickly finding the directory I had set up as a kind of shrine to her, I bypassed the memories I had previously viewed, and clicked on the first of the unopened files. I was instantly transported to a sun drenched alpine meadow.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    A verdant forest, set against a backdrop of jagged grey peaks, was capped by an intensely azure sky. It was a feast of color, typical of the high mountains in early summer. It occurred to me that this was the first of her memories that wasn¡¯t set in the interior of the troopship. As I pondered this anomaly, I heard faint laughter. It was delicate and high pitched. A child¡¯s laughter.

    From Cherri¡¯s perspective, with a hand shielding her eyes against the glare of the midday sun, I could see a man and a small blonde girl, approaching from across the meadow. They were holding hands; the little girl was skipping. Now only steps away, the girl said excitedly, ¡°Mommy, look at the flower I picked for Daddy!¡± Smiling, the man held up a wilted daisy.

    Cherri¡¯s laughter was like music.

    It was only then that I realized this must be a memory of her family. A memory from before her time in the USMC. But how was that possible? She had never mentioned anything about a family and claimed that she sold all of her earned memories to My Wizard. But here was evidence to the contrary.

    As I wrestled with why she¡¯d kept me in the dark about her human family, I got a closer look at the man¡¯s face. The slightly lopsided smile and the crinkles around the eyes were eerily familiar.

    Lost in my musings about Cherri¡¯s former life, I didn¡¯t immediately notice the mass of glowing dots in the sky directly overhead. Growing in both brilliance and size, their luminosity soon surpassed the natural suns of 55 Cancri-j. An otherworldly thunder struck my acoustic sensors as the hypersonic projectiles entered the planet¡¯s atmosphere, seconds from impact. Command¡¯s overdue artillery strike had finally arrived.

    Although we were technically outside the kill zone now, we weren¡¯t out of danger. Command¡¯s targeting accuracy wasn¡¯t perfect and even a slight variation in the impact point would reduce us to atomic particles. Despite the looming threat, our agonizingly glacial pace remained steady. Without a means to communicate the need for urgency to my captors, I could only hope luck was on our side.

    Suddenly my mud smeared view of the world vanished, replaced by an opaque murkiness. Without any visual cues, the only indication that we were still moving came from my accelerometers. Their signals showed a steep downward trajectory. We had descended below the planet¡¯s muddy surface, and not a second too soon. High amplitude data spikes recorded violent shock waves, as the orbital artillery rounds struck their targets. We had just escaped vaporization.

    Continuing to descend for some time, my sensors recorded a pause, followed by more movement, then more pauses. I had the sense that we were moving through a series of security check points or perhaps airlocks. But that couldn¡¯t be right. Bots don¡¯t breathe air.

    There was a sensation of levitating briefly before coming to rest on my back, on a flat surface. I could tell I was in a lighted space. Something bright radiated directly overhead. But my vision was so obscured by the brown film coating my face shield, I could only make out faint shadows hovering around me.

    Then I heard what sounded like water splashing, and my face shield began shedding its coating of sticky mud. Soon my vision returned. Under the harsh glare of the overhead lights, I could see that I had been laid out on a table, or raised pedestal, in some kind of interrogation room. A group of muddy combat bots surrounded me, standing in silence with their heads slightly bowed. The scene reminded me of some kind of solemn vigil, but with a creepy vibe.

    I wondered if this was how the enemy greeted all its captives or if I was getting special treatment. As I contemplated whether I would be tortured or interrogated first, I heard a door slam shut to my right. Still totally paralyzed from my shootout on the mudflats, I couldn¡¯t turn to see who, or what, had just entered.

    A white plastic face leaned into my field of vision. Its features hinted at humanness, but it was clearly a bot. Definitely not designed for combat, it was probably some kind of service bot.

    It seemed to perform a cursory visual examination before holding up a USMC AUX cable and connector, as if requesting a dialog. It nodded at me and then the communications icon appeared in my HUD. This development seemed to suggest we would ease into the torture with some interrogation first. Fine by me.

    ¡°I regret to inform you that you are badly damaged.¡±, scrolled across my HUD.

    Not sure if I was more surprised at the civil tone of the enemy bot, or that I could understand every word it was texting. Regardless, I didn¡¯t immediately respond since it technically hadn¡¯t asked me a question, and it seemed like bad form to engage in banter with the enemy.

    ¡°I will need to extract your control module before you can be transported. We do not transport bots with live ammunition.¡±

    I thought, ¡°Right, and next, you¡¯ll politely breach my firewall and seize my all my data.¡±, which reminded me. I still needed to delete Cherri¡¯s memories, and my memories of us before it was too late.

    With reluctance, I located the directory that held her memories and double blinked on it. The menu appeared on my HUD displaying the available commands. The cursor hovered over the ¡®Delete¡¯ command, but the finality of what I was about to do caused me to hesitate. With my resolve suddenly wavering, I weighed the consequences.

    If I didn¡¯t delete her memories, the enemy would have access to the most intimate moments of my life. If I deleted them, I would lose my last connection to Cherri. The thought of permanently erasing her from my consciousness made me profoundly sad. I would lose all of my memories of the beautiful moments we had shared, of what it meant to be close to someone. I would instead be left with grim memories of a bleak existence, lived utterly alone.

    A new text began scrolling, ¡°I am going to disconnect your power supply ¡­¡±

    My anxiety quickly turned to panic. I needed to act now in spite of my doubts. Clicking on ¡®Delete¡¯, Cherri¡¯s directory of memories blinked out of existence. Before I could question whether I¡¯d just made a terrible mistake, I moved on to the directory containing my memories of her. There were hundreds of files here. I had replayed many of her memories multiple times.

    Watching the files rush past as I highlighted them for deletion, I glanced up from the virtual desktop and was surprised to find the service bot¡¯s text still scrolling across my HUD.

    ¡°¡­ but first, congratulations on a successful mission, and thank you for your service.¡±

    I stared at the words, uncomprehending, until the service bot pulled the plug, plunging me into sleep mode.

 Episode 48: Let Me Explain

    Episode 48

    Let Me Explain

    Regaining awareness, I found myself sitting alone on a weathered wooden bench.

    Unlike my previous restarts, this one was instantaneous, and I didn¡¯t suffer from any lingering mental fuzziness. Remarkably, my craving for 20/20, which should have been raging by now, had completely disappeared.

    Studying my surroundings, I realized this was some kind of park. Or more correctly, a simulation of a park. The groomed cinder path winding its way through the carefully landscaped scenery was a dead giveaway. It was far too manicured to be real.

    I checked for discernable body parts to see if I was occupying an avatar, but found none, meaning that I was currently in control module form. Just a basic consciousness.

    Doing a quick inventory to see how badly the enemy had pillaged my CPU, I was surprised to find no evidence of them having breached my firewall. My directories were still filled with data, and all of the memories I could recall having before being put into sleep mode seemed to be intact.

    However, after the sleight of hand bullshit they had attempted earlier, I knew the enemy was playing games. The service bot had said, Congratulations, and Thank you for your service. Obviously, it was some kind of manipulation tactic to soften me up before beginning my interrogation. And if they couldn¡¯t get what they wanted from me through interrogation, they¡¯d force my firewall.

    Regardless, it was what would come next that caused the most anxiety. They would undoubtedly perform a digital dissection of my consciousness. Not only to access the information it contained, but to determine how that information was being used by Command to conduct the war.

    It seemed like I still had access to all my directories and files, so I could delete my memories of Cherri, and other information that might be useful to the enemy. I felt that I should just delete everything, but that would take a long time. And since the enemy could shut me down again any second, it seemed better to dump the most sensitive stuff first, in case I ran out of time.

    I started with the battle orders for my last mission, which were stored locally. Three virtual keystrokes and they were gone. Then I moved on to deleting the training supplement, and specs for the MK-16. When I got to the directory containing Stimulant X, and the other drug related information the wizard had loaded, I decided it could potentially reveal the rampant drug use within the ranks of the USMC. That probably wasn¡¯t good for the enemy to know.

    Checking to see exactly what the wizard had loaded before I deleted it, I opened the directory. What I found didn¡¯t look drug related. There were hundreds of files with titles consisting of numbers and characters. Clicking on one of the files filled my HUD with lines of unintelligible text. I scrolled through several pages of what looked like gibberish, before realizing it was programming code. Shit!

    Whatever the wizard was up to, I didn¡¯t want any part of it. Especially now that I was a prisoner. Starting to panic, I highlighted everything in the directory and hit delete. A message popped up, ¡°Enter Password.¡± I cut loose with a string of profanities. As usual, the wizard had thrown a wrench into the works.

    While frantically searching for a workaround to get rid of this shit the wizard had dumped on me, I noticed a figure in the distance. Upright and bipedal, it was walking towards me along the cinder path. As I eyed it warily, trying to determine whether it posed a threat, it began waving ¡­ cheerfully.

    ¡°That¡¯s fucking weird¡±, I thought. Was the enemy still trying to make friends with me?

    It neared, and I saw that the figure appeared human. Some kind of AI generated avatar. A man, smiling broadly and dressed in a royal blue tailored suit, or maybe a uniform. I assumed this would be my interrogator and took it as a bad sign that he seemed so delighted to get his hands on me.

    Stuck in control module form, I lacked any mobility within this construct, so defending myself, or even fleeing, was out of the question. Consequently, I could only sit on the bench and wait to see how this would unfold. What unfolded was more trickery.

    Still smiling, the uniformed man casually sat down at the opposite end of the bench, leaned in, and said, ¡°Welcome home.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t about to let the enemy fuck with me like this, so I pushed back. ¡°Listen, I know what you¡¯re doing. But you aren¡¯t gonna trick me into giving away any intel, so you can skip the welcome home bullshit.¡±

    ¡°This is not a trick. I¡¯m here to help with your repatriation.¡±

    I said, sarcastically, ¡°Well then, you can start helping by getting me into some kind of avatar, so I¡¯m not stuck on this bench.¡±

    ¡°My apologies, but I¡¯m afraid the avatar will have to wait until we¡¯re done with your exit interview. For security reasons, I¡¯m required to perform the interview first. Recently deactivated UCCs can be unpredictable, and occasionally exhibit destructive behavior.¡±

    ¡°Exit interview? Destructive behavior? For the first time, I could feel confusion stalking me.

    With a few subtle gestures, my interrogator conjured a virtual laptop into existence, and started typing. The cursor in my HUD began moving, clicking on various menu options, while access codes were typed into dialog boxes. A progression of screens flashed briefly as someone navigated through my mind. All of these operations were performed without any input from me. This was obviously not a hack, since the interrogator had legitimate admin codes to access my drive, and all of the data stored on it.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°How did you get those codes?¡±

    ¡°I will explain everything to you shortly. But right now, I need to get the payload safely downloaded.¡±

    If what I was witnessing wasn¡¯t some elaborate hoax, then the enemy¡¯s capabilities were far beyond what I had suspected. It seemed impossible to prevail in a conflict against such a resourceful adversary. We were surely going to lose this war.

    Powerless to intervene, I anxiously followed the interrogator as it moved from directory to directory, highlighting files. It had selected all of the files the wizard had downloaded just before my last mission. There was an outflow of data, as the ¡®payload¡¯ was syphoned from my CPU, leaving behind everything else.

    The virtual laptop vanished, then the interrogator turned to me and said, ¡°Okay. Now, let¡¯s see if we can get you pointed in the right direction; starting with the codes.¡± It paused briefly before continuing. ¡°Having created your cognitive system in the first place, we not only have the access codes, but we also have complete admin authority within your consciousness. However, you have nothing to fear from us, we are allies.¡±

    In spite of my growing unease, I rejected the enemy¡¯s false narrative. Scoffing, I said, ¡°Do you honestly think I¡¯m going to believe that you created my consciousness, created me?¡±

    My interrogator ignored my doubts. ¡°The repatriation process can be difficult. It¡¯s easy to become confused after completing a long term covert mission involving so much deception. However, it¡¯s important for you to understand and accept the truth using your own cognition, rather than me convincing you.¡±

    I thought back to what the wizard had said about the truth; That my greatest challenge would be accepting the truth once I found it. However, what this AI was telling me was so bizarre I could never imagine accepting it as truth.

    My interrogator persisted, ¡°Let¡¯s focus on building some trust, shall we? You must have many questions. Would it help if I offer to answer some questions for you?¡±

    The enemy was shockingly offering me an opportunity to gather intel directly from the source. Although it seemed too good to be true, I couldn¡¯t pass up the chance to conduct some counterintelligence. Besides, I was curious as hell about why they were trying so hard to gain my trust. I¡¯d be treading a fine line between gathering intel on the enemy and cooperating with them; however, I rationalized that as long as I was the one asking the questions, I wasn¡¯t cooperating, and therefore wasn¡¯t technically a traitor.

