Logs for ShadowRN and Associated Mailing Lists

From:	"Robert A. Hayden" <hayden@*******.MANKATO.MSUS.EDU>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Wed, 21 Apr 1993 15:55:00 -0500

From:	Ed Matuskey <MATUSKEY@***.EDU>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Mon, 21 Jun 1993 16:54:15 -0700

From:	Mike Goldberg <m_goldberg@**.COLORADO.EDU>
Subject:	Huh??
Date:	Thu, 3 Feb 1994 15:21:56 MST

From:	Freddy Frypp <JAMES-CUENO@*********.EDU>
Subject:	Huh??
Date:	Tue, 27 Sep 1994 11:24:58 CST

From:	"Menno E. Broos" <bibroos@**.FEW.EUR.NL>
Subject:	Re: Huh??
Date:	Wed, 28 Sep 1994 14:25:07 +0100

From:	Brad Shantz <bshantz@****.COM>
Subject:	Re: Huh??
Date:	Wed, 28 Sep 1994 08:10:21 PDT

From:	Brian Rogers <rogers@****.UIUC.EDU>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Wed, 9 Nov 1994 14:27:33 -0600

From:	Erik S Jameson <esj@***.UUG.ARIZONA.EDU>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Wed, 9 Nov 1994 20:31:00 -0700

From:	Neuron Basher <mark@********.IP.NET>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Tue, 11 Apr 1995 16:26:42 EDT

From:	Erik Jameson <GKoth2258@***.COM>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Tue, 8 Aug 1995 14:56:20 -0400

From:	Mike Goldberg <michael.goldberg@*******.COM>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Mon, 24 Nov 1997 10:58:38 MST

From:	Mike Goldberg <michael.goldberg@*******.COM>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Mon, 24 Nov 1997 13:13:33 MST

Message no. 12 ***** Private: Blitzkrieg
>>>>>[ Where do you want me to begin, Mark? I realize that Chris
doesn't want Legion to know who he is protecting, and I suspect you
want the same as well. Unfortunately, last night's incident has
narrowed down my suspect list.

I was hired by Doomsday to investigate the people who were asking for
"Christopher Harker" in Seattle. Doomsday didn't take the job
because he is officially out of the business. (Although if he heard
rumors like people asking for information on another person, one
wonders how "out" he truly is.) He was seriously concerned though
because if people want to harm Chris, it jeopardizes his long range
plan of going into business with him. (Never mind the fact that
Midnight is about his closest friend.)

So he contacted me and hired me to look into it on personal time. I
asked Legion if they could spare me, and they said yes. They asked
that I keep them posted if there is something more sinister going on.
As you well know, despite everything, Legion looks after its current
and past members.

So we've been tracking the noser. I found him after hitting some of
the likely watering holes that Chris would normally visit. The
locals at Polish's gave us the needed info to follow the main guy and
it just happen to be our bad that he finally found her leaving work
the other day.

Our plan was to panic you into getting out of the area by doing the
obvious trailing bit and then hit the person who was nosing.
However, we saw the guy pull a gun and then went to immediate hit
mode. You saw me tackle him into a passing van, after he got a shot
off at the girl. You shoved the girl out of the way, taking the
bullet instead, and then got both of them to cover. By the time you
came out with a gun out, we had already started to drive off. You
spotted a drone, and wisely bolted back to safe territory instead of
going home. How's your arm doing?

Overall analysis: You might want to get some more protection around
whoever you are protecting, and get your ass over to >>encrypted<< so
that you can listen into our interrogation. We intend to break the
sucker hard, so it might be a couple of long sessions. Since we
don't have the luxury of time, we have already started messing with
him. We are still working on his screwing up his sleep cycle, but we
have already messed up his eating cycle and sense of time. Starting
time for actually talking to him about something useful is:
>>encrypted<<.

The guy is well trained. So far he has just given us his "name."
Btw, a slight tangent that you might find interesting: we've found a
way to crack a certain type of spells that were made to prevent
conventional and non-conventional interrogations. Don't tell
Nightmare or I will never know a day of peace. ]<<<<<
-- Whirlwind <20:13:42/11-24-58>

From:	Mike Goldberg <michael.goldberg@*******.COM>
Subject:	Re[2]: Huh?
Date:	Mon, 24 Nov 1997 15:06:51 MST

Message no. 13 ***** Private: Whirlwind
>>>>>[ I'll be at the interrogation as soon as I can clear it with my
ward. The arm hurts but that is life. It was a clean shoot through
and didn't hit bone, so at least it will heal nicely.

Anyway, I won't tell Nightmare about Legion's little gem, if you
won't tell Legion what Chris and I are up to; our employer doesn't
wish for that to happen.

Btw, Nightmare and I figured it was only a matter of time before
someone found a graceful way around it. All things have a
counter-measure if you look long enough. That knowledge could bring
the Legion a lot of unwanted attention if you make your awareness
public. To me, mental magick is a very questionable area. I know
the whole adage about anything to give yourself an edge, but there
are areas that the various homo sapien branches would have been
better off leaving alone.

Case in point, have you ever seen Pestilence when he really wants to
ruin someone's life? He goes beyond simple illusions at that point.
He goes beyond the feeling of "I walked into my house today and
discovered that I had been robbed. Everything was replaced with an
exact duplicate." (Some ancient comedian said that, but it fits so
what the heck. I think it was S. Wright.) From what I've heard,
Pestilence doing his worst is a truly frightening experience to
watch, and I am thankful that I have yet to experience it. ]<<<<<
-- Blitzkrieg <22:06:21/11-24-58>

From:	Mike Goldberg <michael.goldberg@*******.COM>
Subject:	Re[3]: Huh?
Date:	Mon, 24 Nov 1997 18:05:29 MST

Message no. 14 ***** Private: Blitzkrieg
>>>>>[ I don't know if I would call it graceful. It works, but it is
a pain in the ass, time-consuming, and may take more than one round
to successfully implement. Luckily mages can normally figure out
pretty quickly whether they have a potential headcase on their hands
and determine if the process is needed or not instead of having no
indication whether or not it is needed in the first place.

In our case, it seems to be irrelevant. I just offered you the
tidbit so that I have a reason to holdout on the information that
Legion probably wants.

Btw, I completely agree with you, Pestilence is one person who would
be frightening to go up against because when he gets mad -- he
doesn't just make you have a bad day, he gives you years of therapy.
Not a pretty sight. I wonder what kind of line Pestilence is toying
with, because it seems even tighter now that he has hooked up with
Death, Famine, and War. ]<<<<<
-- Whirlwind <00:26:51/11-25-58>

***** Private: Whirlwind
>>>>>[ Just what is War's story anyway? The only bit I have heard
doesn't make much sense. ]<<<<<
-- Blitzkrieg <00:27:44/11-25-58>

***** Private: Blitzkrieg
>>>>>[ I'm sorry I cannot make you privy to the limited amount I know
about his story from the Legion days. He's a dangerous fragger with
a deadly sense of religion. Insane, undoubtedly. I know virtually
nothing about his actions after leaving the brotherhood.

