Three Months Ago
I couldn't help but admire the military precision with which the Commandos moved about the drill hall floor. I hadn't seen such a display of efficiency since my time in Triluminary. I missed those days on some level. To be able to look out from our war room in Horizon and admire how everyone and everything had its own purpose and moved with drive towards the completion of those purposes. Walking down the streets of the city, one couldn't help but notice the disorder that the population was rife with. Some people walked on the left and some people walked on the right. Some people just stopped without warning in front of a crowd to chat with a friend, forcing the foot traffic behind to spread out around them or push past in frustration.
With the Commandos, just as it was with Horizon, there were unmarked and unofficial lanes of traffic. There was a fast lane and a slow lane for people walking clockwise and counter-clockwise around the drill hall's perimeter. There was a lane closely hugging the wall where individuals could pull off to the side to discuss some issue without deviating in their route to an appropriate side office. The center of the drill hall was off limits except to officers or troops carrying particularly heavy loads. It was a perfect system that could be enforced through disciplinary actions by those with authority but discipline was not needed. There was self-discipline. A self-instilled notion of efficiency that led to this base working much like an orchestra. Each instrument did its part and, on its own, seemed rather dull. But taken as a whole, these Commandos were capable of impressive feats. Despite a design flaw in some of their RSI disguises of the past, they had fooled quite a few people. I was here to meet the man- or Program, rather- behind the machinations and behind this display of order.
The drill hall wasn't an Armoury per se. It was more of a converted warehouse on the Edgewater river front. The side offices, like the one I was waiting outside of, were likely converted storage closets. Some didn't even have proper doors and seemed to be much more like alcoves than rooms. Standing around, waiting for The General to be ready, I found myself wondering how the presence of the Commandos were justified to the Bluepill populace. A National Guard unit stationed in the city to deal with increasing terrorist threats? Election cheer leaders for David Beatt's bid for Presidency?
I was playing with such theories when a uniformed Master Sergeant stepped out from the alcove office that was designated for The General. It was slightly comical to me for the briefest of moments. Two men- a Program and a person- standing toe-to-toe in a warehouse-turned-armoury while staring at one another through sunglasses that were worn in a building with poor lighting. I decided that the hilarity of the circumstances was evident only to me when the Master Sergeant didn't return the smirk. He just offered a slight inclination of his head and a gruff acknowledgement. "Sir. This way."
I followed him in and blanched at the choice of artwork on one of the walls. It was a framed photograph of Dresden from the Second World War. During a bombing run. Apparently one of the crew members of a bomber massacring Dresden took it upon himself to take a photograph of the destruction and then to distribute it. I had to remind myself of two things as my fists clenched in a spat of sub-conscious anger. First of all, was the bombing of Dresden real? To me, the question of the authenticity of the event felt like hearing Ahmadinejad on the news questioning the truth of the Holocaust. But it was a question that needed asking. If those civilians had never been slaughtered by the hypocritical wrath of the Allies, was there anything to be angry about. Second of all, I had to remind myself that I was here to ask something of someone else. I was not in the ideal negotiating position where I could make immature demands for apologies and the removal of the photograph from The General's wall. Besides, even if he did take it down to make me comfortable, who was to say he wouldn't put it back up after I had left and then laughed and jeered at my sentimentality with his aides?
"Mr. Paul Lipp, sir." The Master Sergeant announced my entry, the heel of his boot making a nice snapping sound on the floor as he came to attention.
"Austrian, pleased to meet you." He got up from his seat to offer me his hand. We shook and I took the indicated chair. Certainly more pleasantries than I had ever received from an Agent or even most Exiles.
"The pleasure is all mine." I returned a thin smile.
"I looked at your proposal. It's very good. But what's the objective?" He asked. So quick to end the formalities.
"The objective is to access the indicated data nodes." I answered bluntly. That should have been all he needed to know, in my opinion. The rest was just business.
"Those are short-term objectives. Stepping stones, if you will. What's the long-term objective?" He asked, not giving up. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, a gesture indicating that we weren't going anywhere with this conversation until he was satisfied that he knew what the long-term objective was.
"The truth. I've been asking the same questions for a long time now and no one has given me a proper answer. If they won't give me the answer, they leave me no choice but to take it." That was one way of putting it.
"As you know, I spent a lot of time working with Zion. You sound an awful lot like one of them." The General mused. He was probing to see what my response would be to a potentially perceived insult. I decided to indulge him.
"Zion is anthropocentric. They're sentientists who discriminate between entities as to who or what deserves moral consideration on irrelevant bases. There's more to being human than simply being made from flesh. The human race, with the state we are in... there's little basis to say that a machine does not deserve to be afforded certain inherent rights. So Zion wishes to deny Machines their right to life because Machines are 'different'. I don't want to deny anyone their right to anything. I just want to know where I'm from and where my family and friends are." It was a bit of an incoherent diatribe. But the jab irritated me.
"You're quite passionate about-" He began.
"Are you going to help or not?" I interrupted.
We sat there for a few moments in silence. The creased brow on the old Program's face furrowed further as he seemed to weigh his options and judge my resolve. I just stared back at him. I'd stared into the eyes of older Programs than he. I still remembered seeing those hollow empty sockets of The Assassin's "face" staring back into mine. That... thing still haunted my dreams. In many ways, I suspected that thing still haunted The Matrix. That thought consoled me in moments of confrontation like these. I had faced off against an entity like The Assassin and survived. Sure, I wasn't the one who fired the last shot into that being. But I had the knowledge that I could face off against something which had been around long before The General and would, in some form, still be around long after The General's code had been recycled into pigeons a dozen iterations from now.
"You have a deal, Austrian." The General finally said, getting up from his chair to offer me his hand again.
"A wise decision." I answered, accepting the gesture.
I had a plan and I had resources. Now it was a matter of timing to begin to achieve the objective.
As the Master Sergeant led me out of the office, I cast a glance at the photograph of Dresden on the wall. I understood now why The General had chosen such a thing to adorn his wall. Vengeance could never be the objective or it would be vengeance in excess. There was never such a thing as equal and proportionate use of force- no such thing as the principle of reciprocity. There had to be higher ideals to fight for in order for the cause to be justified. My cause was just.
I just wondered if his was...