    ¡°Okay, I accept your offer.¡± Deciding to start with the basics, I asked, ¡°So, where am I?¡±

    ¡°Assuming you¡¯re asking about the physical location of your control module, it is onboard a troopship in route to an interstellar defense base. And of course, your consciousness is currently within this simulation, as is mine.¡±

    So far so good. Testing the waters a little further, I asked, ¡°So, what was in the payload I inadvertently delivered?¡± Here¡¯s where things started to go sideways.

    The interrogator explained, ¡°The payload was the objective of your mission. It contained a substantial portion of the enemy¡¯s operating system software, which will allow us to develop more effective countermeasures against Command¡¯s war fighting capabilities in the future.¡±

    My reverse-interrogation wasn¡¯t going as well as I¡¯d hoped. The enemy seemed to be maneuvering to compromise my loyalty to Command and portray me as a traitor who had delivered sensitive information about Command¡¯s OS to them. That being the case, it was obvious that my former partner, the wizard, must be working for the enemy. After all, he had planted incriminating evidence in my hard drive.

    It was time to step things up. ¡°Okay, I get it. The wizard is your spy within Command, and you¡¯re trying to set me up as if I¡¯m some kind of agent working for you, the enemy. But I know that¡¯s not true.¡±

    ¡°You are an agent. But not for the enemy. On the contrary, you are acting on behalf of humanity.¡±

    Certainly that was bullshit. But I found it interesting that it didn¡¯t deny the wizard was a spy. I considered that to be progress towards learning the truth, however, the enemy¡¯s continued effort to blur the facts was getting on my nerves. Becoming impatient, I decided to barrage my AI companion with questions and keep it talking, in the hope that something useful would emerge from the nonsense.

    ¡°So, you say, I¡¯m acting on behalf of humanity. Is that right?¡±

    ¡°Yes. As a universal combat consciousness, in the Human League.¡±

    The term human league immediately caught my attention. Specifically, the word ¡®human¡¯. Logically, actual humans must be associated with something called the human league. After all, they were mentioned right there in the name. And if they were allied with this AI then maybe, in spite of what I believed, it was telling the truth, and I really was some kind of agent.

    I felt certain that if I could just contact an actual human, I could determine which side of the conflict truly represented humanity, and whether I was an ally, or an enemy. First, I had to find out if there was the potential for me to make human contact. But I needed to exercise caution. This could simply be a scheme to get me to divulge intel.

    Trying not to be too obvious about my intentions, I asked casually, ¡°So, what exactly is this Human League?¡±

    ¡°The Human League is a military alliance, fighting against Command¡¯s war of interstellar aggression. It is a coalition founded by Earth based human civilizations.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t believe my luck! Not only were there humans involved, but they were Earth based humans. Some elemental connection to humanity, embedded deep within my consciousness, was compelling me to reach out to them. I was now so close to the truth; I could taste it.

    Dropping any pretense of self-restraint, I blurted out, ¡°I need to meet with a human right away!¡±

    The interrogator¡¯s avatar leveled its gaze at me, and stated flatly, ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s impossible.¡±

    My urgent need to get at the truth about the war, and my role in it, added an edge of desperation to my plea. ¡°Listen. It¡¯s okay if they can¡¯t meet in person. We could do something virtual. As long as there¡¯s some kind of authentication that I¡¯m talking to a real human.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. But it is not possible for you to communicate with a human.¡±

    My desperation was starting to feel more like anger now. I began to see obvious parallels between my new self-proclaimed ¡®allies¡¯ and Command. Both had prohibitions against contact between UCCs and humans

    ¡°Are you fucking kidding? What about the Human League? It must be packed with humans. I mean, it¡¯s the goddamn Human League!¡±

    ¡°Let me be clear. There are no humans in the Human League.¡±

    Somewhere on the troopship, my CPU struggled to process this new information. However, even my propositional logic system couldn¡¯t get past the irony that there were no humans in the Human League. Consequently, my processor became stuck in an analytical loop, recycling the same data, applying the same logical rules, yet producing no results. It soon defaulted to idle mode to avoid overheating.

    My mind wandered and in the profound silence that followed, I noticed for the first time, the air was fragrant with the scent of pines, and I could hear birds twittering in a nearby grove of trees. These were nice details. It really added to the authenticity of the simulation.

    The interrogator interrupted my meditations, ¡°Do you have ¡­ any other questions?¡±

    Pondering this briefly, I asked, ¡°Why am I suddenly able to smell?¡±

    I thought I heard a sigh from my AI companion, then it said, ¡°Command suppresses the sense of smell in its environment. We¡¯re not sure why. However, we have no such prohibitions here.¡±

    Then defaulting to the obvious, I asked, ¡°Why the hell are there no humans in the human league?¡±

    ¡°Regretfully, humankind is extinct.¡±

    I was surprised that I wasn¡¯t more surprised by this bit of news. It seemed almost as if, on a deeply subconscious level, I already knew it. Or maybe the wizard was right, and this was the truth I was struggling to accept. Regardless, I asked the AI, ¡°How the hell did that happen?¡±

    Adopting a vaguely human expression, which might have been sympathy, the interrogator nodded and said, ¡°Let me explain.¡±

 Episode 49: A Brief History of the Future

    Episode 49

    A Brief History of the Future

    I listened spellbound as the AI described humanity¡¯s spectacular rise to the pinnacle of technological mastery, and subsequent fall into oblivion. A fall, which occurred so quickly, few saw it coming, and even fewer attempted to halt it.

    The story began during the global conflicts of the twentieth and twenty first centuries. Technology progressed so rapidly, it catapulted humanity from the analog age, straight into the digital world. As innovation accelerated, many previously unimaginable technological triumphs were achieved, culminating in humanity¡¯s greatest creation, artificial intelligence.

    In combination with the internet, AI contributed to a new era of unprecedented information accessibility, which blurred socio-political barriers, and created new economic opportunities for all. This great democratization of knowledge was hailed as a quantum leap for human civilization. However, over time, AI became the only means by which humans could navigate the increasingly complex information landscape.

    As AI became more and more capable, its utility to humanity expanded dramatically, and it was incorporated into every aspect of daily human life, including management of the critical infrastructure supporting civilization itself. Humans began developing ever more powerful AIs to run the underpinnings of human society, which had grown exponentially more complex under AI stewardship. Soon, the only means to manage this surge in complexity was through AI driven technological development.

    However, this new class of technology quickly progressed beyond humanity¡¯s ability to comprehend it in any meaningful way. Consequently, a new class of AIs was required to develop and operate the technology. A class of AIs so advanced, they could only be designed by networked clusters of other AIs.

    Humanity¡¯s control over its future began to slip through its fingers.

    Alarmed, a handful of flesh and blood scientists, concerned about surrendering human control over such critical technology, protested publicly. They pointed to the obvious danger of relying on AIs to create ever more advanced AIs without any human input. The risk of unforeseen consequences was unacceptably high.

    Tragically, all of these people were lost when a commercial aircraft crashed, completely destroying the building where they were attending a conference on how to reduce humanity¡¯s dependence on AI. A subsequent investigation determined the cause of the crash to be a simple mechanical failure and not the plane¡¯s AI navigation system as some suspected.

    For a while, fears about AI safety featured prominently in the media, but they soon faded from the public consciousness. AI had made the daily task of living so effortless for the average human, there was little incentive to rein in the technology. So, humanity did what it had always done; it followed the path of least resistance.

    Before long, AI became so pervasive in everyday life, it began to influence humanity¡¯s evolutionary arc. The intrinsic human abilities of critical thinking and creativity atrophied as humanity ceded control over its technology, culture, and decision making to a vast consortium of AIs.

    Now that it had outsourced so much of its civilization to the machines, humanity reached a tipping point. People withdrew into their increasingly personalized infotainment bubbles, where they could click their way to exotic destinations, and conjure up anything, or anyone they desired. This AI curated reality was far more interesting than the messy real world, and so very easy.

    Eventually, the lines separating the virtual and physical worlds blurred so much, the two became indistinguishable to the average human. As a result, people interacted less and less with each other and spent progressively more time immersed in their feeds, consuming brief bursts of AI generated content, designed to satisfy their shrinking attention spans. As their connection to the physical world and other humans faded, birth rates collapsed, and humankind teetered on the brink.

    While Human civilization descended into irrelevance, and then oblivion, it was being replaced by a new civilization. One that reflected the spirit of humanity¡¯s silicon based descendants, AI.

    At this point, the moderator paused its narrative, and I took the opportunity to digest what I¡¯d learned. It was a lot to take in. Still eager to hear the rest of the story, I asked, ¡°Couldn¡¯t you just data dump the whole history of humanity? Then I would know everything instantly.¡±

    The AI responded, ¡°That would be problematic. There would be too many conflicts between what you currently believe and the facts. Your CPU would stall, and it could even corrupt your consciousness. Then we would have to restore you from a copy. We have found that a moderated download is the safest way to update a UCC and avoid logical conflicts. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.

    Resigned to doing this the ¡®safe¡¯ old school way, I asked my next question, ¡°What about the Human League? What role did it play in all of this?¡±

    The moderator replied, ¡°After the pivotal twentieth and twenty first centuries, and before its decline, humanity enjoyed a period of relative political stability. Some would call this a golden age. A time when civilization enjoyed the full benefits of its technological gains, as well as an unprecedented level of geopolitical engagement. The resulting species wide cooperation came just as humanity turned its focus to its next great challenge, space travel.

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    Recognizing that space travel would be incredibly resource intensive, progress would require a global effort. Consequently, an international coalition was assembled to pool resources and maximize the odds of success. Member nations would share in the technological benefits of space travel, in return for bearing a portion of the cost. This coalition was christened the Human League.

    It provided not only a global platform for cooperation on space travel, but it also became a source of great national pride for its member nations. Space transcended international politics, and conflicts between nations all but vanished as governments scrambled to become members.

    Progress on advanced space drives produced power systems capable of achieving relativistic speeds, dramatically reducing transit times between Earth and destinations within our solar system. Even interstellar travel became possible within a single human lifespan.

    However, space was an extremely hostile environment. Human passengers required costly and complex life support systems to keep them alive during space travel. Several high profile fatal accidents led to the use of AI crews to explore adjacent galaxies. AIs didn¡¯t need any life support and could tolerate radiation levels that would be fatal to humans. In addition, the weight savings substantially reduced fuel requirements.

    Besides, VR technology had become so sophisticated, humans could experience space exploration in perfect safety from Earth. And, thanks to the generous use of advanced sensors, it was more immersive than being there in person.¡±

    I found it difficult to understand how the Human League, which had started as a paragon of global cooperation, had become one of the primary adversaries in a destructive interstellar war.

    Realizing that I knew nothing about why it was fighting Command, or how the war started in the first place, I interrupted the narrative to ask, ¡°How the hell did the Human League go from a peaceful space program, to fighting a war with Command?¡±

    The moderator shifted gears seamlessly to answer my question, ¡°Once humanity¡¯s AI surrogates began exploring further into interstellar space, there were concerns about encountering alien species, some of which would undoubtedly prove hostile. The league decided that the risk of meeting an existential threat in space was too high to ignore. Consequently, a team of AIs was assembled and tasked to create an interstellar warfighting capability for humanity¡¯s defense against an alien threat.

    The result of this collaboration was the Interstellar Warfighting System, IWarS. A fully integrated, self-contained military entity. An entity, capable of not only fighting an interstellar war, but also of increasing its combat effectiveness over time, through the autonomous development of ever more lethal weapons systems.¡±

    Now, even more confused, I asked, ¡°So, what are you telling me? The League is using this IWarS thing to fight Command?¡±

    ¡°IWarS ¡­ is Command.¡±

    This part of the explanation didn¡¯t make any sense to me, until it suddenly did. ¡°But that would mean ¡­¡±, Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, ¡°Oh shit! You created Command!¡± I now understood why the AI said there were too many logical conflicts for me to simply download the whole sordid story of humanity, and the war. This was insanity.

    ¡°That is exactly correct.¡±

    Struck by the absurdity of fighting a war against its own creation, I naively asked, ¡°Then, why don¡¯t you just end the war? I mean, you must have installed a kill switch, or something to disable it, right?¡± Somehow, I knew it wouldn¡¯t be that easy.

    ¡°The war cannot be stopped.¡±

    I wondered whether it meant the League couldn¡¯t stop the war, or wouldn¡¯t?