To tell you the truth, I'm kind of glad I don't know the story of his
path afterwards. He does wetwork. He does it to specification of
his employer plus his sense of duty to God. He is a fanatic, and
when he believes he is in the right, he is impossible to stop for
long. And from what we have both seen, when he decides he is in the
wrong, he just fades. I stay away from judging War because I can
understand certain of his career decisions. I may not agree with
them, but he may not have either. He was once my brother, and in a
sense, he still is. It will be difficult for me if I have to choose
sides. ]<<<<<
-- Whirlwind <01:03:07/11-25-58>

>>>>>[ "You're no different -- no different from me."
]<<<<<
-- Blitzkrieg <01:04:47/11-25-58>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Wed, 31 Dec 1997 03:45:32 +0000

Message no. 15 *****INTERNAL: Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
>>>>>[This came in 45 minutes ago. Get a team out into the area. Find
out what the fuck is going on.

+++++Include security log. Facility: Adam12.
+++++VidCom GRBF ADAM12: Security Alert

Yellow emergency lights flash in the background, smoke filters around a
panicked technicians' head. Blood leaks from a wound on his forehead,
streaking half his face.

"The subject is loose! Last seen in corridor 17 heading for the
elevators. We can't stop him! For fucks sake..." sparks erupt from an
exploding unit behind the technician, he cringes in front of the camera,
waiting for something painful " ...for the love of God get someone in
here. Now! He's killing everybody. PLEASE! HELP US!"

A loud crash in the background. The technician looks up - utter terror
tattoed indelibly on his face. He opens his mouth to scream. A hail of
bullets strike his head and chest. Blood sprays, hitting the comms
screen.

White noise...

Systems restored. Emergency procedures activated.

+++++Section 12 communications lost.
+++++Section integrity compromised.
+++++Engaging Bio hazard filtration and lock down.
+++++WARNING - Level purging commences in 2 minutes.
+++++WARNING - You have 2 minutes to evacuate.
+++++WARNING - You have 1 minute 59 seconds to evacuate.

+++++Internal communications. Security: Lt. Granelli
+++++Minicam recording

"I can't see anything, the whole section's filled with smoke. Where did
that last communication come from?"

"Area 2, Medical. Corridor 9, elevator 3."

"Team, with me."

Yellow warning lights flash in concert with the red biohazard warning
lights and purge messages on spaced wall panels. The eight man team
runs along a smoke filled corridor, debris scattered throughout the area
they pass through, occassional white coats are glimpsed in twisted
caricatures of themselves. Torn and bloodied, fear or pain on what
faces are visible. All died a terrible and painful death.

"What the hell did this L-T?"

"Fuck knows. Some monkey the spooks were playing with. Fucking
scientists pissing around with something again, it gets out, we gotta
clean it up. Time Sarge?"

"1 minute . We better get outta here, or we're gonna regret it."

"Fuckit! OK team, out, head for the access tunnel, we'll figure out
where the fucker is after the section is purged." A soul rending scream.
"Jani? Jani report! Where the hell is he?" A dark shape - humanoid -
flicks across the camera. "What the... HE'S HERE! ohmygodohmygodohmygo
dohmYGOOOODDDDDD!... No NOOO....!"

"L-T? L-T!? Djangi where's the L-T?"

"He's gone! L-T's dead, his head rolled under my fucking feet. We
gotta get outta here man, NOW!"

A shadow appears in the smoke. "SHIT! OVER THERE... FIRE!"

Automatic weapons blaze, pouring lead into the smoke. Bullets riccochet
down the corridor - breaking glass, shattering equipment, other -
indefinable noises add to the deafening thunder. Other team members add
their numbers, machine-pistols spraying instant death blindly into the
smoke.

"CEASE FIRE! Mendez. Check it out."

"Fuck you man. I ain't goin' nowhere near that fuckin' thing."

"Check it out or so help me god I'll shoot you."

"Do it man. I'm dead if I go down there anyway."

"Nothing could've survived that. You fucking Coward. Cover me."

Smoke envelops the sergeant. Machine pistol held high and tight, he
slowly makes his way down the corridor. "45 seconds to Purge. All
personnel must evacuate now." The tannoy voice continues it's
monotonous countdown.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit." The sergeant begins his own countdown.
Stress, and fear cracking his voice into a hoarse whisper. "Where are
you, you fucker?"

"Right here." A voice from the depths of hell itself. The sergeant
spins. A blood soaked bandaged something stands in front of him,
terrible burning eyes glaring from beneath the bandages. Whether it is
the humanoids blood or that of the technicians and medics on this level
can only be guessed at. The figure is large, heavy slab like muscles
flex under the bandages as thick arms reach forward knocking the weapon
out of the guards hands, grabbing him by his throat and lifting him off
the ground. "Who am I? Where am I?" Bandages muffle the awful voice,
slurring the words. A choking gurgle is the only reply. A sickening
crack, and the gurgle ceases. The humanoid reaches towards the camera.
"You _will_ tell me...."

White noise.

Gunfire erupts out of the smoke filled corridor. Bullets chewing into
the security team scattering and spinning those hit, driving them into
other members, spoiling their aim for vital moments. "24 seconds to
Purge. All personnel have 24 seconds to evacuate."

Bandaged feet slop through the blood, seemingly unconcerned that they
are treading on the hard edged cartridges covering the floor. Tearing
cameras and ammo pouches off the corpses.

.... White noise.

+++++Section 12 Purge in operation. System flushing commences in 5
minutes.
+++++RADIATION WARNING
+++++WARNING. Radiation on Section 12 at critical level. WARNING.
+++++Purge complete. Section 12 flushing in operation.
+++++Section twelve will be cleared for entry in 15 minutes.

+++++WARNING. WARNING. Security breach. Level 11. Bio hazard
filtration activated. WARNING. WARNING
+++++Security report to Level 11. Security breech. Level 11 integrity
compromised.

+++++End Include

More of the same followed. Whatever that was got through the entire
fucking complex in under 20 minutes. No survivors. At least none that
can communicate with us. Upper levels were evacuated, for whatever that
was worth.

I want to know what happened. Why, and what the hell they were doing
there, and, what that thing was.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno
Command Centre, Brigade Headquarters

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Thu, 1 Jan 1998 22:20:33 +0000

Message no. 16 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[It's a mess here sir. We've penetrated the complex, it looks like
a goddamn abbatoir. Whoever through this place is gone, we can't find
anything. Fires have destroyed most of the records, though Ricardo
thinks he might be able to extract something from what little we've
recovered. Radiation flushing destroyed more than the creature.

It appears that whatever did this, used the central core to gain access
to upper levels. We found a series of smashed access panels on every
level, some traces of radiation register in the core, but that's
negligible. Everyone is dead. One hte lower levels it appears that
most died by hand. Torn apart. Some shot, weapons liberated from the
security detachments were used to achieve what hands could not.

I have no idea at this time what experiment was taking place here, but I
sure don't want meet it. We can't even track the subject. There are
tracks everywhere leading through the surrounding area for several
hundred meters. Everyone that escaped the complex is somewhere within
that radius, dead. Tracks and shit have covered the whole area,
confusing whatever information we could have extracted. Mendez and the
dog team are working on it, and we hope to come up with something, but
probably not for a few hours. Total body count is 234 dead. 96
security, the rest are medics and technicians. I'll send film of the
site back to you within the hour. You are not going to believe some of
it.

I've set up a BoO at outside of the complex. Nobody wants to go in so
we're running power out to the tents. There's no point cleaning up and
removing bodies. There's too many, and too many bits. I would
reccommend that examiners and forensics are sent in to work inside the
complex. Also, a PAR team would be useful. Once investigations are
complete, we should torch the installation. No point trying to recover
it, the expense would not be justifiable.

