Ammo was damned hard to come by out here. He desperately wanted to hang on to every round he could.
Grant had flown his Mosquito five kilometers at little more than walking speed through twisty, narrow canyons to reach this spot, deep in NC territory. It was an isolated outpost, largely ignored by the war, that offered absolutely nothing in terms of resources, strategic importance or supplies. There weren't even any flash clone tubes. Few soldiers were aware of it as more than another blue dot on the map and fewer still ever had reason to venture out there.
Reaching it without being spotted was harder still, passing within meters of the heaviest fortifications in the New Conglomerate. Going more than a meter above the vally floor would be a free invitation to flak cannons and fighters.
And now he was here, confronted by an NC medic and having serious ammo issues.
"What do you mean I can't bring in my ammo? Fucks sake, I just want a damned drink."
The medic was standing casually in front of the forcefielded door, an assault rifle slung casually by his hip and his backpack lying casually behind him, showing enough supplies to field a casual field hospital. Casual was the watchword of this place,
The Thirsty Clone, and applied doubly to it's staff. This medically-inclined-doorman was wearing scarred light armour with the insignia stripped off, shaggy hair that couldn't have had the time to grow that long naturally and a posture that suggested amusement at Grants frustration.
"New rules. Applies to our guys too. One more hot head opens up and we will end up on too many people's radar. The last thing we need is some jumped up leutenant deciding to make a name for himself by cleaning up a den of faternising traitors." The last few words were said with a rather gleeful tone, as though he could think of nothing better in the world. And he probably couldn't. At least not this world.
"Look. I'm a regular here. You know me..." He tried desparately to remember the man's name, but a lifetime of running with IFF beacons splashing people's tags in front of his eyes had left certain memory muscles attrophied. Those IFF systems weren't in play right now. He recovered quickly though. "Everyone in there knows me. I've never been trouble now, have I?" He tried to look as unthreatening as a man in full body armour can. Didn't seem to be working though.
"Sorry, no exceptions. Even I have to ditch the tools before heading inside these days. Only whoever's on cleanup gets to play indoors."
Grant decided to try defiance instead. "I really don't care. You aren't taking my ammo." He held the detatched clip from his carbine in the other man's face. "No way, no how. I've been through eighty-fucking-six re-embodyments since this time yesterday. I spent ten hours in this body under siege. Six of those in an anti-air turret, the last four in the cockpit of that piece-of-shit Mosquito. Not had a drop to drink - even fucking water - through it all and the air conditioner got shredded by flak. I'm going inside, I'm getting drunk, and I'm taking this ammo with me."
"Max."
The word wasn't loud but was the magic one. Grant froze with his magazine still extended in front of him.
A short woman stepped out through the forcefield. A short woman with close cropped blond hair, twinkling blue eyes, a mischievous grin, a hand-rolled cigerette between her lips, and wearing the giant mechanical ex-skelliton of a stripped down MAX unit. A stripped down MAX unit wielding two scatterguns. Two scatter guns now pointed directly at Grant's head.
He swallowed slowly, simultaneously wishing that he had left his helmet on and being glad that ten hours in this body without fluids had left his bladder dry.
"Problem here Fraiser?" Katherine "Max" Maximus, the
Clone's bouncer and sometimes cleaner
1 asked the medic. Her voice had a similar note of amusement to Fraiser's (
Of course, that's his fucking name...), made that much worse by her being one of the most naturally bubbly people on the planet. Grant had never seen her lose that smile or sound angry. Reportedly that one incident with a cloaking device and the bathrooms had lead to her frowning. He was glad he wasn't around that day.
Rule was she only had to clean up after herself. On the other hand the mess she could make was very impressive.
"So, you are definitely taking that ammo in?" Fraiser asked.
"Erm..."
***
Grant slumped onto the barstool and started prodding at the order terminal. It was a pretty quiet day. To be expected after such intense fighting. Took a very special breed to seek out people you had been killing and being killed by to share a quiet drink.
Right now there was only one member each of the other two factions represented, not counting Fraiser and Max. Grant had landed himself on the stool next to Rebecca, the New Conglomerate heavy assault who seemed to many to be a permanent fixture. Rebecca - Becks to most, Becca only to those about to receive seriously bodily harm - was wearing her full armour plating with her helmet and (unloaded) weapons at her feet. She was a tall woman with a solid build and close cropped black hair. She had an exceptionally expressive face. Grant believed he could hold an entire conversation with her without her needing to say a word.