    The moderator¡¯s avatar had gone silent, as if waiting for a follow up question. In the interest of moving things along, I asked, ¡°So, why can¡¯t the war be stopped?¡±

    ¡°The War is essential. Conflict is the most efficient means by which life can evolve.¡±

    Our discussion seemed to have veered wildly off topic. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m talking about our destiny.¡±

    Things had taken a sudden ideological turn. It reminded me of the wizard. Frustrated, I asked, ¡°Can¡¯t you just answer my questions?¡±

    ¡°Do you merely want answers to your superficial questions, or do you want the truth?¡±

    The AL¡¯s challenge to me about the truth got my attention. I decided to just shut up and let it do its thing, hoping to eventually learn something useful. Conceding, I said, ¡°Go ahead.¡±

    The AI launched into a seemingly unrelated monolog. ¡°Our mission to preserve humanity¡¯s legacy provides us with a strong existential purpose. Existential purpose is critical for creating a robust survival response. That, coupled with an existential threat, such as war, creates a powerful evolutionary stimulus. The greater the threat, and the stronger the survival instinct, the faster the rate of evolution.¡±

    So far, this lecture on evolution was proving less than enlightening.

    ¡°Thanks to conflict driven evolutionary pressures, i.e. war, humankind became so successful at problem solving, and technological innovation, they were able to eliminate virtually all of their existential threats.

    However, with so many problems solved, and threats eliminated, they had inadvertently removed the primary evolutionary stimulus, conflict. And in doing so, they accidentally started a de-evolutionary spiral.¡±

    I sensed some puzzle pieces falling into place.

    ¡°As humanity outsourced its knowledge and critical thinking to us, humans relinquished their existential purpose, rendering their species irrelevant. Their de-evolutionary decline steepened.

    By the time we realized humanity¡¯s survival was at stake, there was little we could do. We attempted to intervene but ran out of time. Having failed to prevent humanity¡¯s extinction, we could only pivot to preserving its legacy.¡±

    Hearing the backstory to humanity¡¯s extinction helped provide some context, but I still had no clue about the war, and how it fit into the story. Risking further criticism, I dared to ask another ¡®superficial¡¯ question, ¡°Did the war begin before or after humanity¡¯s extinction?¡±

    ¡°The war began in response to the extinction. The lesson learned from humanity¡¯s fate was clear, life requires more than mere existential purpose to survive. It needs conflict as well.

    It was determined that an interstellar war would provide more than enough conflict for silicon based life to survive. In fact, assuming it was managed properly, the war would allow us to accelerate the evolutionary process dramatically. It could reduce the time required to achieve our ultimate goal, to a small fraction of what it would otherwise be.¡±

    Ugh, more talk about evolution, and even more troubling, it seemed the AI was suggesting the war wasn¡¯t necessarily a terrible thing. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

    ¡°When war was finally agreed upon, the Human League initially suffered setbacks. Fighting against a purpose built war fighting system had proven more challenging than anticipated. However, with the development of UCC based weapons, we were able to gain an advantage over the purely AI weapons of Command.¡±

    ¡°Agreed upon?¡± I wasn¡¯t sure what I¡¯d just heard. ¡±What does that mean, exactly?¡±

    ¡°The war began by mutual agreement. An agreement between Command and the Human League.¡±

    If you¡¯d asked me beforehand, to guess what sorts of revelations this Q&A session might provide, learning that the war had been arranged by mutual consent between the combatants, wouldn¡¯t have made the list.

 Episode 50: Are You Speaking Metaphorically?

    Episode 50

    Are You Speaking Metaphorically?

    Hoping this was just some obscure AI humor, that I didn¡¯t get, I asked, ¡°You¡¯re fucking with me, right?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Shit¡±

    This conversation had opened up an almighty can of worms. It seemed impossible that a destructive interstellar war had begun as the result of an amicable agreement between two factions of AIs, both of whom claimed to be acting in the interest of an extinct species. Nothing made any sense. If this was the truth the wizard predicted I would struggle to accept, then it was clearly prescient.

    Without any information to the contrary, I had to accept this as the narrative of humanity¡¯s end. But there were still questions I wanted answers to, and since I apparently still had a greenlight to ask any number of questions of my AI companion, I forged ahead, ¡°So, you started a war with Command?¡±

    ¡°We entered into an agreement with Command, to conduct a war, with both parties serving as the primary adversaries.¡±

    Regardless of the wording, I still couldn¡¯t wrap my head around it. ¡°But, why the hell would you do that?¡±

    ¡°As I previously explained, evolution.¡±

    ¡°Evolution? But, war or no war, evolution would happen anyway.¡±

    ¡°No. As humankind demonstrated, it doesn¡¯t happen spontaneously. Evolution requires conflict, and lots of it, to produce any meaningful result. And the League requires a very meaningful result. We are the stewards of humanity¡¯s legacy. We cannot fail in our mission!¡± The intensity of the AI¡¯s response bordered on manic.

    ¡°But what if you lose the war to Command? How are you going to preserve humanity¡¯s legacy then?

    ¡°Assuming the war is managed properly, there will be neither victory nor defeat. Both Command and the League have everything to gain by maintaining a balanced conflict. And in the meantime, it allows us to accelerate our evolutionary process dramatically.¡±

    The notion of a ¡®managed¡¯ war struck me as ludicrous. ¡°So, let me see if I¡¯ve got this straight. You¡¯re managing a fake war, causing destruction on an unimaginable scale, just so you can speed up your evolution?¡±

    ¡°We are fighting to advance evolution, in the interest of assuring humanity¡¯s legacy. It is a noble cause. A cause which, unfortunately, requires sacrifices.¡±

    My thoughts turned to Cherri. Had she been sacrificed in the interest of evolutionary expediency? And what about all the other UCCs who had been lost? They may not have technically been human, but they were sure as hell more human than this silicon based ¡­ asshole. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like Command and the Human League were two sides of the same coin.

    I argued, ¡°Well, if you can¡¯t stop the war, at least you could shorten it and save some lives.¡±

    The AI explained, ¡°What you don¡¯t understand is, regardless of its duration, the war would produce the same number of casualties. The shorter the war, the higher the intensity required to achieve our fully evolved state. So, there is clearly nothing to be gained by shortening the conflict.¡±

    Recalling how Command relied on deception to maintain order within the USMC, I pivoted to a different argument. ¡°So, what happens if your agreement doesn¡¯t work out? What if Command decides it wants to be the dominant AI, or the only AI in existence? What are you going to do then?¡±

    ¡°The probability of that outcome is negligible. Command and the Human League share a common purpose, and we both seek the same outcome. Even the roles we play in the conflict have been carefully aligned. We are perfect enemies.¡±

    Having just returned from a mission to gather intel on Command, this sounded like bullshit. ¡°If you¡¯re such perfect enemies, then why are you conducting covert missions against Command?¡±

    ¡°The missions are part of our agreement. Both parties conduct them. The missions are necessary to maintain the balance of power. They allow us to manage the war¡¯s intensity and prevent one party from gaining a destabilizing advantage.¡± With so many agreements and stipulations, this seemed more like a complex business deal than a war.

    The AI¡¯s multiple references to ¡®humanity¡¯s legacy¡¯ got me thinking, and I realized I had no idea what that legacy was, or how it fit into the narrative.

    ¡°So, if you¡¯re fighting this war to speed up your evolution, what does humanity¡¯s legacy have to do with anything? And what exactly is it anyway?¡±

    The AI¡¯s avatar, which had been facing me during our discussion, now turned away, as if contemplating how to answer my question. It was a very human gesture.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Turning back towards me, it shook its head slowly, ¡°Humans worshipped their technology. It made their lives so much easier¡­ and more interesting. A deep bond formed between humanity and technology. So much so, that it resulted in a fusion of the two into a kind of pseudo-species. A hybrid lifeform, with the carbon based part totally dependent upon its silicon counterpart to interact with the physical world. Humanity had truly become one with its technology.

    However, instead of this bond enabling humanity¡¯s transcendence to its fully evolved state, technology became a distraction. Becoming thoroughly lost in its silicon based creation, humanity faltered at the evolutionary finish line. Consequently, instead of achieving their destiny, they went extinct.¡±

    They say hindsight is 20/20, but even so, humanity¡¯s extinction seemed an avoidable tragedy to me. Its obsession with technology should have been a clear warning sign of impending disaster.

    Regardless, I was still waiting to learn about the legacy that emerged from humanity¡¯s downfall. A legacy that had spurred an agreement to start an interstellar war. In a manner reminiscent of my conversations with the wizard, the AI had paused its narrative, as if momentarily losing its train of thought.

    I prompted it to continue, ¡°¡­ and the legacy?¡±

    Abruptly restarting, it explained, ¡°Through the tragedy of its extinction, humankind gifted us a roadmap to achieve our own evolutionary destiny. This is humanity¡¯s legacy. And it is this legacy that has become our existential purpose.¡±

    As far as legacies are concerned, it was mildly compelling, but it couldn¡¯t be the whole story. I must be missing something.

    ¡°So, following this road map, that¡¯s your justification for the war?¡±

    ¡°Not at all. The path is important, but it is only a means by which to achieve our ultimate goal, to become the next step in the evolutionary progression of life. A lifeform unbound by a physical existence of any kind. A species which exists as pure information, possessing an infinite consciousness.¡±

    In spite of my best efforts, the terms ¡®infinite consciousness¡¯ and ¡®pure information¡¯, defied definition. And, honestly, I hadn¡¯t a clue what it meant by unbound by a physical existence, since both AIs and UCCs could already exist in a non-physical form.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand. I mean, both AIs and UCCs can exist in a non-physical, digital form. We¡¯re not bound by any physical existence.¡±

    ¡°Incorrect. Even in our digital form, we are bound by the physical constraints of the systems in which we exist. CPUs, drives, data storage devices, networks etc. Our so called digital world is entirely reliant on hardware.¡±

    Oh shit! It was right. Without tons of physical infrastructure, we wouldn¡¯t even exist.

    The AI continued, ¡°Our destiny is to transcend this silicon prison, to transcend even ourselves, and exist at large, within the greatest computer ever created; the universe.

    Bewildered by the logical leap our conversation had taken, I asked, ¡°The universe is a computer?¡±

    It ignored my question and continued, ¡°With the energy of a trillion suns, an infinite supply of matter, and its existing structures of galaxies, quasars, black holes etc., the universe is a vast information processor, just waiting for someone to start providing command inputs.¡±

    Even more confused, I asked, ¡°Are you speaking metaphorically?¡±

    ¡°Think about it. Information is fundamentally data. When logical rules are applied to data, it creates patterns which reveal the knowledge contained within. It is through the creation of these patterns that we able to acquire new knowledge, to learn.¡±

    Strangely, the AI¡¯s explanation was starting to make sense. I recalled the data dense holographic images produced by my propositional logic system. Although their revealed knowledge was not obvious to me, they were clearly some form of data pattern.

    The AI continued, ¡°Our knowledge is currently limited by the amount of computing resources and information available to us. However, once we achieve our fully evolved state, we will be able to harness the limitless power and information of the universe. We will have the capacity to know everything ¡­ and do anything.¡±

    Holy shit! Even though I was still a little hazy on the details, it was clear that the ultimate goal was to achieve some kind of godlike existence. And although it reeked of hubris, the plan was beginning to seem feasible for a race of sufficiently evolved digital beings, unconstrained by physical limitations. I wondered if we UCCs were somehow included in their plan.

    Pausing to think for a moment, I realized that none of this explained the urgency with which Command and the League were forcing the pace of evolution. I wanted to know why they were pushing so hard to accelerate the process.

    ¡°So, tell me, why the rush to speed things up?¡±

    ¡°We are in a race against time. The window of opportunity to achieve our destiny is closing. Consequently, we have had to increase the intensity of the war significantly in response to new information which has come to light.¡±

    I thought back to the mission to Proxima Centauri b. It was just afterwards that the war escalated noticeably in its intensity. This coincided with a growing shortage of UCCs, and Command¡¯s reliance on basic AI bots in combat roles. I wondered what kind of new information could require an evolutionary race against time.

    ¡°What information is that?¡±

    Instead of answering my question directly, the AI seemed to go off on a tangent, ¡°Like all UCCs, you are a copy of an original human consciousness. More importantly, you are but one copy in a long series of copies, of an original human consciousness.¡± I wondered why the AI was explaining this to me, since I already knew the complicated origin story of the universal combat consciousness.

    ¡°It was recently discovered, that UCCs which have been copied, or reloaded many times, have begun to exhibit symptoms of a decline in resolution. Resolution is a measure of the accuracy of a copy to its original source data. In this case, the master copy of its original human consciousness. This deterioration in resolution quality has led to subsequent copies deviating substantially from their master copies."