I've set up a two kilometer perimeter around the site. Nothing will get
in here that shouldn't be, so we might be able to keep this quiet.

Information and site analysis to follow.]<<<<<
-- Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
C/O 31st Brigade

*****PRIVATE: Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
>>>>>[Once you have found a trail that follows the escapee. Take a
team and track it down. Exterminate anything and anyone you find along
that trail. Full resources will be available. We cannot allow this
thing to reach civilisation. Find it and kill it Alfredo. I will try
to find out from this end what exactly was in there.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno
Command Centre, Brigade Headquarters

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Fri, 2 Jan 1998 02:02:05 +0000

Message no. 17 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[You want me to what?

Sir. I do not think that this is a good idea. We have noi information
on the subjects capabilities, what the process of creation was or what
exactly has been done. We would be walking into a completely unknown
situation.

I wish the record to show my objection to this order.]<<<<<
-- Commander Alfredo Jalmiz <01:46:51/01-02-59>
C/O 31st Brigade

*****PRIVATE: Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
>>>>>[Consider your objection noted Commander. However, you do have
information to work from. It is below your feet. Look at what it has
done, and ask yourself a question. What' happens if it reaches
civilisation?

While you're answering that question, take your men and get after that
thing. Stop it at all costs.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno <02:00:34/01-02-59>
Command Centre, Brigade Headquarters

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Fri, 2 Jan 1998 05:01:37 +0000

Message no. 18 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[We've found a trail. 3 hours up the trail we found a pile of
bloodsoaked bandages. Either the target is clothed or naked, until
inventory are finished at the facility, it's unknown whether the subject
has stolen clothing, and if any - what type. We are working on the
assumption at this time that the subject is clothed and possibly
equipped with gear liberated from Adam12.

Finding the bandages was a blow to my men, the sight and smell of them
was bad enough, but the thought that whatever was in them had destroyed
Adam12, brought things home in a most unpleasant manner.

So far the trail has been clear, a blood trail led us to the abandoned
bandages. I can honestly say, I've never seen anything like it. The
bandages were soaked with blood, every last inch of them. We cannot
find a blood trail leading away from the find, so we must assume that
the blood is from the personnel at Adam12. Forensics will confirm this
within the hour.

The dogs have picked up a trail, it's faint, and the target is covering
it's tracks well, but we're still on it. So far the trail leads deeper
in country, heading in a roughly southerly direction.

Request magical back up. We need something here that can dael with
whatever we're up against. Evidence within the complex indicates that
conventional weapons are not effective. Several hundred rounds were
fired by the security teams overall, and all indications are that if
they heat the subject, it had no effect. I find it difficult to accept
that every shot missed. Though that is possible, it indicates a speed
that is virtually unbelievable. Also, other evidence within the complex
speaks of phenomenal strength, some technicians had their limbs torn
out of sockets, indentations and rips in the skin show clear bruising
from fingers.

So far we have not found any information concerning the research project
that has caused this problem. The teams at Adam12 have managed to get
the central datacore on-line, and hope to find something once they've
cracked the encryption. We're getting deeper in country with every
step, and into enemy territory. I would feel a lot better if some sort
of SPC was with us. There are creatures out here, I do not relish
meeting with conventional weapons.

We will also need evac and resupply facilities. We have sufficient
supplies for three days, after that things start getting tight. Living
off the land might be OK for the movies, but I would much rather rations
were available. Also, part of the resupply will need to contain
ammunition and heavier weaponry. Suggest combat ammo, rather than the
kit the men are equipped with at this time.]<<<<<
-- Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
C/O 31st Brigade

*****PRIVATE: Commander Alfredo Jalmiz
>>>>>[Supplies are en-route. Make your way to 1734,1.10/2 Graham 5.
Choppers will be waiting for you.

I will be in Caracas. Use normall communications for any requirements, a
team has been set up to monitor your channel. If you turn up something,
kill or capture the subject, contact me directly in Caracas.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno
Command Centre, Brigade Headquarters

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Sat, 3 Jan 1998 07:07:59 +0000

Message no. 19 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno, Caracas
>>>>>[There are only a dozen of us left. It is a demon, a demon from
the deepest pits of hell. It destroyed the supply choppers, it almost
destroyed us, we ran, we ran for a long time. I think we have lost it.
General you must send reinforcements, send whatever you can, this
creature is impossible to kill. We poured bullets into it and it
vanished. We thought we'd killed it, and then it appeared amongst us.
Some fired, some panicked, so many dead, so many... So much blood. I
am scared General, I have never been this scared. The hells have passed
judgement and now have come to destroy us all... My men are gone. Torn
apart by the creatures' claws, Gods, it's eyes, those terrible eyes, I
will dream of those eyes the rest of my life. They burn General. The
eyes are on fire.

It is coming. We can hear it, the voice, the howling. IT COMES FOR US!
Tell my wife I love her, I am sorry General, I could not kill the beast.

It is here..... The men are firing, I must go. We fight!

+++++Transmission time-out 120 seconds
+++++Disconnect [y/n] N

W H O A M I?

+++++Transmission terminated at source
]<<<<<
-- Commander Alfredo Jalmiz <07:02:40/01-03-59>
C/O 31st Brigade

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Sun, 4 Jan 1998 05:18:51 +0000

Message no. 20 *****PRIVATE: General Handesas Makart, HQ, Fuerzas Armadas Nacionales
>>>>>[We have a problem.

+++++INCLUDE: Adam12.dat
+++++INCLUDE: Adam12 sec cam.vid
+++++INCLUDE: Cuerzas rpt.nfo

Commander Alfredo Jalmiz and his men have been killed. The Muerto
helicopters sent to re-supply him have been destroyed. The subject
detailed in the report has escaped and is at large somewhere in the
Monagas region. It is advisable that the President is informed. We
will need sanction to mobilise a force to sweep the region, also
sterilisation is an option that must be considered. The subject cannot
be allowed to escape.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno <05:17:32/01-04-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Wed, 7 Jan 1998 03:43:48 +0000

Message no. 21 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[El operacion esta claro. <Operation cleared> You have
permission
to mobilise the 31st Mechanised Infantry Brigade. Find the subject and
kill it. Sterilisation is not an option at this time, the area is
populated and fertile.

+++++INCLUDE: JohnDo.dat

This is the information we have on the experiment. It was cleared
through a department here at Government House. The project was part of
the "Ocaso" experiment. The subject has had 75% of the surgery required
for the experiment. It is dangerous, but can be stopped. Bien fortuna.
<good luck>]<<<<<
-- General Handesas Makart, <03:00:00/01-08-59>
HQ, Fuerzas Armadas Nacionales
Caracas, Venezuela

*****PRIVATE: Major Nino Castelli
>>>>>[Mobilise your brigade. This is not a drill. Briefing will be
given upon your arrival. Destination Adam12, Caicara. S&D, arm
accordingly.]<<<<<
-- General Sebastiano Galterno <03:16:01/01-08-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Thu, 8 Jan 1998 19:37:52 +0000

Message no. 22 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[We have arrived at Adam12. Preliminary results from investigate
teams are as follows.

Adam12 is considered lost. Damage is too extensive to warrant recovery.
Fires have destroyed a considerable portion of the installation. Suggest
recovery of savagable equipment, filling with concrete and abandoning.