The other side of her was Brent, a Vanu Sovergnty infiltrator. Brent was wearing the usual under-armour body stocking but nothing most soldiers regarded as clothing, let alone protective gear. That was standard for infiltrators, and especially Vanu. Cloaking devices had been strongly banned long before the new weapon regulations had started, and that meant infiltrators had to go in their underwear. This acted as something of a deterrant for most of them. Few of the other troops cared.
Brent was obviously self concious about his body being so exposed, especially given his reduced looking five-four frame next to the dominantly built Rebecca, but generally agreed to be good looking enough to pull the look off. Even if he did insist on that strange-looking mohawk.
Becks nodded a greeting to Grant and noticed he was completely unarmed with the exception of a single magazine of carbine ammo. She raised an eyebrow and got a clear "don't ask" grimace in return. She made a mental note to ask and mock after he relaxed a little. The sound of Max's bright laughter suggeted it would be a good one.
The same sound drive Grant to take his first double whiskey as a shot.
***
An hour later the three had slumped their way into companionable drunkness. Each of them was working slowly through their signature tipples. For Brent a small smoked glass bottle of something with a lot of bubbles and fruity smell
2. For Grant whiskey
2 in a tumbler with two ice cubes. For Rebecca beer
4 in a simple dimple mug.
A traditional European fruit beer recipie re-imagined using non-terrestrial fruit. It was technically unbrewable as the alien biochemistry was toxic to Earth-born yeast. Vanu technicians had carefully modelled what they imagined would happen if you could brew with such fruit and synthesized that. Then stripped out the quickly lethal byproducts. The result was oddly similar to heavily sweetened carbonated blackcurrent juice. And roughly 8% ABV.
Specifically a twelve year old Scotch that he had trouble pronouncing after the second glass. As he would explain - at length, to anyone nearby - the twelve year was considered more mature than the more common eight year version of this brand, with a softer flavour and smoother finish. This was due to partly to the time and partly to the particular quarter casks used for the aging. Most critics of the period would agree with this, although they were largely split over whether the more mature flavour or the raw impact and strength of the more vibant eight-year was more desirable.
This same split was represented in the two techicians who had been tasked with scanning the molecular signature of the two variations for future replication. They had debated it the night before the scanning was scheduled at multiple bottle length. Come the morning and they had found insufficient whiskey left to scan. A quick trip to the local market had only turned up a bottle with a dot-matrix printed label and whiskey spelt with an A. They had decided that was close enough, watered half of it down a little to 'mature', scanned the two halfs under different names and gone home to sleep off the rest of the hangover.
It was dark. It was mild. She had ordered it by asking for a dark mild. It was good.
Grant had been leading the conversation. Initially to lead it away from the events at the door but now towards the earlier battles. Some might avoid talking about their recent fights with the very people who had been opposing them, but for Grant this was how you keep your sanity. Especially because you could lay into your own side as much as you please.
"So the new guy pulls the pin on his grenade just as the bolt driver round takes his head off. Both of our fucking medics run towards him, because who notices the god-damned live grenade alerts when they are flashing right in front of you? They get fragged just before your friends in their MAXes charge. Complete fucking bloodbath. We didn't fucking deserve to hold that checkpoint today."
Becks took a sip of her beer as he finished the rant. "Hey, I'm just glad our MAXes are getting their act together. See that fight last week? More damage done to friendlies than to the Vanu."
Brent looked over. "Didn't you kinda contribute...?"
She glared at him. "It was one rocket. The Galaxies IFF wasn't working and it was night. I don't see why I should be held responsible for an equipment error. If they don't want us colourblind soldiers making that mistake they can damnned well keep their gear working right."
The men both managed to mostly hide their laughter as she changed the subject. "Anyway, I don't think I saw you around all day. Where were you lurking for all this?"
Brent preened. "I was put in charge of taking out the spawns behind enemy lines. Knock them all out and restrict you guys to just Galaxies and emergency drops. I proposed it myself."
"I didn't notice any of that, did you?" Becks turned to Grant who shook his head.
"Ah, well, there was a slight flaw. It's not particularly easy to be both stealthy and resupply behind enemy lines. We kinda ran out of ammo and explosives after every other base. By the time we took one down, returned to resupply and re-infiltrated they had already repaired any damage we had done. Still, a great strategy. Just didn't, you know... work..." He decided to examine his bottle more closely for a couple of minutes.