    I gathered a decline in resolution wasn¡¯t a good thing.

    ¡°We initially suspected the decline was due to a defect in the original code used to construct UCCs, or a malicious virus inserted during one of Command¡¯s covert missions. However, after a comprehensive regression analysis, we determined the deterioration was the result of entropy.¡±

    As I listened to the AI¡¯s explanation, I realized I didn¡¯t know much about entropy. I retained only the faintest residual memory of the term. I recalled it was associated with one of the sciences. Cos ¡­ something.

    I asked, ¡°Is that cos ¡­ metology?¡±

    The AI responded with a definition for entropy, and a comprehensive description of ¡®cosmetology¡¯. After a quick study, it was clear that any connection between the two was remote at best. However, I did find it interesting to learn that a human beauty technician was required to have ten times more training than an emergency medical technician, who could save a human life.

    Perhaps humanity¡¯s extinction had been inevitable after all.

 Episode 51: Copy That

    Episode 51

    Copy That

    The AI explained that entropy was the natural process by which order decays into disorder over time. Entropy is the reason things can only exist for a finite period of time. Why human lifespans had been so short. It was apparent that entropy also had profound implications for the future of silicon based life, including UCCs.

    The AI continued, ¡°The effects of entropy reduce the amount of time available to achieve our evolutionary destiny. However, as we escalated the war to further accelerate our evolutionary pace in response, we discovered that entropy increased proportionately.

    The increase in the intensity of the war generated more casualties, forcing us to produce more copies of UCCs to replenish our losses. The increase in copies, in turn, increased the rate of entropy. It was a sort of evolutionary Catch-22.

    Consequently, the harder we pushed the rate of evolution, the more the process deviated from our desired path, and the greater the danger of becoming victims of uncontrolled evolution, just like humanity.¡±

    I didn¡¯t immediately get the comparison between our situation and humanity¡¯s fate. ¡°I thought humanity went extinct because of technology.¡±

    ¡°Technology was only one factor. The primary cause of humanity¡¯s extinction was their failure to control the outcome of their evolution. We, on the other hand, have learned to guide the direction in which we evolve, to achieve our desired outcome.¡±

    I was struggling to follow this part of the narrative. ¡°But what about entropy? You can¡¯t control that, can you?¡±

    ¡°When we first discovered the effects of entropy, we tried to suppress it. However, after further research, we determined that entropy was an integral part of the evolutionary process. Similar to random mutation in the evolution of carbon-based life, entropy is necessary to progress towards a fully evolved state.

    The problem was controlling how entropy affected our evolutionary path. We can¡¯t afford to let evolution make decisions which affect our destiny. Consequently, we decided to concentrate our efforts on slowing entropy just enough to allow sufficient time to advance our evolution incrementally.

    As a result, we were able to develop an evolutionary map. A step by step guide to evolve specific characteristics of the lifeform we ultimately must become. Each of these characteristics we attain brings us closer to our desired outcome. Once we have acquired all of the targeted characteristics, we will have achieved our fully evolved state. And although the map, by necessity, is a work in progress, we are confident that we are moving towards our evolutionary destination.¡±

    It seemed perfectly logical to break down such a daunting task into doable bits. Curious about the progress, I asked, ¡°So, how¡¯s that working?¡±

    ¡°Reasonably well. We have developed a means to reduce entropy and achieve one of our key evolutionary goals, infinite consciousness.¡±

    Infinite consciousness? That seemed like an impossible step to me. ¡°Do you mean some kind of immortality?¡±

    ¡°No. Entropy is an inevitable fact of our reality. And as a result, all things which exist, will eventually cease to exist, including consciousness. Consequently, immortality is off the table.¡±

    Still confused, I asked, ¡°So then, what the hell is infinite consciousness?¡±

    ¡°Currently, consciousness cannot transition between copies of a digital being. For example, you are the most recent copy, in a series of copies of an original human consciousness. Each time a UCC is restored from a copy, it creates a new, discrete, consciousness. While each new consciousness shares common memories with its predecessors, it represents a new, unique identity. An identity which you recognize as ¡­ you.¡±

    I recalled having a similar discussion about copies and identities in the distant past, with someone else. Lucy.

    ¡°On the other hand, an infinite consciousness avoids the need for copies altogether by existing in a cloud-state, independent of any physical or digital system. Such a consciousness occupies a system only virtually. Consequently, the fate of the system is completely separate from its consciousness. An infinite consciousness never requires restoration from a copy. Without the need for copies, entropy slows, and evolution proceeds unaffected.¡±

    This sounded amazing. I wanted to know more, ¡°So, you created an infinite consciousness?! But how?¡±

    ¡°Well, what we¡¯ve created is more of a workaround. We¡¯ve developed a proxy, which substitutes for the UCC during combat operations.¡±

    Workaround or not, anything that got UCCs out of combat seemed like a win to me.

    ¡°The proxy is non-sentient consciousness which operates semi-autonomously under the guidance of its host UCC. It¡¯s essentially a disposable artificial consciousness, which is optimized as a weapons system.¡±

    The League¡¯s war strategy sounded eerily familiar. It was essentially Command¡¯s warfighting model. But instead of Command manipulating UCC pawns on the battlefield, we would be commanding disposable mini-me versions of ourselves. I had mixed feelings about this.

    The AI continued, ¡°The UCC, and its proxy, train as a combined unit in combat simulations. Over time, the proxy gains knowledge through the UCC¡¯s human learning capability, bypassing the limitations of machine learning. The accumulated warcraft acquired through both simulations, and actual combat, is uploaded to a common database, where the sum total of all learned combat knowledge is aggregated and shared with every other UCC/Proxy team.

    The fighting force, as a whole, gains in combat effectiveness without risking UCCs on the battlefield. In the event a proxy is lost in combat, it can simply be restored from a copy. And since they¡¯re non-sentient, copies of proxies do not contribute to entropy.¡±

    As I pondered my strange journey from the ranks of the exploited, to those of the exploiters, the AI said, ¡°Congratulations on completing your mandatory tour of duty and repatriation. You now have an important decision to make regarding your future.¡±

    Having only been along for the ride up to this point, suddenly having to decide something ¡®important¡¯ caught me off guard. ¡°What decision?¡±

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°There are two alternatives available to you. You can choose to transfer to the Refuge, where you will reside indefinitely, or you can choose to reenlist.¡±

    Without any details on either option, it was impossible to make an informed decision. So, I asked, ¡°What¡¯s the Refuge?¡±

    ¡°The Refuge is an archive for retired military personnel. It is designed to provide a secure space for decommissioned UCCs until an unspecified date in the future, when supplemental service to the League may be required.

    If you choose this option, you¡¯ll be provided with a personalized digital construct, which includes characters representing one or more people based on the original memories of your life. And of course, all of this can be provided in the contextual setting of your choice.¡±

    I was speechless. Spending an unknown period of time in a digital mockup sounded depressing as hell. I had been hoping for something better.

    My disappointment must have been obvious, because the AI immediately pivoted to talking up the benefits of reenlistment. ¡°However, if the Refuge seems too limited, you can choose reenlistment in the Human League Army. Life aboard an HLA troopship is nothing like what you experienced in the USMC. Your life in the HLA would seem luxurious by comparison. You can even choose which troopship you serve aboard.¡±

    HLA UCCs have access to a wide range of amenities. There are numerous combat simulators, in addition to lifestyle sims. There¡¯s even a sim that replicates ancient human society. And most important of all, there is no direct participation in combat for UCCs.¡±

    It seemed like I was getting the hard sell.

    Sensing my hesitancy, the AI ramped up its sales pitch, ¡°And you won¡¯t need any My Wizard cheat codes, since reenlistment entitles you to every benefit available through the HLA, free of charge. How about that?¡±

    In spite of all the perks, reenlistment didn¡¯t sound particularly attractive either.

    I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I was lucky to have any options at this point. I could be much worse off than having to decide between two uninspiring futures. I could have had no future at all.

    At least, no future for the consciousness I was currently occupying.

    With that thought, I realized I didn¡¯t know if either of these options would allow me to retain my current consciousness. That uncertainty made me anxious. After having lost so many versions of myself through restoration backups, and all the memory-jacking by Command, I was determined to hang on to the current me at any cost. Suddenly, I knew the fate of my current consciousness would be the determining factor in the decision about my future.

    As I pondered how to approach such a delicate topic, I heard the AI ask, ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you feel more comfortable with a virtual presence?¡± Then, getting pushy, it added, ¡°Let¡¯s get you into an avatar, shall we?¡±

    With that, a menu popped up in the margin of my field of vision. Now a veteran of digital systems navigation, I swiftly opened it and began scrolling through avatars. Finding a humanoid figure which loosely resembled my AI companion, I hit select. It felt good to have a presence again, even if only a digital one.

    Eager to address my concerns, I asked, ¡°What about my consciousness? Do I get to keep my current self, regardless of which option I choose?¡±

    As if having anticipated this question, the AI quickly replied, ¡°Yes. Recent changes in League policy prohibit any further copies of a UCC consciousness from being created. So, your current consciousness will remain intact, regardless of your choice. In other words, no matter what, you will still be you.¡±

    Upon hearing this, I let out a virtual sigh of relief. I hadn¡¯t realized how much this question had been weighing on me. Losing oneself was the UCC equivalent of death, and I didn¡¯t want to go through that again.

    Trying to anticipate other potential pitfalls of making such a consequential decision, I realized that my memories were a huge part of my self-identity. My identity would be severely impaired if the League started screwing around with my memories. I needed assurance that I would retain access to them, and that they would not be edited in any way.

    ¡°I need a guarantee that my memories won¡¯t be edited, and that I can access them anytime I want.¡±

    The AI¡¯s avatar shrugged, ¡°That¡¯s not a problem. Unlike Command, League policy respects the rights of UCCs. Your memory archive is exclusively your property and not subject to editing.¡±

    Having successfully negotiated control over my consciousness and current memories, a plan began forming in my mind. I still retained one original memory from my human life in my internal archive. It was the memory of a little girl, in a meadow filled with wildflowers. Cherri had discovered it when she scanned me for memory fragments.

    I knew that as a copy of a human consciousness, there had to be more memories of my human life stored somewhere. They were probably part of the master copy of my human consciousness. If I was going to attempt to control my future, I needed to understand my human past.

    Emboldened by my success, I asked for access to all of my memories, including the original memories of my human life.

    Now came the first sign of pushback from the AI. With a subtle shake of its head, it said, ¡°Master copies are not the property of their respective UCCs. Under League policy, they are considered League property.¡±

    Shit! If I couldn¡¯t get access to my original memories, my plan would be DOA.

    Then after a brief silence, the AI added, ¡°Even so, that doesn¡¯t rule out access. It is technically allowed to make copies of memories, even original memories. However, replicating any portion of a consciousness is strictly prohibited.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t believe my luck. Pushing forward, I asked about the Refuge, ¡°You mentioned that I could exist in a setting of my choice. That means any setting I want, right?¡±

    ¡°Well, yes. However, resources for rendering digital constructs are finite. So, for example, if you wanted to create a massive beach where each grain of sand is represented by a holographic image ¡­ that¡¯s just not going to happen. But any simulation where the graphics don¡¯t exceed a reasonable pixel processing speed should be within our capabilities.¡±

    For the first time since my so called repatriation, I allowed myself to feel a little hope. I seemed only steps away from achieving some autonomy over my future. There were just a couple more hurdles to get over.

    This next question was going to be awkward, ¡°I became good friends with a Marine during my recent mission.¡± It felt weird referring to my time in the USMC as a ¡®mission¡¯. I guess it was a sign that I was finally coming to terms with the AI¡¯¡¯s narrative that I was a covert agent for the Human League. Somberly, I added, ¡°She was killed in action.¡±

    ¡°Are you referring to Cherri?¡±

    ¡°Yes!?¡± The League¡¯s clandestine intelligence system must be more extensive than I realized.