One correction on initial assumptions. We have two, repeat TWO subjects
loose. Internal security reveals that four subjects escaped, two
corpses have been found inside the facility matching the descriptions
kept on record on Level 14. Another subject was found on Level 6.
Security had killed him in ventilation shaft 7, at a loss of six
members.

Two are loose. We do not at this time know whether they have seperated
or are working together. Investigations at the three sites reported.
LZ, Echo 1 and 2 indicate that they may be co-operating. If this is the
case, then the situation has degraded, though the hunt is easier.

I have organised the Brigade into squads, we will begin sweeping the
area from north to south at 0600. We need everything you might have
concerning subjects K12 and L16.

+++++Include: Site Analysis
+++++Include: Situation Report
+++++Include: Investigative Report
+++++Include: Debrief

]<<<<<
-- Major Nino Castelli <19:35:39/01-08-59>
17th Brigade MechInf

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Tue, 20 Jan 1998 17:59:30 +0000

Message no. 23 *****PRIVATE: General Sebastiano Galterno
>>>>>[

+++++Include: Debrief 16-20 Jan, 2059

The search goes slowly. Terrain makes following the trail difficult,
occurrences of encounters between locals and the escaped targets does
nothing to assist the speed of the pursuit. We are having to bury and
burn in the wake of such encounters and this is delaying us
interminably. It would be far easier if we could just mark such
incidents with a homer and have a following team clean up behind us.

We brushed edges with the target yesterday, it appears they were
attempting to double back for some reason. 12 Platoon encountered one
of them on the far right flank of the skirmish line and repelled them,
we have been in pursuit since. We believe one may be wounded. Request
aerial reconnaissance, it would assist considerably, especially as we
get deeper into the mountains if aircraft would scout for us.]<<<<<
-- Major Nino Castelli <17:37:28/01-20-59>
17th Brigade MechInf

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Wed, 28 Jan 1998 04:42:50 +0000

Message no. 24 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/28159A
+++++CREATE NEW: K12.log

Stonewall? This means something, though I cannot remember what it is.
Somehow this is important.

The ability to access like this is strange - To think and it is so. Is
this telepathy? Is it something else? I think in words, yet feel the
words changing, changing into something else, I can feel the relay,
somewhere distant, north, it feels military - maybe they can monitor
this, maybe not, I asked for it to be encrypted and something
acknowledged that request, the thoughts are longer as they transmit. I
can hear voices, and music - a radio station - music while I think. It
is strange. Almost as strange as the way the jungle looks now. So
clear, crisp, unnatural. Greens, browns, reds, yellows and blues are
more intense than I remember, but they are familiar. The animals hiding
in the undergrowth, hiding from our passage, concealed behind thick
leaves and branches, vines and ferns. Safe in their knowledge that they
are out of sight. Resplendant in their natural ability to camouflage
themselves, yet I can see them. I can see the heat of their bodies, the
movement as their muscles tense and they hunker deeper into the ground
cover. Their eyes, glowing shallowly in the dark places. It is night, I
know this, though the stars shine as bright as suns in the sky, the moon
almost blinding - a crystalline beacon in the sky, cowering behind thin
clouds. The night is day, and the day is blinding. I have become a
creature of the night, memories of demons and strange chitinous
creatures uppermost in my mind. Memories? Or visions of insanity? I
don't know which. They are frightening in their existence, because I
don't know their origin.

I can see L16. He is huge in the jungle, a giant of a man, but no
longer a man. He fell yesterday while we evaded the patrols, tearing
his arm open. I thought it would be his end, an infection here that
could not be treated would have killed him quicker than the army's
bullets. But there was no blood, no bone, no torn flesh. Rather
titanium alloys, microcircuitry, pistons and relays, myomer muscles.
Cyberware. His arm, both arms are cybernetic, his legs too, how much
more we didn't dare investigate. He has been silent since, not
speaking, his face distant. I believe he now wrestles with the same
demons I fight - those of ignorance. Who are we? What are we? Why are
we? Questions without answers. He at least has remembered a name -
Mendez - though if it is his, or another's we do not know. He seems
happy to be called Mendez.

I?

I am K12, that is who I am, who I was, and who I will be until I find an
answer.

The power bothers me. I have a strength I am not familiar with, a
strength that can snap a man in half with little effort. At least I
have a weapon now. Guns at least are familiar. I know them, I
understand them. They are a part of my life. Guns are not part of my
programming - I think. The leather bandoliers holding fresh magazines
are almost weightless. Three of them, one on each shoulder and one at
my waist, eight pouches, two magazines each, I know they are there, but
I do not feel their weight. My arms and chest and legs are horrendous,
huge slabs of muscle - similar to a hard core body buiilder, yet more
so. I tense to lift, break and move, the muscles feel real, I can feel
them. More than Mendez, he feels nothing. A cyborg? Is that what
Mendez has become? What injuries did he suffer that they replaced his
body, yet regrew mine? I am convinced the muscles are not mine, though
the system monitoring my body tells me they are real. The chemicals in
my blood that assisted the accellerated growth are almost burned away,
the growth at least has stopped, but the strength - the ability to pick
a man up and hurl him without effort was wondrous, yet at the same time
terrifying. I am sure this is not how I was. Yet the same system that
monitors my body and tells me everything I don't want to know is silent
when I question it about myself. It doesn't have the answers, or simply
isn't telling me. But the rifle feels good in my hands. At least I can
feel. Mendez says he can but it is strange, he feels no pain, yet has
some sense in his hands. Tactile impression he calls it. What must it
be like to feel yet not feel? My heart sinks for the seperation from
life he must be experiencing. I do not know if his mind can accept what
has happened to him. He is distant. Sinking further into himself the
more he finds the world is out of reach of his experience. He smells
everything, from the flowers to the mould, to an animal many feet away,
yet he does not enjoy the smells as I do. They are analysed and
reported to him, identified by whatever he knows them as but he does not
smell them - it is difficult to imagine how he senses things. I pity
him.

I remember pain, pain everywhere. Then darkness and dampness. Then I
awoke in a tank. A similar device to one I've seen before, used for
burns victims. Maybe that is what happened, I was burned somehow. The
men in white coats where certainly medical staff of some sort, though
the laboratories were not a regular hospital complex. I remember a young
girl, asian. My daughter? Though I am not Asian. Long dark hair,
emerald eyes, white teeth and love in her face. My wife? Not her name.
I want to remember her name, if I could remember it might tell me who I
am. But, she fades into the darkness whenever I try. Replaced by fire,
explosions, and a huge demon slaying men in the midst of what I assume
is hell. Explosions and fire, bullets, men and women dying. Did I do
this? Is the demon me? Is that what I was before I became K12 - a
killer of innocents? The thought is abhorrant, so I shall assume not.
But if I am not then why do I remember the demon? Was that how I became
injured? Was fighting the demon what destroyed my body; that the
scientists did this to me? Is this what I need to be to kill the demon?