"Anyway. How did you score today?" Becks asked Grant.
He grimaced. "Not great, not bad. Only three captures and sixty kills to eighty-six deaths. Our offensives were trash. Still, made up for it with the defence. Most of those kills were in Libs and fighters. Yourself?"
"Made out like a bandit. Over a hundred kills, less than a dozen deaths. Got to play with an artillary emplacement for a while. You guys really need to learn that rushing madly in front of guns doesn't work," Rebecca said.
Grant nodded. "Accepted."
"So, you know what that means. Say it." She leant over and elbowed him.
Grant sighed and stood. In a sullen monotone he said, "the New Conglomerate are our betters the Terran Republic are pants wetters."
Rebecca offered a dainty round of applause. "Not a great performance but then I really need to think of a better rhyme. Still, at least you accept who are the superior warriors."
"Currently, sure. Doesn't mean you deluded fools are right about anything else." Grant had obviously decided it was that point in the evening. He hit the keys to synthesise another drink and settled back on the stool.
Rebecca rose to the challenge beautifully. "Oh, so we are deluded for not wanting to live under the tyrany of an oppressive regime are we? How much do they pay you for your propaganda efforts? Oh, right, you don't get paid. The Republic don't see fit to give you tools money for your service."
Grant sipped the whiskey. "Of course not. Who needs such an outmoded concept as money in a modern society? The only reason to keep money around is to create social inequality and help keep others underfoot. I'm proud they don't pay us."
Rebecca looked back at Brent. "Hear that? Proud to be a slave." She saluted him with her mug.
Brent raised his bottle in return. "I'll drink to that." The glass touched and the two took a deep swig.
"Oh ha ha," Grant said, "it's not slavery if you do it out of love for what you are fighting for. At least I'm not a mercenary thug."
Becks rather enjoyed being called a mercenary, but you when it's intended as an insult you can't let that sort of thing slide. "Hey, better a mercenary than a jackbooted fascist pig."
"Better a jackbooted fascist than a braindead corporate who...erm...shrill..." he quickly trailed off and broke eye contact.
Becks snorted. "Hear that? In one sentence he admits to being a fascist and proves the pig part. Some impressive friendly fire."
Brent agreed. "Almost as good as that time he landed a drop pod right on his own squad's Galaxy."
"HEY! That only happened..."
"Oh? What was that?"
"...twice..."
Two people's laughter filled the room. Grant turned his back on the both of them.
***
Another hour and Becks had turned her back on Grant as well, but only so she could lean back against him. Brent was far enough gone that he defaulted to his traditional state. Evangelising.
"See, that's what you guys don't get about us Vanu. We don't want to hurt you. Well, we do, but not to actually, you know, hurt you. We just kill you to get you out of our way so we can help you. Because we love you guys as well."
"Riiiight." Becks materialised another beer. "I can feel the love every time your plamsa burns through my chest. Gets me right in the heart."
"Good one. But no. We want you to join us. We want you to
ascend with us." Usually the feeling of being naked and in the presence of women would make it hard for Brent to say these things, but for some reason it was coming naturally now. "If you just let us run things we would be able to reach the singularity and all be as gods. Godesses. Deities. Whatever."
The beer was going down fast. Through the slight haze now filling the room Rebecca noticed that it didn't seem to be lasting as long as the last few. She fowned at it, dissapointed in it's lack of staying power.
Brent continued. "See, we are the ones with the vision to drag this shit hole of a planet out of this stupid endless war and reach a new era of pure peace and tranquility and computing power and love. We just need you to submit to our computing love." Something of his words seemed to work through to his own brain and he frowned himself. "That didn't sound right."
Becks had now realised she was absolutely wasted and had a confused Vanu either trying to convert her or sleep with her. She shook her head violently and sent a silent order to the nanites in her blood to sober herself the fuck up right now. The haze lifted as she mentally replayed the last few minutes conversation.
Realising it was just an attempt to get her to love Vanu in general rather than this one she relaxed. As long as she was sober she could have fun with this.
"So, you are saying that if you are in charge we will be as gods?"
"Yep. As gods. All of us."
"And we will achieve this through the power of computers being everywhere?"
"Right. And uploading. Our brains. Minds. Free of these fucking meat puppets."
"You mean like we are now?"
"Right. Wait. What?"
She pointed at his drink. "That drink was just conjured by a computer manipulating effectively infinite resouces to generate whatever you wanted. We can produce pretty damned near whatever we want using the computing power just lying around. I have enough nanocomputers flowing through my own blood to run a thousand human minds simultaneously in my own body. I know this because I just asked them and they calculated it in a nanosecond."