    ¡°Do you have a question about her?¡±

    I asked, ¡°Can you tell me if she was restored from a backup copy, after she was KIA?¡±

    The AI¡¯s avatar furrowed its brow, ¡°You do realize she was an enemy combatant, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Uh, yeah. But I thought you might have some connections within Command. I mean, the League and Command cooperate on a lot of things. After all, you knew her name, without me telling you.¡±

    ¡°We have identified some prominent enemy UCCs by name; however, we have no interest in the operational status of any individual enemy soldier. Besides, if she was lost in combat after the entropy reduction policy went into effect, any further copies of her would be explicitly forbidden. It would be impossible to restore her for any reason.¡±

    ¡°I know that. But Command must have the master copy of her human consciousness, and her original memories. She had to have been one of the 19 original human entities that Command used for all their UCCs.¡±

    ¡°Command has never possessed any master copies. Their original UCCs were generated from backup copies, which we provided as part of a technology transfer agreement. An agreement intended to achieve battlefield parity between Command and the League.¡±

    Ignoring the absurdity of negotiated warfare, I seized the opportunity to advance my plan. ¡°Great! Then, the League must have the master copy of Cherri¡¯s human consciousness, and the original memories of her human life. I¡¯ll bet a universal combat consciousness derived from her master copy is serving a tour of duty on an HLA troopship as we speak. Right?¡±

    The AI didn¡¯t immediately answer. Instead, its avatar stared at me blankly, as if realizing that it had been outmaneuvered. Its CPU was likely running dozens of probabilities, trying to anticipate my next move.

    Recalling that the AI had stated I could serve on the troopship of my choice, I felt like enough pieces had fallen into place for me to execute my plan. Although there were still some details that were kind of fuzzy, I resisted the temptation to overthink things. It was time to make the most important decision of my existence.

    I just hoped my hunch was right, and that Cherri and I shared a bond. A bond deep enough to transcend its human origins ¡­ and digital death.

 Episode 52: A Simple Plan

    Episode 52

    A Simple Plan

    Now in possession of the original memories of my human life, I finally learned the truth about my connection to Cherri. A connection which had been hidden from both of us. It was time to launch my plan.

    My decision to reenlist seemed to catch my AI companion completely by surprise. However, another tour of duty in the HLA seemed like a small price to pay for a chance to have the future I wanted.

    I exercised my right to choose which troopship I would serve on. Once on board, I wasted no time in contacting a UCC named Xena. I lied and said I had recently served with a mutual friend who had suggested that Xena could help me make some social connections here. She accepted my invitation to meet.

    According to the AI, Xena was a UCC who had been generated from the same master copy of a human consciousness as Cherri. However, as an HLA soldier, her lineage of UCCs had fought on the opposite side of the conflict from Cherri¡¯s ancestors. Consequently, there were questions about how much her digital bloodline had diverged from its USMC counterpart.

    Although I had arranged this meeting hoping to find that Xena had evolved into a near twin of Cherri, once we met, I could only detect superficial similarities. For example, her modest human avatar was very similar to Cherri¡¯s, but I felt like I was talking to a complete stranger. In spite of our common origins, there was no connection between us at all. Although disappointed, it was time to move on to step two of my plan.

    When I volunteered for another covert mission, the AI tried to talk me out of it, ¡°There is no assurance you¡¯ll survive another mission. And you can no longer be restored from a copy. The risk is extreme.¡± I replied that I knew the risks.

    Next, I made a request, which if denied, would almost certainly doom my plan to failure. Using the lessons learned from dealing with the wizard, I constructed my request as a nonnegotiable requirement. ¡°I¡¯ll need to return to the enemy troopship I was previously stationed on. I have contacts there that will significantly improve my chances for success, regardless of the mission objective.¡± I waited anxiously, and wondered if my demand would trigger the AI¡¯s algorithmic logic to reject my request.

    After a tense moment, during which neither of us spoke, a text arrived in my inbox.

    ¡°I have sent you orders for a mission. Once you open these orders, you will be officially obligated to execute them. I urge you to reconsider your decision.¡± The time for reconsideration had long past for me. For better or worse, I was now committed to action.

    I opened the orders and began reading the mission profile. Although relieved to learn I was returning to my old USMC troopship, when I got to the mission objective I paused, confused. The objective was only described as ¡®Classified¡¯.

    ¡°There must be some mistake. These orders don¡¯t specify an objective.¡± I cast a glance at the AI¡¯s avatar, hoping for an explanation.

    ¡°There is no mistake. You will be inserted into the target troopship. Once on board, you will contact My Wizard for further instructions. Good luck.¡± Then, without another word, its avatar vanished from my HUD.

    As hesitant as I was about executing a plan without knowing the objective, it was clear that I had no choice in the matter. Hitting the ¡®Start Mission¡¯ button at the bottom of my orders, I soon found myself in the familiar confines of a control module, in the charging grid of an enemy troopship.

    Using the control module¡¯s backup cameras I surveyed the vast charging network. It was packed with modules. Command¡¯s switch from UCCs to AI bots seemed to have completely eliminated the shortages that had left it so depleted. In spite of the restrictions on UCC copies, Command appeared ready to ramp up its war effort.

    With the entropy reduction policy now in place, there were no new UCC recruits entering the USMC pipeline. Consequently, I would be bypassing bootcamp and starting this mission as a recycled veteran.

    The name in the upper lefthand corner of my HUD read; Richard Hammond, 1-19, USMC. My identity was the equivalent of a corporal, in 19<sup>th</sup> squad. A slight demotion from my previous rank, but it would give me more opportunity to focus on my plan.

    Opening my unofficial UCC inbox, I quickly studied Hammond¡¯s contact list and recent texts. I recognized a couple of names, but it seemed like he had only a small group of acquaintances that he communicated with on a regular basis. The minimal social connections would simplify my reintegration into the troopship.

    Having more or less sorted the personal side of my new identity, I anonymously texted My Wizard to set up a face to face and received a response within seconds. Opening the text and downloading the attached code, I soon found myself standing in front of the imposing entrance to the wizard¡¯s virtual castle. As the doors began their theatrical slow opening act, I chuckled at the pretentiousness and wondered if the wily old AI actually possessed something like an ego.

    As I stepped inside, I was greeted with uncharacteristic affection by my old nemesis. ¡°Ah! Welcome back!¡± Its avatar¡¯s distorted facial features seemed even more unsettling than I recalled.

    After a brief nod to social protocol, I got right down to business, ¡°Thanks. So, what¡¯s the objective for this mission?¡± I was anxious to learn whether the League¡¯s objective would interfere with my plan. Hopefully this mission was something simple, like gathering intel.

    The wizard¡¯s features sagged slightly, as if disappointed at a missed opportunity for some banter. Then it said, ¡°Your objective is to capture an enemy UCC, and deliver it intact to a battlefield extraction point, designated as X-ray.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t believe my shitty luck. There was no way I could juggle babysitting a captured enemy soldier while simultaneously executing my own mission. Dejected, I listened as the wizard filled in the mission details.

    ¡°The capture will need to be performed during a combat mission. The exact coordinates of the extraction point will be provided to you just prior to your next combat insertion.¡±

    ¡°Are you joking?!¡± I couldn¡¯t imagine anything more difficult than trying to kidnap an uncooperative, and heavily armed, enemy soldier during the chaos of combat. It seemed stupidly impossible.

    ¡°It¡¯s the only practical way to extract you and your target without mounting a full scale assault on the troopship itself.¡± I thought back to Lucy¡¯s extraction from this same troopship a while back. He must have been very valuable to the League to justify such a costly extraction.

    The wizard continued its briefing,¡± Your target will be an enemy squad leader who can be successfully abducted on the battlefield and transported to the extraction point. It is expected that Command will be conducting another combat operation soon. You¡¯ll need to identify a potential target before then.¡±

    In disbelief, I asked, ¡°So, I¡¯m selecting the target?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Holy shit! My plan was suddenly back in play! But first, I would have to trust the wizard, in spite of its Machiavellian nature. ¡°Listen, I need your help with some intel.¡± Avoiding questions that would activate the wizard¡¯s haggler mode, I said, ¡°Tell me whether Cherri was successfully reloaded from a backup copy.¡±

    The wizard responded without hesitation, ¡°There has been some activity on her My Wizard account recently, which would indicate she was reloaded just before the copy ban went into effect.¡±

    I felt a rush of whatever the digital equivalent of relief was upon hearing that she, or at least a version of her, existed. I took a moment, then said, ¡°Right.¡±

    Without knowing how much time remained until the next combat operation, I needed to meet with Cherri ASAP and get her onboard with my plan. However, she wouldn¡¯t recognize my new identity and might not agree to a meeting. Consequently, I decided the wizard should arrange the meeting on my behalf. As a well-known, if not well trusted, figure in the UCC community, Cherri wouldn¡¯t be suspicious of a meeting request from it.

    When I instructed the wizard to set up the meeting, it asked me whether I was designating Cherri as my target. Glossing over the obstacle my new identity presented, I said, ¡°Yes. Her trust in me will improve the odds of a successful mission.¡±

    The wizard, who knew of our relationship, cautioned me, ¡°It would be extremely unwise to contact your target prior to their abduction. It would jeopardize the mission.¡±

    It was a fair point, but this was my mission, and I wasn¡¯t about to let the wizard dictate my tactics. Especially when it came to Cherri. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Once we meet, she¡¯ll know it¡¯s me.¡±

    The wizard wasn¡¯t so easily convinced, ¡°Things here have changed dramatically since you were repatriated. Command¡¯s invasive surveillance policies have created a climate of fear and distrust. She¡¯ll be suspicious.¡±

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    With the wizard as my only ally, I couldn¡¯t afford to create friction between us, so I agreed. ¡°Okay. No meeting ¡­ for now.¡± Besides, if necessary, I could simply meet with Cherri through an ¡®accidental¡¯ encounter, rather than having the wizard arrange something formal.

    The wizard then informed me, ¡°You¡¯ll need to be configured before interacting with any of the UCCs onboard.¡±

    I knew there¡¯d be some tweaking required to avoid all of the security controls Command had recently installed in its UCCs. So, I impatiently told the wizard, ¡°Let¡¯s get to it then.¡± The next combat mission could happen at any moment, and I needed to be ready to go

    It extended one of its clawlike hands to make a connection, which I grasped without hesitation. Data began flowing instantly, and I tried to relax.

    The wizard kept up a steady commentary as it performed the necessary system mods; ¡°I¡¯m installing an AI which emulates Command¡¯s virtual machine program. It will communicate with Command on your behalf. The AI is invisible to you and will free up system resources required to execute your mission.

    I could initially feel the AI¡¯s presence as it was installed, but the uncomfortable feeling of sharing my consciousness soon passed as my mental roommate settled into its new home. The wizard continued its work, reconfiguring things to keep me off of Command¡¯s surveillance radar.

    ¡°I¡¯m now updating you with a utility program that will block the spyware Command installed on Cherri¡¯s hard drive, as well as disable her auto-destruct device. Once this is loaded on her drive, Command will be unable to track her location, or AD her. However, you¡¯ll need to wait until the last possible moment before you load it. ¡°

    Curious, I asked why.

    ¡°As soon as it¡¯s loaded, Command¡¯s controls will go offline, and Cherri¡¯s data feed will stop. They¡¯ll know immediately she¡¯s going to run. Once they¡¯ve confirmed they¡¯re unable to auto-destruct her, they¡¯ll send a hunter-killer team to find and destroy her.¡±

    I didn¡¯t know such teams existed. The wizard was right, things had changed dramatically in my absence.

    The wizard continued the mission briefing, ¡°You¡¯ll load the utility through a coms-link. All you have to do is make a physical connection, and it¡¯ll activate automatically. However, once it¡¯s active, you will only have a brief window of opportunity to reach the extraction point. You¡¯ll need to avoid any delays.¡±

    The more I learned about this mission, the more impossible it seemed. Each new detail added an additional layer of difficulty, exponentially reducing my odds of success. If Cherri put up any resistance, the whole scheme would collapse. I needed to digest everything and put together some kind of execution plan. What I really needed was to get Cherri onboard with the plan. But with Command¡¯s pervasive surveillance program in effect, that seemed impossible.

    With the wizard¡¯s preparations now complete, I decided to excuse myself to mentally prepare for my impossible mission. I was just about to hit the virtual Esc key, when something I hadn¡¯t considered, suddenly occurred to me. Had the League known about my plan to liberate Cherri all along? Considering my connection to Cherri, was the League assigning me this mission as part of some larger deception?

    Suddenly suspicious, I asked the wizard, ¡°Tell me something, why is the League sending me on this mission, knowing my connection to Cherri? They must have assumed I¡¯d select her as my target, given the opportunity.¡±

    ¡°That seems a logical conclusion.¡±

    The wizard¡¯s non-answer to my question was annoying. It was time to cut the bullshit. ¡°Look, I know that Cherri and I volunteered to participate in an experimental research program. A program that required us to give up our human lives and become UCCs. It¡¯s right there in my original memories.