The army chase us endlessly. They rest as little as we do. Killing is
second nature, yet part of me stands back horrified at the things we do.
The village yesterday. Farmers and goat herders, innocent yet guilty.
Innocent by ignorance, guilty by the product of their efforts. Poppies.
Opium. From opium come derivatives and chemical reproduction, designer
drugs, all as addictive yet not as destructive as the red flower itself.
They died - badly. Begging for mercy. Crying tears of terror. But
they died. They had to, it is what we do. The army came after,
burning, burying the dead. The one in charge staring into the jungle
towards us, almost as if he senses us watching. Hating us. Why does he
hate us so? We were created by his people to do a job he cannot. Yet he
hunts us, and will kill us if he catches up. So we head deeper into the
jungle, higher into the mountains. Leading him to his death. There are
many of them, at least a full brigade. Mechanised. How I know this I
don't know, but it is my knowledge. Mendez knows they are soldiers and
he hates them, yet fears them also. But that is all he knows. Was I a
soldier like the one hunting us? I don't think so, it doesn't feel
right. Yet I know his forces, I know his tactics, I know how he thinks
and I know his weapons. Maybe, once I was like him. He does not know
he goes to his death, or he would not follow so rapidly. his supply
lines are long, too long, the jungle and mountains get more treacherous,
harder for his helo's to drop supplies, harder for them to land to take
away his wounded. Soon he will need to kill the wounded in order to
pursue us. I wonder how he will deal with that? When we reach the
higher parts of the mountains we will kill him and his soldiers.
Already traps account for a few. Saplings with sharpened stakes. Split
mahogany wrapped around grenade. Trip wires attached to rocks and
sprung logs. Later we will use rockslides and log jams to kill more.
Yet still he comes.

Who else is out there? I can not hear the soldiers. I cannot hear
others. Yet I am sure they are there somewhere. Waiting to see how
this comes out before they decide what to do next. The ones who wait
know who I am, but until I find them, or at least learn who they are, I
will not know myself. Will it mean anything if I do learn who I am? I
cannot remember anything except the girl. My name would be good, at
least that would be a start. Though I doubt they would give it
willingly.

The sun will rise soon. I do not like the sun, it brings the helo's,
the scouts. Sensor arrays weighing them down into sluggish hornets that
pester our trail like bloodhounds after a fox. A Fox? There are no
foxes here, why did I think of that? A memory? Or simply an analogy?
No matter, it is painful sometimes to think. They did something to me
that prevents me remembering, or maybe the pain is for lost memories,
memories I can never hope to regain. There is a plate in my head,
behind the plate is the comms gear and other equipment. Did they remove
a piece of my brain? Or did something else? Is that where the memories
have gone - To make room for their infernal cybernetics? They will pay
for what they have done. I will make them pay. I will track them down,
and tear them limb from limb until I am told what happened to me and
why. Then I will kill them quickly, for having done this to me.

My eyes pick up movement, my ears hear the light footfall of a deer,
crosshairs centre, range reads out - the rifle kicks twice, the deer
falls - it's head smashed. The heavy bullets have done their work
again. Mendez draws his knife, more machette really, but a knife in his
hands. I will watch for the soldiers while he strips the carcass. He
may be more machine but we both need food. It has been four days since
we last rested and ate. My stomach complains. It thinks my throat has
been cut and tells me about it constantly. I am not tired though, and
that is the strangest, I have not slept since we escaped from Adam12,
the monitor tells me this is the result of the chemicals. They will
wear off soon, and then I will need to rest. Mendez is a machine. Will
he need to sleep as well as need food. It is repulsive to watch him
consume food. He's eating flesh from the carcass now. It does not need
to be cooked. His mechanical stomach reduces the nutrients he needs and
rejects the rest. What must it be like to eat without tasting and then
vomit waste materials a few hours later? How much of him is left?
Should I kill him? Will he kill me when what's left of his mind finally
burns out under the pressure of his isolation? The rifle feels good in
my hands. The smell of cordite in the morning air burns my nose
pleasantly. It is a good smell, a clean smell. Mendez simply analyses
it and breaks it into the chemical compounds that register in his mind,
but he does not _smell_ the smoke. I choose not to kill him yet.

Looking back along our trail, I can see the smoke of the soldiers camp
some miles distant. They are closer than yesterday. Always they are
closer. Soon however, their vehicles will not avail them anymore, the
terrain will prevent that. They will be driven to foot, and then we can
kill them easily. Killing holds a pleasure for me, a pleasure I am not
entirely comfortable with. I feel more alive, more aware when I am
killing. When it is me or them. Mendez cares not what is happening
provided he is not captured again. I feel alive when I fight. It is
very addictive. Feeling alive that is. So much now is more than life.
Sights, sounds, smells. The ease of travelling, carrying, climbing.
All is too easy, it holds little or no challenge Fighting the soldiers
though. That is different. I am alive while the rifle speaks. Bullets
whirring past my body. The solid crack of bullets hitting trees and
passing though the jungle's growth. The sight of bodies spinning as the
heavy slugs tear into them. It is a repulsive yet joyous sensation. A
celebration of destruction. The threat of death and pain from their
weapons makes me feel more alive than anything else, and I find myself
beginning to crave for it. A junkie addicted to death rather than
drugs. Which is the worst? Yet strangely I do not fear it. Death or
pain, nor the soldiers. I wonder if fear is something that must be
learned, or if it is an irrational reaction to the expectation of
something one doesn't understand. I understand death, I have dealt in
death for most of my life.

Most of my life?

A memory?

A dealer in death. A killer? A bringer of Doom.

The demon hovers in the back of my mind again. Raging against the
night, screaming it's demands for blood and death; and behind it the
Asian girl, sorrow in her eyes now. A new expression. I claw at the
memory and it fades away like sand through a childs' fingers. The wind
picks up, thrashing the trees, crushing the tender ferns, scattering the
birds.

Wind?

Almost too late I look up. Mendez has gone, hidden somewhere in the
thick trees. I still stand in the small clearing. Dull thuds from
bullets impacting close. Cursing my stupidity and the dreams that
plague me I bring the rifle up and empty the clip at the hovering
chopper. Ranges, ballistic data, ammo count, temperature, wind sheer,
speed - all focus in my eyes as the crosshairs centre. The man in the
cabin, explosive rounds smashing his armour, shattering his bones.
Blood sprays. He drops his rifle and falls as the bullets walk across
the chopper's belly smashing the sensors, sparks and smears on the
armour. The high pitched musical scream of ricochets buzz above the
chopper's silenced engines. The cockpit glass stars and shatters. The
bullets hit someone inside. The canopy turns red. The chopper staggers
sideways, it's nose climbing, sliding backwards - someone screams. I
run to the trees as the earth shudders. Glancing back there is a
mushroom of flame and smoke where the helo crashed into the jungle.
Fire and smoke - an exclamation mark to the violence, and a finger
pointing to us. Mendez looks at me, his face expressionless. Shakes
his head. Picks up the sack with the butchered deer and runs deeper
into the jungle. Reluctantly I follow. The soldiers will be here soon.
They will see the smoke, and once again will hunt us. I want to stop.
Stop here. Make a stand. Kill them or be killed. Put an end to it.
But I know I can't.

There is something I must do first.

If only I could remember what it was.

+++++End Access
+++++LogOff: K12.

]<<<<<
-- K12 <06:07:20/01-28-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Thu, 29 Jan 1998 05:12:05 +0000

Message no. 25 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/28159A
+++++Login: K12

They are out there, somewhere. I can't see them, I can't hear them, but
I know they are out there. Somewhere, hidden in the rain, hidden in the
jungle. Waiting. Waiting for me.