Rebecca gestured at her own body. "As for the body itself, this fucking meat puppet has only been around for six hours. Before that my mind was uploaded from the previous meat puppet to a computer substrate that fills this whole planet. And before that another and before that another. We have already ascended in your terms."
Brent shook his own head more violently than Becks had before, but with the opposite effect. "Nononononono. No. See. When we are in charge we will
ascend. We will be
enlightened."
Rebecca elbowed Grant behind her. "How about this great lump? How is a braindead fascist pig like him going to achieve enlightenment?"
The grin of the fanatic spread across Brent's face. "We shall share the knowledge of the Vanu with him and he shall see..."
"... 'the light and wonder of true understanding.' Yeah, I've read your books before." Grant rumbled from behind Becks. "No sale."
"See," Becks said, "we know all you know. We just think it's a steaming pile of crap. Vanu don't offer us anything we don't have now. Well, other than your leaders becoming our leaders. And I'm much happier with my leaders, thank you."
"...corporate shrill," murmured Grant.
"Fascist. Pig," stated Becks, stealing Grant's latest drink and pooring it into her remaining beer. He muttered while conjuring himself yet another.
Brent was starting to get flustered now. "But. No. See. We will be in a techo... tech... tech-no-logic-al. heaven after the ascen...we win. Once the singularity reaches us we will be as gods."
"What sort of God?" asked Grant, "the boring fucker who just sits and watches, being all ineffable and pretending to have a plan and that. Or the fun bastards who have their own wars and mead halls and impregnate women while disgused as livestock?"
Brent grinned. He could handle this one. "Whichever you like. You can design your own heaven."
Rebecca wasn't sure she liked the idea about livestock featuring in Grant's idea of 'fun', but she could drop that for now. "Then how do you know this isn't someone's version of heaven then?"
"What?"
"How do you know this isn't already a universe designed to forfill everything you say. We have universally accessible massive computing. We have universally shared and rich knowledge. We have everything we could possibly want. We are already, as you say, as gods."
He frowned at her. "I don't feel fucking godlike. Take last week. You ran me over in a Sundererer er. I didn't feel like a god. I felt like a brief pancake."
Grant's glass appeared over Beck's shoulder and she touched her own to it, accepting the toast before replying. "But you are still here talking to me. Just because you are a god doesn't mean you infallible."
"Sure it does."
"Nah, if you are an ascended human you are still fucking human. You have access to all the computing power you like but you still make bad decisions because it's the monkey brain still driving the ship. And the reason you keep it that way is that it's simply more
fun. The brain isn't going to hand things over to some omnisentient computer when there is the possibility of a good enjoyable fight. So much more fun to be had by staying stupid and fallible.
"Face it Brent, you've ascended already. This is heaven. And I for one wouldn't trade it for all the harps and clouds in the 'verse."
Brent closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "So you are trying to say that this whole world, and all our fighting, only happens because we fight it
amusing? That there isn't any purpose to it?"
"Oh, there's purpose. But it's not like we couldn't fight this whole war using infinite copies of our best fighters. We use fuckups like us three," at this Grant raised his whiskey glass in a salute, "because it's more fun this way. And maybe for the entertainment of whoever is really running this show."
"Eh?" He looked up momentarily at that.
"Face it. The singularity has been and gone. We haven't transcended, or ascended or whatever, because we have too much fun here. But that doesn't mean that no-one has gone for that sort of superhuman power. We are probably all just puppets of some unknown transhumans playing with us for their own entertainment. After all, no-one said the ascended would lose their sense of humour."
Brent was silent for a few seconds, his head back in his hands. "You're fucking with me, right?" His voice was muffled and his slurring seemed worse now.
She grinned and patted him on the back. "Of course I am numbnuts. What, you think any of what I said makes a lick of sense? It's all just as much bullshit as that crap you were trying to feed me."
Brent was silent. After a moment he started snoring, loudly. Becks laughed and slapped Grant on the shoulder. "Looks like our enlightened brethren doesn't know his limits, eh?"
Grant slowly slid off his stool.
Becks laughed, ordered another beer and stood up to go find Max. After all, the other factions could never be as fun as the NC sisterhood.
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Topic: Planetside 2: Free-to-Play MMOFPS. 2000 players/server. (Read 1123333 times)