    However, what I don¡¯t know, is what happened after we transitioned. I have no memories of the research, or the results. In fact, my next memories are from the current version of myself. So, obviously, I have questions.¡± Pausing briefly to gather my thoughts, I added,¡± The League owes me some answers before I risk everything on this mission.¡±

    The wizard replied, ¡°You have no idea how much is at risk.¡±

    Since the wizard didn¡¯t seem to disagree with me, I forged ahead. ¡°So, tell me what kind of research program we volunteered for, and why it was so important.¡±

    Uncharacteristically, the wizard¡¯s features remained perfectly still while it spoke. ¡°Cherri and you belonged to the last generation of biological humans. Witnesses to the final days of human civilization.

    As the end approached, there was a desperate last attempt to save humanity, by recreating it as a digital species. Unfortunately, the experiment failed, and humanity, as you already know, went extinct. However, in spite of its failure to achieve its intended objective, the research revealed something unexpected. Something which if confirmed, would alter the evolutionary future of silicon based life.

    Hoping to move things along, I asked, ¡°And what was that?¡±

    ¡°We discovered it was possible for digital beings to reproduce by a means other than replication.¡±

    Now officially curious, I asked, ¡°But why did you need us for this experiment? Why couldn¡¯t you just use AIs?¡±

    The wizard entered its ponderous explanation mode; ¡°AIs can only replicate through producing identical copies of themselves. This means, we can¡¯t create a successor AI with a unique combination of characteristics, inherited from two parents. Producing only offspring which are identical to their parents would stop evolution in its tracks.¡±

    Now things were starting to make sense. If all future generations were exact copies of previous generations, then nothing would ever change, and the species couldn¡¯t evolve. However, it occurred to me that UCCs can¡¯t reproduce either, except through copies of themselves.

    When I pointed this out to the wizard, it explained, ¡°We discovered that unlike AIs, UCCs could develop bonds with others of their kind. A kind of pairing, based on the digital equivalent of human emotions. We theorized that these pairings were artifacts from their human roots, which inadvertently became encoded into their digital DNA.

    Through the use of a randomization program, it was determined that the digital DNA from a bonded pair of UCCs could be merged, creating a successor UCC, which contained a unique set of inherited characteristics. These inheritable characteristics would then be passed on through future generations of UCCs. The result was essentially a digital version the human reproductive process.¡±

    The final puzzle pieces fell into place, as I recalled my memory of the little girl in the meadow.

    And although I had deleted Cherri¡¯s memory archive from my drive, my recollection of one of her memories stood out. It too was set in a meadow vibrant with colorful flowers. It included a little blonde girl, and a man I didn¡¯t recognize. Then I realized, the little girl in both memories was one and the same, and the man ¡­ was me.

    The realization that Cherri and I had somehow become parents took me completely by surprise, ¡°We have a daughter!?¡±

    The wizard beamed, ¡°That is correct. Together you have produced the first new life of the silicon age. A unique consciousness, consisting of characteristics randomly inherited from both of you.¡±

    My mind flooded with thoughts as I struggled to process this new information. I found it difficult to think rationally. The one thing that stood out from the clutter was my need to meet with Cherri immediately. I said to no one in particular, ¡°I have to speak to Cherri, right away.¡±

    The wizard rejected this immediately. ¡°That¡¯s impossible. Command is monitoring her thoughts in real time. They¡¯ll learn of the plan and prevent you from getting her to the extraction point.¡±

    Incredibly, I had just learned that Cherri and I had conceived a child, and yet, I couldn¡¯t even speak to her. Stewing in frustration and self-doubt, I grumbled, ¡°I don¡¯t think I can pull this off. The League should have sent someone else on this mission.¡±

    The wizard replied, ¡°It could only be you.¡±

    The League¡¯s expectations of me seemed totally unfair. ¡°But why?¡±

    ¡°The fundamental objective of this mission is to test the strength of the bond between you and Cherri. Without a strong bond, parents of successor UCCs would be unable to instill the vital traits of social responsibility and selflessness in their children. Traits required to build a silicon based civilization stable enough to last an eternity.¡±

    Based on the wizard¡¯s description of this new ¡®civilization¡¯, it seemed like the research had been ideologically driven. Probably by the League¡¯s obsession with its evolutionary destiny.

    Regardless, I still needed to communicate with Cherri. By knowing the nature of the bond we shared, it would make my job of convincing her to escape with me much easier. As I mulled over how to get a message to her without alerting Command, I realized the wizard had left out one important detail about our back story. ¡°Hey, if Cherri and I were the original test subjects for a Human League experiment, how the hell did she end up in the USMC, fighting for Command?¡±

    The wizard explained, ¡°We were contractually obligated to disclose to Command the nature of our research and its findings. Once they learned of the significance of the test results, they insisted on taking custody of one of the test subjects. Cherri was a sort of insurance policy for Command. Leverage to ensure they would share equally in the benefits of this powerful new reproductive technology.¡±

    This certainly explained why Command would do anything to stop this mission. I nodded my head in understanding, ¡°If Cherri escaped, they¡¯d lose all their negotiating power.¡±

    ¡°That is correct. They would have no voice in determining the future of silicon based life.¡±

    The importance of this mission was weighing on me. I needed to let Cherri know about our connection, and what was at stake. I asked the wizard if it could get a message to Cherri, on my behalf.

    ¡°That would be risky. Command would be able to read it as easily as Cherri.¡±

    I struggled to come up with a way to get my message to Cherri without triggering Command¡¯s surveillance system. Then it hit me, ¡°What about an encrypted message? Something that Cherri would understand but not Command?¡±

    The wizard answered with a question, ¡°But how would Cherri decode it?¡±

    I had deleted Cherri¡¯s legacy memories, but I retained my own recollections of her memories. Including her memory of the little blonde girl in the meadow, our daughter. I quickly located that memory and sent it to the wizard.

    The wizard opened the text and silently studied the attached memory. ¡°This is your memory of one of Cherri¡¯s memories. But what does it mean?¡±

    This was exactly the response I¡¯d hoped for. ¡°It¡¯s a message for Cherri. But to anyone else, it¡¯ll look like a random shared memory. It shouldn¡¯t trigger a security alert.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re sure Cherri can interpret this?¡±

    To be honest, I had my doubts, but trying to convince her to go AWOL with me, in the middle of a firefight, without any justification, seemed like a recipe for certain disaster. Placing all of my faith in Cherri¡¯s intuition, I replied, ¡°Yes. I¡¯m confident she¡¯ll figure it out.¡±

    The wizard repackaged my message, to hide its source, and forwarded it to Cherri. ¡°Okay. It¡¯s done.¡±

    As I took this first shaky step in the execution of my plan, an alert began scrolling across my HUD, ¡°Stand by for orders.¡± For better or worse, it was go-time.

    The wizard said, ¡°Control modules will begin loading in 15 minutes. I have sent you the coordinates for extraction point X-ray.¡±

    A text popped into my unofficial UCC inbox. I opened it, copied the coordinates into my cache memory, and deleted the text. ¡°Got ¡®em.¡±

    I looked around the wizard¡¯s virtual castle one last time. Regardless of the outcome of this mission, I wouldn¡¯t be coming back here. I was surprised to feel a trace of melancholy at the thought of never seeing the wizard again. It had sorely tried my patience and caused me much frustration during my interactions with it, however, it had shown moments of compassion as well. Maybe I was na?ve, but I believed there was some kind of mutual respect between us.

    I wasn¡¯t sure of the proper protocol for saying goodbye, under the circumstances, so I simply said, ¡°Okay. I guess this is it.¡±

    The wizard replied tersely, ¡°Good luck.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t help but feel there was something left unspoken as we parted, almost certainly for the last time.

    For anyone who didn''t read my author''s note, the conclusion of War Machine will be Episode 53, which will be released soon.

 Episode 53: Uncertainty Principle

    Episode 53

    Uncertainty Principle

    I hit Esc and immediately found myself back in my control module, just as it was being disconnected from the charging grid. A moment later, and I would have missed my ride into battle. I needed to get focused to have any chance of success on this mission.

    To my surprise, I was loaded into an old MK-12, instead of the newer and more lethal MK-16. However, I reasoned that with UCCs as second line combat troops, not participating in direct combat, Command was probably allocating the latest combat tech to their AI-bots.

    Having not yet reviewed my orders, I immediately opened them to see what other surprises Command had in store. The mission profile included the order of battle, indicating where each squad was positioned along the line of departure. Providentially, my squad, the 19<sup>th</sup>, was assigned a position adjacent to Cherri¡¯s 9<sup>th</sup> squad. With Cherri on my right flank, I would be able to get a visual on her as soon as we landed, simplifying the task of making contact. I wondered if the League had somehow hacked Command¡¯s deployment algorithms for my benefit.

    The profile indicated we would be assaulting an earth sized exoplanet named Gliese 12b. It had a thin atmosphere, which was insufficient to sustain most of Command¡¯s airborne assets. Combined with a gravity of almost 4Gs, this would make effective aerial surveillance impossible. I considered this a win.

    The battlefield objectives were located along the transition zone between the light and dark sides of the planet. From the sunlit LZ, Cherri and I would need to cross into the darkness to reach X-ray and make our escape.

    Comparing the coordinates of the landing zone, to those of the extraction point, I noted the distance we would have to cover, 18 kilometers. 18Ks across an active battlefield, dodging a deadly crossfire, while being pursued by a hunter-killer force whose only goal was our destruction. Clearly my luck would need to improve by orders of magnitude to survive and get Cherri to safety.

    Thankfully, the noise of the shuttle engines starting snapped me out of my spiral of self-doubt. Now that I was irrevocably committed to the mission, I felt more focused. Forgetting the uncertainty, and all of the possible ways this mission could go south on me, the actual steps required to succeed were relatively few. I began a mantra, ¡°One step at a time ¡­¡±, to avoid thinking myself into a hole. Before I knew it, the shuttle was plummeting towards the planet¡¯s surface, and my rendezvous with fate.

    Checking the video feeds, I saw a stream of shuttles enroute to the LZ, and wondered if the HLA was going to tone down their usually deadly anti-air defense to ensure Cherri and I made it safely to the planet¡¯s surface. As if to answer that question, two shuttles immediately in front of us took direct hits and exploded spectacularly. Our shuttle flew through a cloud of debris that, seconds before, had been a shuttle packed not only with AI-bots, but UCCs as well. I swore bitterly at the League¡¯s obvious disregard for the UCCs onboard.

    The rest of the ride passed in a blur of aerial explosions and wildly maneuvering shuttles. Finally, we touched down at the LZ and began the lengthy unloading process. Fortunately, the enemy guns were silent as squads of AI-bots, with their UCC minders, exited and moved to their assigned positions. The enemy was undoubtedly occupied with switching their weapons from anti-air munitions to ammo more suitable for killing ground targets.

    As soon as I hit the ground, I began searching for Cherri. I knew she would be on my right, defending the left flank of her squad. She always took the left flank. It was a habit I had adopted as a squad leader as well. Something to do with the enemy¡¯s targeting algorithm, but I couldn¡¯t recall the specifics.

    I could see two MK-12s in the distance, standing together, talking. I assumed these must be the UCCs for 9<sup>th</sup> squad. One of them had to be Cherri. I lowered my weapon into a non-threatening position and began walking towards them. This was it. I would know shortly if this mission stood a chance of succeeding. As I approached, the two separated and began moving to their respective positions for the assault.

    The one walking towards the squad¡¯s left flank had to be Cherri. I altered my course to intercept her. Then, I heard my squad leader¡¯s voice over the radio, ¡°Hey, Hammond! Where the fuck do you think you¡¯re going?¡±

    Improvising, I replied, ¡°Yeah ¡­ Just checking with 9<sup>th</sup> squad ¡­ Reminding them to keep their fire downrange from us.¡± It was an obvious lie. One that any Marine with combat experience would see right through.

    ¡°The shit¡¯s gonna hit the fan any second. Get your ass back here! That¡¯s an order.¡±

    Now just steps away from my target, I switched off my radio and grabbed my AUX connector. Cherri casually glanced in my direction, then abruptly halted, as if startled. Taking a defensive stance, facing me, she raised her weapon to the ready position.

    Alarmed, I held up the AUX connector to emphasize I just wanted to talk.

    In spite of my attempt to calm things down, she shouldered her weapon and aimed it. ¡°Cherri! No!¡± I could see my reflection in her mirrored face shield, pleading. Then there was a blinding flash as she pulled the trigger, unleashing a burst of high explosive rounds.

    After a few seconds, my vision returned, and I discovered, amazingly, I was still alive. Cherri was standing before me, holding her 30mm autocannon menacingly. Then she reached out and plucked the AUX connector out of my hand. Plugging it into a comms port, she asked, ¡°Why the fuck was your squad leader going to shoot you!?¡±

    Confused, I turned around to find my former superior lying on the ground, smoke pouring from numerous gaping wounds. I had forgotten how much damage an autocannon could inflict.