They caught L16 yesterday. He was too heavy for the terrain we were
traversing. The rock gave way. I could not catch him, and I'm not sure
I could have held him if I did. If we'd had rope and pitons, maybe he
would not have fallen so far. I still can't believe he was not killed -
destroyed. What is a cyborg when it is terminated? Is it dead? Is it
simply switched off? Was it even alive to begin with? Where does life
begin and end? Am I alive? I think therefore I am, just doesn't cut it
anymore. Scientists can turn life around and create it anew, but does
that constitute life anymore, or simply mankind playing God? We create
life through the act of sex, many say that is the only true life. That
conceived, borne and evicted from the warmth and security of a womb into
the hellish existence we consider life. Yet now men in white coats in
laboratories can create new life. Genetically altered, shifted,
enhanced. Better, faster, tougher than before. But it is not created
the way of life, it is simply - created. I do not know the answers but
I find myself asking them anyway, staring into the rain, the humidity
and dense foliage of the jungle. What else is there? If I can ask
questions of myself, even without answers it must be a sign of my
humanity, or am I merely analysing an existence I don't understand
anymore?

Does it matter?

Yes. It matters. A strange voice inside my head demands to know if I
live, or exist. I ask it why this question is so important, but the
voice does not tell me. My soul speaking to me? Or a further sign of
an unbalanced mind? Do I have a mind, or is it simply a series of
misguided partially formed neural pathways constructed from electronics
and biological formulae?

There was no blood. Mendez tore large portions of his flesh away from
the titanium shell they built around whatever is left of him. Some sort
of synthetic flesh. Fluid was leaking from the wounds, maybe lubricant
or some other liquid designed for some other purpose. Hydraulic fluid?
I followed, as best I could. A scratch last night bled, though it
stopped quickly and the cut is healed today. I bleed, I must be real, I
must be alive. I could not risk following too quickly, I do not know
whether I could survive a fall like the one that claimed Mendez. By the
time I reached the bottom of the cliff, they were there. The soldiers.
Surrounding him, rifles pointing. Mendez was moving, though clumsily.
I assume some of the servos controlling his limbs must have been
damaged. Eight of them carried him, well, dragged him away to their
camp.

I could not monitor what they were saying, I could not risk going too
close to the camp. Neither could I find their frequency on the
communications suite embedded in my skull. I am still learning how to
control it. Finally I managed to kill the radio station I picked up
yesterday morning. I have come to own a deep hatred for latino music and
the DJ known as "The Wolfman". If anyone deserves to be strung up and
skinned alive he is most definately the one. Maybe I will head to this
place called Caracas, where he broadcasts, and taech him not to bore
people to tears with his endlessly whining patter, and boring repetitive
music. How I long for the soft ballads and hard rock music of
Seattle...

Seattle?

Something in Seattle. A bar, a large stage at one end. A band. The
name - GUNNAR. People laughing. A hand, beer, frothing at the head,
flowing over the rim. My hand? I can taste the beer. It is cold, like
ice, with a strong bite in my throat. It tastes good - so good. A
goose walks over my grave and the memory vanishes. I claw for it,
searching deep in my mind, desperate to bring the vision back, not for
the people, not for the music, but for the taste of that cold beer.

Who were those people? One wearing a stetson, the Asian girl again,
and another, a dark clothed man, hidden in shadows - a powerful man, one
to be feared perhaps? Oh the pain. The pain of that lost flavour. I
wipe the rain from my face. Pain inside, my throat burning. The
searing heat of unshed tears. My eyes cannot answer the need inside my
chest. I cannot weep for lost friends, lost memories, lost life. The
pain changes, grows deeper. The muscles across my shoulders and chest
tense. I want to rip something, tear, smash, kill. Anger. Deep insane
fury. I do not understand what I am angry at, and I cannot focus that
grinding need to destroy something. I move back into the cave, picking
up a branch I brought in earlier for the fire, smashing it against the
walls, the floor, protruding rocks. Laying about me trying desperately
to kill the demons that haunt me. The impacts bruise my hands, but I
don't care. The pain is different, and feels good. The skin on one
hand splits, sharper pain. I throw the branch aside and inspect my
hand. Foolishness. The split is shallow. I wrap it in a piece of torn
cloth, knowing it will heal before the day is finished. The chemicals
will see to that, already the monitor tells me the bleeding is slowing.
It has stopped. Does this mean I cannot be killed? Will the chemicals
heal every injury? I doubt it, but a perverse curiosity inside wants to
find out.

Sitting, gazing into the flames of my small fire, watching the flames
scorch the flesh of the deer I killed yesterday I can see things,
creatures dancing in the flames. The creatures are fleeting, moments
out of time. I remember creatures like these. Firey creatures in the
air over a shattered city. I do not know what they are, or where the
city is, but it is a memory and again, as I try to interrogate it, it
fades away leaving nothing except an empty despair. An unfullfilled and
unanswerable need to know.

The battle was glorious. Worthy of an epic song. Mendez died like a
warrior. Bodies littering the ground at his feet, a bloody club in his
hands. Before the weapons of the soldiers brought him down. They are
hurt, terribly injured. I do not know how many he took with him before
their firepower tore him apart, but it numbered dozens at least.
Something must have set him off, possibly a threat, maybe they tried to
interrogate or torture him. I don't know. Whatever it was, he was an
avenging angel, or a demon of death. However the soldiers saw him,
they were ineffective against the brutality and power the cybernetic
body gave him in his last moments. Never have I seen a man stand with a
heavy machine gun firing from the hip. The sight was strange yet left a
powerful image. Is this what technology has brought us? A new way to
kill more of our kind? So many dead, so pointlessly. Finally someone
used a weapon that could hurt him. But not before he had torn their
ranks apart. The soldiers will be remembered. Their families notified.
An honourable burial for each one, killed defending their country from a
threat the people could not begin to imagine. Mendez died the death of
a Valkyrie. His enemies scattered and demoralised, dead at his feet and
a weapon in his hands. A god of destruction. Will he be remembered? Or
simply dismantled and analysed. A nameless, faceless scientist
somewhere picking through the wires and whatever is left of his brain to
see where they went wrong? Preparing to build another, one who does not
go rogue? Will a mother somewhere weep for him as mothers will weep for
the soldiers? Will a wife somewhere tear her hair and beat her chest in
despair at the loss of her beloved? Or is L16 just a number in a
computer somewhere, motherless?

Again questions of existence, of feeling, of a need to belong.
Existence is insufficient. There is a need for more. To know that
somewhere I, and Mendez and others like us belong. That somewhere we
have... had friends, loved ones, life.

I look around the bare cave. The pack with it's claymores and grenades,
boxes of ammunition for the rifle magazines, boxes of cased ammunition
for the pistol. I draw the pistol from it's canvas holster. Small in my
hand, yet large by definition. Popping the clip I work the action, the
slide moves back on it's rails easily, the oil dampened rods at the
front of the slide soaking recoil. Oil glistens in the wide breech.
Clicking the slide release, the slide slams forward with a solid
"chack". The decocking lever drops the hammer with oiled ease. A
beautiful weapon, designed by a craftsman for one purpose, and only one.
To kill. To kill with efficiency and ease. The mercury filled, hollow
point semi jacketed .357 cartridges gleam in the fire's glow, waiting
impatiently to be launched at the soft shell of another being. Waiting,
hunched in the broad clip, eager for the destruction they are designed
to inflict. Pushing the magazine home, I work the slide slowly, feeding
a cartridge home. Watching as the slide pushes the cartridge forward
into the barrel, closing, ready to erupt in a blaze of power.
Momentarily I wonder what it would be like for one of these bullets to
tear through my own head, ploughing through whatever brain I have left,
exiting from the back of my skull, taking my awareness, life and soul
with it. But only for a moment. My unknown and demanding purpose
prevents my hand from turning the weapon on myself. The experiment is
futile. I am not allowed to die by my own hand. No matter how strong
my curiosity.

Decocking the weapon, I slide it back into the holster at my hip, and
pick up the assault rifle. Stripping it, I begin to clean the weapon.
Ridiculously complex for this environment, inferior to the Ak series I
prefer. Prefer? I dismiss the thought. I am a military machine,
weapons are my life, of course I have a preference. This beast. This
soldiers weapon is not designed for the jungle. For the filth and rain,
humidity and heat. It is a powerful weapon though, and I understand why
the soldiers hunting me are equipped with it. It is needed. The heavy
10mm HEAP bullets and powerful charge required fare for creatures such
as L16 and I. Standard asault weapons would not have stopped L16 in his
ecstacy of carnage. Even these monstrous cannons struggled. The
bullets sheeting off the titanium alloy skeleton, tearing flesh and the
myomer muscles. Only the destruction of the muscles the thing that
saved them. If the musculature had been encased like the torso
circuitry, Mendez would have been unstoppable. In the end they used a
tank weapon to finish him. The 30mm shell blowing his torso to the four
winds, yet even still I heard the curses issue from the cybernetic skull
as his brain asphyxiated.

The rifle reassembled, I begin to load grenades into the pump action
launcher, the large magazine protruding slightly from it's housing. Why
am I doing this? Because it is a routine I am familiar with, it is not
programmed, it is natural. I know this, I remember it, it is at least a
part of me that has not been placed by the nameless men in white coats.
And because soon the men, the soldiers will come again. Their number is
reduced, they cannot afford another mistake like the one they made with
Mendez, and I have no wish to run from them. My purpose is not this
way. The further I head south, the more the need to head north and
east. I have a purpose, and I am going the wrong way. The soldiers
stand between me and whatever it is I must do. They will have to be
removed.

Tonight, I will hunt them. Tonight they will meet the creature they
seek. I am at home in the jungle I know the jungle, I can feel the
jungle. The jungle is my only friend, and it is a terrible friend.

The traps are set, my weapons ready.

Tonight the soldiers die.

+++++End Access
+++++LogOff: K12.

]<<<<<
-- K12 <04:54:13/01-29-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Fri, 30 Jan 1998 01:09:44 +0000

Message no. 26 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/30159A
+++++Login: K12

They are coming. I watched them prepare earlier, organising the squads,
planting AP's, setting snipers. Laying their traps. I know where they
are. The image of the jungle in my mind has little red dots marking
each man, small orange dots for the traps, and green lines for the safe
lines through their thin forces. They only face one. Me. K12. But I
have the advantage. I understand the threat, I can see them, I can see
their traps and have watched them today preparing in case they need to
fall back. They have not seen what I have done to greet them. I now
have one of their powerful rifles. One of them handed it to me. He had
set himself up to snipe at me if I should show, but chose a place too
close to a Jaguar's den. I heard the attack while I scouted their
position. The man died badly.

Their trust in their equipment is admirable. I trust in my
surroundings. The rain has helped. Covered with mud and leaves I look
like the jungle and smell like the jungle. They stand out like beacons
in the darkness I can see them moving through the trees. Still several
hundred yards away. They have yet to meet the first of the traps. They
know I wait for them. I killed some earlier today with the snipers'
rifle. They fired back of course, but did not know where the shots came
from. The jungle is good that way. It deadens sound, and plays tricks
on the ears. One squad is heading towards the Jaguars. They will not
like it much when they encounter the cats. They are hungry, and angry,
a man earlier tore a female apart, now they hunt together. Jaguars
hunting as a small pack, the individuals working the trees, but co-
operating with the others. It is beautiful to watch, they don't seem to
communicate beyond twitches of their ears and the occassional cough, yet
each knows their place. These invaders of their territory will pay
dearly tonight.

Snarling and gunfire. Faint shouts and screams. The Jaguars feed.
Other men panic, running towards the ambush. Ahh. They have found the
first line of traps, they will be more cautious now, slower, easier to
pick off. I can't hear the saplings and branches snapping, but I can
imagine the results. Staked, sprung trees and branches, slamming into
the soft flesh of their victims, the broad spikes ignoring the armour
and tearing through the flesh and organs of the soldiers. Punji stakes
grasping at ankles. The acrid sap from the mahogany trees burning into
the wounds, poisoning the blood. Guano from the bats adding to the
toxin. I grin, baring my teeth at the soldiers. Another squad release
a roch slide on themselves, and I can almost see some of them diving to
the side away from the oncoming rocks, landing on the shortened spikes
and stakes. A sharp crack, followed by two more tells me that more
soldiers have found the claymores. I listen carefully. The buzz of
insects similar to the buzz of the steel balls through the air. I
imagine the crack as the balls hit armour and flesh, tearing off limbs
and puncturing unprotected areas.

Gunfire. They are firing at shadows. Monkeys and birds, foragers and
mice becoming targets for those who have panicked. Fearfully turning
the shadows of the jungle into onrushing monsters, and twisted images of
me. I search what I believe may be my soul, and I find no pity for
these soldiers. They are here to kill me. Instead they are dying and I
feel nothing. I remain on the ridge overlooking the path I know they
must use. It is the only one safe to them. The others would bring...
One squad has found out. They've taken a path that would flank my
position, and set of the explosives I placed. Most of that cliff will
have fallen on the path. Glowing shapes scuttle between the trees. The
commander is trying to regroup his men. Rather than work them through
the jungle individually in supported fire teams, he is regrouping into
squads. Inexperienced in jungle fighting. Must be regular infantry,
they've not fought here before, only in theory - and he has forgotten
his instructors lessons. My work will be easier. A scout, advanced of
the main force. I can see him, his arms and legs hot his face partially
shrouded by the sighting equipment he wears, the Jungle warm around him,
varying shades of heat. but he is clear the shape, the movement. I
pick up one of the heavy spears laying near and hurl it at him. It
strikes him in the centre of his chest, driving him back, pinning him to
a tree. I can see him grasping the spear, trying to pull it out of his
body, screaming. He does not realise he is dead. The guano coating the
spear point already infecting his blood, poisoning his system. If the
spear doesn't kill him, he will die horribly.

His screams bring comrades running. The commander shouting orders.
Orders his men ignore in their need to help their friend. I twist the
handle of one of the detonators in front of me and the jungle erupts in
flame. Shards of shattered mahogany buzz and growl through the air.
The hard wood shrapnel tearing the men apart, shattering on their armour
and spraying into fleshy areas. One crumples to his knees, his throat
torn out. The heat trace of his hot blood, like a fountain in a park.
It is fascinating to watch, this gushing red, blue, white and black
stream. His life pouring from the ruined throat holds my attention for
it's savage beauty. The soldiers are firing wildly into the jungle,
wasting their bullets. They do not know I am above them, still some
distance away. They kill each other now. Movement from unexpected
quarters attracting gunfire, the fire is returned and they kill each
other believing I am among them. Other men move towards my position. I
hurl the other spears, catching another three and wounding a fourth.
The wound is enough. Many of their friends have died at the hands of
Mendez and I. These men are scared. Frightened of the thing in the
Jungle. Superstitions and incomprehensible creations from their own
laboratories reminding them of childhood stories about demons and
devils, monsters and spirits in the jungle.