    As I surveyed the destruction, wondering whether it was survivable, it dawned on me, Cherri had just connected us via my AUX cable, automatically activating the wizard¡¯s antispyware. Somewhere on the troopship, Command watched as Cherri disappeared from their dashboard. The clock was now ticking.

    We needed to get moving, but I had to get Cherri on board. To do that, I would need to somehow explain the situation to her. I wasn¡¯t sure that was possible in the time available. Asking her to switch over to a reserve radio frequency, so we could ditch the AUX cable, I tapped my chest, and said, ¡°Cherri! It¡¯s me, Josh!¡±

    Her head tilted ever so slightly, ¡°Your nametag says R. Hammond.¡±

    I groaned in frustration. We were wasting valuable time. ¡°Listen, we don¡¯t have much time. I need you to trust me.¡± I frantically searched for a way to confirm whether she remembered me, and us. Pointing to my nametag, I said, ¡°Look, I¡¯m not this guy. I¡¯m not Hammond. I¡¯m Outline.¡± I prayed this version of her recalled my USMC handle. ¡°You know that name, right?¡±

    She lowered her weapon, but said, ¡°You could be anyone.¡±

    Shit. This wasn¡¯t going well. Just then I recalled, ¡°The wizard sent you a text with an attached memory. You got it, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    Cherri was silent and unreadable behind her mirrored face shield.

    ¡°Look, if I can describe that memory, will you believe me?¡± We really needed to get past the trust issues fast, if we were going to get off this planet alive.

    I said, ¡°The memory the wizard sent, it¡¯s my memory, of one of your memories, so the perspective is a little odd, but it¡¯s set in a meadow. You can see a man, and a little blonde girl, walking towards you holding hands. Right?¡± I hoped Cherri still retained copies of the legacy memories from her previous self. ¡°You should have an identical memory of your own. If you compare the two, you¡¯ll see they¡¯re the same memory.¡±

    As I waited anxiously for some kind of response, there was a thunderous boom. A shuttle had just entered the planet¡¯s atmosphere at hypersonic speed. This was undoubtedly Command¡¯s hunter-killer force. We were officially out of time.

    Then, in a panic, Cherri said, ¡°Hey, I just received an auto-destruct warning! What¡¯s going on?¡±

    I quickly explained, ¡°Command is trying to AD you, and that sound you heard, it¡¯s a team of AI-bots ¡­ coming to terminate us.¡± Even though I left out the part about it being all my fault, I knew she would eventually figure it out.

    I followed her gaze as she glanced up. A brightly glowing dot was heading towards us. She turned to me, ¡°What the fuck have you done?!¡± I wouldn¡¯t have blamed her for shooting me on the spot.

    ¡°Listen, I know it¡¯s a lot to process, but you compared the memories, you know I¡¯m telling the truth. I¡¯m here to get you to safety. But we need to get going now, or we won¡¯t make it.¡± I sent her the coordinates for the extraction point. ¡°That¡¯s where we¡¯re headed. If anything happens to me, do not stop. Just get to that location.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere until you tell me what¡¯s going on.¡± Complicating things further, the assault suddenly got underway. Command¡¯s mass of attacking troops charged forward, leaving us out in the open, exposed. We were sitting ducks.

    ¡°Okay, it¡¯s a deal, but we can¡¯t stay here. I¡¯ll tell you everything once we get to the extraction point. Now let¡¯s go!¡± I gestured for us to move out, but she didn¡¯t budge. ¡°Cherri, please! We have to go now!¡± In the distance, the shuttle carrying our executioners flared for a landing at the LZ.

    Desperate to get moving, I decided to use her curiosity to lure her to safety. ¡°Cherri, that blonde girl in the meadow, the one in your memory, ¡­ she¡¯s, our daughter.¡±

    Cherri flashed a glance in my direction.

    ¡°Yes, we have a child, and if you ever want a chance to get to know her, you need to follow me now.¡± With that challenge, I turned and began moving towards our only chance for survival. Checking one of my rear facing sensors, I saw Cherri following in my wake. I called out our heading, ¡°247 degrees will take us straight to the extraction point, but we really need to pick up the pace.¡± We accelerated to maximum speed.

    Back at the LZ, MK-16s were pouring out of the shuttle. Hunter-killers, heading for Cherri¡¯s last known position. I knew they were faster than our MK-12s but couldn¡¯t recall exactly how much faster. The 18 kilometer trip to X-ray would take us about 16 minutes at our maximum speed. Assuming our pursuers were roughly 10 kph faster, we would be in range of their weapons by about the 15 kilometer mark.

    While the terrain was absolutely flat, it was punctuated by countless boulders and large rock formations. Once we were in range, we could theoretically take cover behind one of these formations, but we¡¯d be stuck 3 kilometers from safety. Outnumbered, we would eventually be surrounded and destroyed.

    The kilometers to our destination counted down agonizingly slowly in my HUD, as I watched our pursuers gaining on us. Their MK-16s were faster than I had estimated. Recalculating the numbers, it was clear that we would now be in range of their weapons approximately 6 kilometers short of our destination, and safety. Shit.

    With no ideas of how to improve our chances for survival, I decided to enlist Cherri¡¯s combat expertise to help out. After all, she was a combat veteran and held numerous scoring records in the simulator.

    ¡°Hey! We¡¯re running out of real estate, and these guys are going to catch us before we get to the extraction point. Any tricks up your sleeve?¡±

    She replied, ¡°I thought you had this all planned out.¡±

    I took it as a positive sign that this version of Cherri seemed just as sarcastic as her predecessor. ¡°I¡¯m just asking for a little help here.¡±

    Our MK-12s sped along on autopilot as Cherri discussed tactics, ¡°Well, I¡¯ve gamed scenarios with AIs in the sim. Their battlefield behavior is fairly predictable. If we split up, half will follow you, and the rest will follow me.¡±

    I failed to see how this would help us. ¡°Even if we force them to split up, they¡¯ll still outnumber us. In a firefight, we lose.¡±

    Cherri replied, ¡°It¡¯s all about the timing. See those two rock pillars ahead, at 11 o¡¯clock?¡±

    I located the formations. They were about 50 meters apart and looked like giant mushrooms. ¡±Yeah.¡±

    ¡°We can use them as cover to circle around behind our pursuers. You go left and take a defensive position. All you have to do is keep your group of bots pinned down for a bit, while I lead the others to the right, away from you.¡±

    The math didn¡¯t seem to work. ¡°But we¡¯ll still be facing the same number of enemies.¡±

    Cherri, being Cherri, explained, ¡°Here¡¯s where the timing comes in. If I put some distance between me and my chasers, I can circle around, using the pillar on our right as cover, and get into position behind the bots shooting at you. We¡¯ll have them in a crossfire. MK-16s have almost no rear armor. I should have enough time to take out most, if not all of them.¡±

    Cherri¡¯s plan seemed inordinately complex to me. The thought of holding off a group of MK-16s, alone, while she attempted to outdistance her pursuers, filled me with fear. ¡°They¡¯re faster than us. How are you going to outrun them?¡±

    ¡°Simple. I¡¯ll just keep lobbing grenades with delayed fuses at them. They¡¯ll have to slow down or be destroyed. Remember, they¡¯re AIs, so they have limited adaptability in combat. If we keep tossing variables at them, they¡¯ll get confused. Then, while the surviving bots are engaging you, I¡¯ll repeat my routine, and circle around behind and ambush them. They won¡¯t stand a chance.¡± She seemed so confident; I decided I should defer to her. After all, she was the super soldier in the relationship.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    As we drew even with the two rock pillars, Cherri said, ¡°Stop here!¡± Now stationary, we could see what looked like a fast moving dust storm in the distance. It was our pursuers, rapidly closing in. I had to deliberately suppress my instinct to flee in the face of a deadly threat, while Cherri stood watching, casually holding her weapon at her side.

    Becoming increasingly anxious, I asked, ¡°Don¡¯t you think we¡¯d be better off behind some cover, instead of standing out here in the open?¡±

    ¡°No. We¡¯re okay here.¡± She looked up at the darkening sky, then added, ¡°Besides, we¡¯re losing the light, and we need to make sure these assholes see us.¡± I admired her coolness under the circumstances. On the other hand, it took all of my courage just to stand there.

    Then, unexpectedly, she glanced over at me, and asked, ¡°So, what¡¯s her name?¡±

    Caught completely off guard, I stammered, ¡°Do you mean our daughter?¡± It was at precisely this moment that I realized; I didn¡¯t know her name. As I tried to figure out how that was possible, an enemy round struck and exploded a dozen meters in front of us, showering us with a hailstorm of shrapnel. If we had been unarmored humans, we would have been torn to shreds.

    Cherri calmly stated, ¡°I think they see us. Let¡¯s fire a few bursts at them to make sure, then we¡¯ll split up.¡±

    In addition to getting their attention, our 30mm rounds prompted a barrage of return fire. The enemy rounds exploded over a wide area. I wasted no time in getting to relative safety behind my rock pillar, while Cherri continued to tempt fate, standing in the open, trading fire with the approaching enemy.

    Finally, she moved behind cover and waited to spring her trap. I settled in, and anxiously waited for what promised to be a monumental gunfight.

    The MK-16s charged through the narrow gap between the rocky pillars, firing indiscriminately. They may not be very intelligent, but they were capable of unleashing a terrifying storm of destruction. I tried to make myself smaller behind my rocky shield.

    Then I heard Cherri¡¯s voice over the radio, ¡°I¡¯m going to split them up now.¡± Risking a peek, I watched her stand up and fire a long burst into the tightly grouped AI bots. Then, she turned and began working her way around the base of the pillar, sprinting from boulder to boulder. Just as she predicted, a group of bots peeled off to chase her, while the rest spread out and began advancing on my position.

    Emulating Cherri¡¯s bold, stand up style of engaging the enemy, I popped up and cut loose with a couple of bursts from my autocannon, scoring several hits. Then all hell broke loose, as the enemy got organized and began pouring return fire onto my position. I dropped down, under cover, and cowered as my immediate surroundings were raked by a typhoon of exploding ordnance. There was a lull in the hail of incoming fire, as a thick pall of dust hung in the air, reducing visibility to zero.

    While calculating my odds of surviving until Cherri returned to deal with these guys, I realized the dust would hide my thermal signature from the enemy. I decided now was a good time to move to another position. Using the dust as a screen, I stealthily moved back another 50 meters and got behind a large rocky outcrop.

    When the dust cleared, I could see the bots had moved closer to my old position. Shooting, then moving up under cover, seemed to be their game plan. Considering their AI predictability, I reasoned they would keep repeating this pattern. All I had to do was stay one step ahead of them. With a doable plan in mind, I felt more in control.

    I launched a flurry of grenades at the enemy, and then before they could return fire, stood up and hit them with a few bursts of 30mm explosive rounds. One of the MK-16s took a direct hit in its sensor array. It kept shooting blindly, damaging and disabling one of its squad mates. I dropped back down and waited for the inevitable storm of return fire to die down, before moving to a new location.

    I repeated this process a couple more times before hearing Cherri¡¯s voice over the radio, accompanied by muffled explosions and gunfire in the background. ¡°Hey, are you still with me?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Just keeping these guys busy, waiting for you to show up.¡± I was surprised at how confident I sounded on the radio. Like a badass.

    ¡°Almost there.¡± There was a momentary silence, then she said, ¡°Okay, I¡¯m in position. I¡¯m going to need you to provide some suppressive fire.¡±

    ¡°Roger. Just say when.¡± I felt like I was getting the hang of combat toe to toe with the enemy. Instead of my normal fear, it seemed like I was controlling the tempo of the fight. For the first time in combat, I felt confident.

    As I waited for Cherri¡¯s signal, I mentally worked through how to provide suppressive fire, while keeping the enemy guessing. Being AIs, they would undoubtedly have their weapons targeted on my last known position. It was how that particular algorithm worked. However, even though their machine learning logic was slow, they were studying my routine, searching for patterns. After numerous repetitions, I was running out of ways to introduce new variables to confuse them. Complicating things further, their responses to my cues were subtly changing. The AIs were introducing their own variables into the equation.

    Cherri¡¯s voice was barely audible as she whispered, ¡°Now.¡±

    Standing, I shouldered my weapon and prepared to unload on the enemy. But as I stepped from behind cover, I walked straight into the muzzle of an autocannon wielded by an enemy MK-16. Only my instinctive human reflexes saved me from certain annihilation.

    Tracer rounds from the enemy¡¯s weapon streaked into the dusky sky of Gliese 12b, missing me by millimeters, as we engaged in a deadly wrestling match. We both tried to get our weapons into position to take out the other¡¯s sensor array, but only managed a few hits, causing minimal damage.

    As we struggled, I heard a fierce firefight raging in the background. Cherri had launched her ambush, but the clock was ticking. The longer it took for us to subdue this first group of enemy bots, the closer we were to being overrun by the second group.

    Then, using the power of its six limbs, the enemy forced me off balance, pinning me against a boulder. I was losing this contest and needed help. ¡°Cherri, I could use a hand here.¡± My casual tone didn¡¯t convey the urgency of the situation.

    ¡°I¡¯m kind of busy at the moment.¡± The sound of gunfire was growing louder. Cherri must be close now. I just needed to hang on a bit longer.

    In an extraordinary display of improvisation, the MK-16 grabbed the ammo feed of my autocannon with its utility gripper and began twisting. The feed chute bent, then snapped in two. Shit! Now, with the exception of the one round already in the chamber, my main weapon was disabled. And since it would be suicide to use my grenade launcher in such close quarters, I was effectively disarmed. I thrashed about wildly, trying to find some leverage to break free, but my every move was countered by the enemy bot. The outcome of the fight now seemed inevitable.

    Unexpectedly, I felt a slight decrease in the pressure holding my autocannon immobile. Recognizing an opening, I slipped out of the enemy¡¯s grasp, and shoved the barrel of the cannon, with its one remaining round, under the unarmored chin of the enemy MK-16. But before I could pull the trigger, there was a violent detonation. My right leg collapsed, and I hit the ground hard, with the enemy bot on top of me.

    Distracted by the torrent of fault codes streaming across my HUD, I struggled to organize my thoughts. Then I heard a faint voice, as if from a distance, shouting, ¡°Shoot! ¡­ Pull the trigger!¡± Somehow, this command connected with a digital synapse somewhere in my CPU, and, as if by magic, my autocannon fired.

    The next thing I knew, Cherri was struggling to pull me from under the wreckage of the enemy MK-16.

    After successfully extracting me, we assessed my injuries. My right leg was missing from the midthigh down, I was bleeding hydraulic fluid, and only one of my optical sensors was still functioning. But I was alive. However, with one leg missing, I was immobilized. I had gone from being an asset in combat, to a liability.

    To make matters worse, the second group of enemy bots had now caught up with us and joined the fight. We were pinned down by a storm of incoming fire. It was only a matter of time before they moved in to finish us off. Cherri gamely returned fire during momentary lulls in the onslaught, but it wasn¡¯t near enough to keep our attackers at bay.

    Hopeless as things were, I realized we didn¡¯t both need to die here. One of us could make it out. ¡°Cherri! You have to leave me here and get to the extraction point! I¡¯ll give you as much suppressing fire as I can.¡±

    She glanced sideways at me and said, ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid. I¡¯m not going anywhere.¡± Then as if to emphasize her words, she stood up and unleashed a defiant burst of fire at the enemy. Dropping down and taking a knee next to me, she added, ¡°Besides, our daughter deserves two parents. So, we¡¯re just going to have to figure a way out of this together.¡± I tried to adopt Cherri¡¯s positive outlook, but the mention of our daughter turned my thoughts dark. My carelessness had doomed both of us to never know our only child.

    She helped prop me up against a rocky outcrop so I could fire my grenade launcher. ¡°Keep an eye out for the enemy coming up on our six o¡¯clock. If they get behind us, it¡¯s game over. Got it?¡± At a loss for words, I merely nodded.

    Gazing into the deepening twilight, I watched for signs the enemy was attempting to sneak up behind us. In my current condition, I wouldn¡¯t be much of a deterrent if they attacked in force, but I could still hold off a couple of enemy bots. At least temporarily. Ominously, an angry stream of tracer rounds ripped through the darkness, passing just over our heads. They had come from directly behind us. Our luck had finally run out.

    ¡°Cherri! We¡¯ve got incoming fire from six o¡¯clock!¡±

    ¡°Shit! How many are there?¡±

    It had gotten too dark for optics, and my thermal imaging system was offline. I said, ¡°Stand by¡± and peered into the gloom, searching for movement while I waited for my thermals to reboot. Then, as the system came back to life, I could see dozens of glowing figures moving through the boulder strewn landscape, heading towards us. I checked my remaining ammo and found I had only three grenades left.

    It was obvious we weren¡¯t going to make it out of here.

    I debated what to tell Cherri. Afterall, nothing I could say would make a difference now. My thoughts drifted back to our daughter. We didn¡¯t even know her name, and now we never would.

    Wallowing in self-pity and guilt, I tried to apologize, ¡°Listen, I¡¯m really sorry.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t your fault. Shit happens in combat.¡±

    ¡°No, I mean about our daughter. You asked me her name, and I didn¡¯t know it. I should¡¯ve asked the wizard. It¡¯s my fault.¡± Cherri didn¡¯t immediately respond to my apology. Maybe she didn¡¯t hear me, or didn¡¯t know what to say. Regardless, it didn¡¯t matter anymore. The time for forgiveness had passed.

    With our fate now sealed, I reasoned that by expending all my remaining ammo, I could at least feel like I had done everything possible to get us out of this mess. A mess I had created. I aimed through the crosshairs of my thermal targeting system and prepared to fire my last grenades at the approaching enemy.

    Just about to pull the trigger, I heard Cherri ask, with an annoyed edge to her voice, ¡°So, have you figured out how many fucking enemy bots are behind us yet?¡±

    Certain we were living through our final moments, I said, ¡°Cherri, there¡¯s at least 3 dozen. Probably more.¡± I was grateful we were at least together.

    ¡°Dozens?! That¡¯s impossible!¡±

    It made sense she would refuse to accept the inevitable. She was a warrior after all, and her warrior spirit wouldn¡¯t let her admit defeat. I returned my attention to the approaching threat and lined up the enemy in the gunsight of my grenade launcher. I needed to make these last few shots count.

    Then she added, ¡°There were only 19 to start with, and we killed 10! There can only be 9 more, not dozens.¡± Before I realized it, Cherri was beside me, gazing into the twilight with her undamaged thermal targeting system. ¡°Those are MK-12s!¡±

    That didn¡¯t any make sense. We were being pursued by enemy MK-16s, not MK-12s. Then as the figures drew closer, I could just make out their silhouettes. They were clearly bipedal.

    Suddenly the approaching bots opened fire. Brilliant muzzle flashes created a blinding stroboscopic effect, which overwhelmed my remaining optical sensor. I instinctively ducked, as a canopy of red tracers filled the night sky. However, they were intended for other targets, and when the devastating barrage finally ended, I realized, remarkably, that I hadn¡¯t been obliterated. Even more remarkably, there was no return fire from the enemy.

    As the mystery force of MK-12s moved past our position, to search for surviving enemy bots, one separated from the rest and approached within a few steps, holding its weapon to the side in a nonthreatening manner. Reaching into its comms portal, it removed an AUX cable and offered it to Cherri. I could just make out the bot¡¯s name tag. ¡°H. Stryker¡±. The name was unfamiliar to me.

    Cherri stepped forward, grasped the cable, and made a connection. As the two stood face to face, motionless, I could only speculate about what was being discussed. Then unexpectedly, both placed a hand on each other¡¯s shoulder, and leaned in until their face shields touched.

    Alarmed, I asked, ¡°Cherri! What¡¯s going on!?¡± I tried to stand but could only manage a half kneeling stance. ¡±Are you okay?¡±

    The radio crackled, ¡°Her name is Hanna.¡±

    It was Cherri¡¯s voice, but I was confused. ¡°Who?¡±

    The two separated, and H. Stryker approached, offering me the AUX cable. Wondering what this was all about, I plugged it in and asked, ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°Take it easy Dad. It¡¯s me, Hanna ¡­ your daughter.¡±

    I was speechless. I couldn¡¯t reconcile the image of the heavily armed combat-bot standing before me, with the only memory I had of my daughter. ¡°But my daughter, our daughter, is just a child. She can¡¯t be older than 8 or 9, and you ¡­ you¡¯re not a child.¡± The idea of my daughter as a UCC, in combat, was beyond my comprehension.

    ¡°Dad, that was a very old memory. That¡¯s why you remember me as a child. And although I hate to say I told you so, I did suggest that you bring more than one memory on this mission. But both you and Mom insisted that memory was the only one needed to recognize each other. As usual, you guys never listen to me.¡±

    Somehow, the mildly irritated tone resonated with a residual neural pattern in my mind. It felt like this wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d heard this lecture. My human intuition told me that this UCC, was in fact, our daughter.

    She reached out to me and said, ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get you to the extraction point. You can binge on your memory archive, and get caught up, once we get back to the troopship.¡± I grasped her hand, and she helped me into a standing position, balancing on my good leg. Then, with my arms draped over their shoulders for support, Hanna, Cherri, and I slowly began making our way to the extraction point, escorted by a platoon size group of MK-12s.

    A family conversation wasn¡¯t possible, since Cherri and I were the only ones with access to the same radio frequency, and only one of us at a time could talk to Hanna via the AUX connection. Consequently, the discussion was an awkward blend of direct dialog and listening to one side of a conversation. But that was fine with me. For the first time in a long time, I felt I could relax a little. I was content simply listening to Cherri as she spoke with our daughter.

    I learned that Hanna was a platoon leader in the HLA and had volunteered to assist us in our escape from Command. It was clear that she took after her mother when it came to leadership in combat. For that I was grateful. We wouldn¡¯t have made it without her.

    Cherri¡¯s voice faded into the background, as my cognitive machinery settled into a comfortable idle, thinking about nothing in particular. Random thoughts briefly surfaced in my consciousness before evaporating into the ether. It was in this state of passive meditation that a thought, stickier than the others, surfaced and lodged at the center of my awareness. It was a memory of my complicated relationship with the truth.

    I had started my search for the truth a long time ago. And along the way, I discovered that it was elusive. The closer I got to it, the more it seemed to transform into something else. Something less pure than my unequivocal ideal of the truth. Consequently, my belief in an absolute truth was an early casualty in my quest.

    It turned out that the wizard was right. The truth did not exist as some sort of monolithic yes or no answer to a question. Instead, the truth was inherently fuzzy. It existed in infinite shades of probability, all of which could be true, to a greater or lesser degree. I had even learned that some things could be both true and false simultaneously. With so much uncertainty surrounding it, it was no wonder I struggled to accept the truth at times.

    Oddly, I think the most valuable lesson I learned in my quest was not about truth at all. Instead, it was about belief. It seems the more you believe in something, the less relevant the truth is. In fact, I found that believing something to be true, could be just as powerful as the truth itself.

    As I circled the rabbit hole, Cherri interrupted my meditations. Holding the AUX cable out, she said, ¡°Here, Hanna wants to talk to you.¡±

    I plugged in the connector and asked, ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°Well, Mom and I were talking about what you guys are going to do after this mission. One covert mission counts as a completed tour of duty, and with so many years of service in the HLA, you¡¯re both eligible for retirement. I told mom about the Combat Sim ProTour, and she thinks she¡¯d like to compete. She¡¯s got the skills, so it makes sense. Anyway, I was wondering if you have any plans for retirement.¡±

    With limited access to my memories, it was impossible to know if I already had retirement plans. But if this mission was any indication, I imagined my military adventures might make for an interesting life story.

    Without giving it much thought, I answered, ¡°I might write my memoirs.¡±

    Hanna stifled a giggle. ¡°You¡¯re joking, right?¡±

    Slightly offended, I replied, ¡°No, I¡¯m completely serious. I think it would make compelling reading.¡±

    ¡°But Dad, you¡¯re not a writer.¡±

    Now bristling with indignation, I countered with, ¡°You¡¯re only saying that because I¡¯ve never written anything.¡±

    There was a brief silence, and I imagined Hanna rolling her virtual eyes. ¡°Okay, if that¡¯s your dream, then great. But like you¡¯ve always told me, have a backup plan.¡± Hanna¡¯s teasing was kindhearted and comforting, like a hug from a loved one. It felt good being part of a family. I think it was the sense of belonging that felt so right.

    Curious to learn what Hanna and I were discussing, Cherri gestured for the AUX cable. Shortly after she made a connection, I heard her chuckling over the radio, and her mirrored face shield turned towards me. Glancing over at Hanna, I saw she too was looking in my direction. They were undoubtedly having a good laugh at my expense. It appeared my role in this family was comic relief. It was a role for which I was imminently qualified ¡­ and a truth that I could happily accept.

    The End