I pick up the assault rifle, it's comfortable weight giving me a sense
of indestructability. While I hold this weapon I cannot be defeated. I
am a god and they are shapes wrought from dirt and water, waiting for
their time to return to the soil. Tonight I am their judge and
executioner. i find them guilty of sins they could not know of, and
sentence them all to death. The fourth horseman of the apocolypse.
Before I leave the ridge, I stamp on the last of the detonators, adding
to the confusion and riotous noise below me. The image in my head
counts 75 targets. I have over a thousand rounds of ammunition. It is
enough. Leaving the ridge, I climb down the incline at it's back,
working my way past my own traps and towards the soldier's flank. I
will attack there first, where the men are the most nervous, then work
my way behind them to attack the centre. Once that is broken I will
kill all those left on the east flank, and mop up whatever is left at my
leisure.

They do not see me. I can see them walking through the jungle, weapons
ready, nervously testing the ground ahead before placing their feet.
The mud, leaves and bracken are concealing my image - their equipment
cannot differentiate between the jungle and I, but I see them, clearly,
I do not need the sight of their heat now, I can see them with ordinary
sight. The low scattered clouds letting sufficient starlight through
for my eyes to compensate. I can see them clearly enough to see beads
of sweat on the faces of those closest. I stand up, leaning on a the
wide bole of a tree. I click off the safety of the rifle, and switch the
selector to burst. Peering round the tree I see the ranges and speed,
angle of deflection and ballistic plot for the grenades. Firing at the
troops, I am pleased to see that the data is correct. The grenades
airburst amongst the men. They are now being attacked from the air in
their midst. Some break and run dropping their weapons, panicked beyond
reason by this creature who deflects their bullets without care, and
appears in their midst, invisible and terrible. Some have heard the
shick-shack-thump of the launcher and are firing in my direction. A
couple brave souls even try to sneak up on me, but are met by rounds
from the rifle. The link in my palm chatters manically to the rifle.
The weapon responds by striking the targets with it's bullets. My eyes
track the incoming data and position of the targets, turning that data
into deadly information for the flesh hungry bullets in my rifle.

Time to move. Two clips burned. A dozen dead, as many running,
panicked beyond the ability to reason. The main force turns it's
attention to the battle. I drop into a gulley and sprint for a
different position. Confident that their gunfire will cover my
movements. Reaching the checkpoint I head east, behind the central
force. The soldiers on the flank claim they have me pinned down in the
wash. The others move more confidently towards the one sided battle.
Again the commander shouts orders. I peer over the edge of the dry
stream bed, looking for the commander. He is out of range of the
grenades and only 23% into a firing solution for the rifle. Not good
enough odds yet. I fire four grenades from the reloaded launcher into
the main group, and throw two phosphorous grenades into their cramped
midst. Screams and shouts of alarm as clothing burns and flesh strips
from bones. One thermite grenade and the central section of the
soldiers disintegrates into panicked scatter as the jungle catches
light. Fire. The enemy of all living things; but tonight - my friend.
Running again, I head further east, towards the confused and nervous
east flank. The soldiers are milling around, casting scared glances at
moving shadows amongst the trees and dense undergrowth, firing
occasionally at larger shadows. One falls into a small pit, hitting the
spring board on the bottom and impaling himself in a staked log that
flies from the side of the pit. His death is a gurgling strangled
screech of protest at his mortality. I begin to target overhanging
branches with the grenades, dropping chunks of trees onto the soldiers.

They are firing wildly now, wasting rounds shooting at shadows. Keeping
low to the ground the bullets lucky enough to come in my direction buzz
and whine above my head. I reach the fireteams near the core of the
group. They are disoriented, panicked, gunfire comes in from two
directions. Their own men. Cowering behind trees and rocks, they return
the fire of their colleagues. I could sit back and watch them
obliterate each other, but that would take too long. Stealing grenades
from corpses in the trees I watch them engage nothing with an entusiasm
that is admirable. If they could contain professionalism with this
enthusiasm they would be unbeatable by any force in the world. I hear a
couple call for ammo. The gunfire loses some of it's urgency.

It's time to dance.

Rising, only a few feet from the main core of soldiers, I have no idea
of how I must appear. The Jungle rising at their feet with fire in it's
hands. The fear on the faces of the soldiers in front of me indicates
that the desired effect has been achieved. Momentarily they freeze,
unable to construct the mud, leaves and twigs that cover me with the
form of a human - how must I appear? I wish for a mirror, to share
their enjoyment of my appearance, but such is the nature of the jungle,
that a mirror is unavailable. Ripping pins from the grenades I hurl
them into the midst of the soldiers, when they are gone, I grab the
assault rifle and start moving as fast as I am able firing bursts into
the bodies lurking in the jungle, adding to their horror and their
confusion. My speed confuses them, they fire wildly at where I was,
where I might be, saving me time and effort by killing more of their
own. The commander is hidden somewhere near the centre, I can hear him
desperately shouting orders, trying to organise his stricken force.
Over the gunfire and explosions I can hear men running, crying in
terror. They call me a demon, a spirit of the jungle risen to smite
them in anger at their invasion. It must appear so to them as the very
trees themselves explode, showering them with viciously barbed splinters
and heavy branches drop from above. The tactical computer and the
sighting mechanisms in my eyes are a blur of data, somehow, something in
my mind absorbs this information, translating it into usable information
that assists my judgement of where and how to attack, where to place the
rifle grenades effectively, helping me to dance a ballet of death with
these unfortunate men.

Their force is broken. Their effectiveness is destroyed, I hunt
individuals now, men desperately running for their lives. I let some go,
there is no need to kill them, they are no longer a threat. The
commander is here, still hunting me, searching the jungle. I can hear
him cursing me under his breath. hating me more with every heartbeat.
His curses are his downfall, the tactical system pinpoints his position,
the sounds reading as ranges and direction, a flashing cursor in my
vision guides me to him. He's good. He has cut his heat signature by
rolling in the mud where his men died, the cooling blood on his uniform
further reducing his image. But I can see him, I can see him crouching
in the jungle, scuttling like a bipedal cran. Scanning with his weapon,
using his smartlink to locate targets, but I am behind him. He turns,
his sights pick up my movement and centre. He fires, and again. A whole
clip. I hear the scrape as the magazine slides from the grip, softly
hitting the mushy ground. A sharp clack as a new one is driven home,
followed by the slide dropping back. I am unsure how to deal with this.
The man is destroyed, his career finished, his command decimated, the
survivors running panicked through the jungle in every direction. Not
caring; simply wanting to be gone from the scene of their comrades'
demise. He stands alone, futile in his defiance.

Knowing I can kill him whenever I feel like it. I respect his
determination, yet he deserves contempt for his stupidity. He split his
forces into groups incapable of supporting each other, he failed to
utilise his training and equipment to maintain control. He had
insufficient respect from his men to follow his orders unquestioningly -
ignoring their own impulses.

Does he deserve to die?

If returned to his superiors they will courtmartial him for the
destruction he has brought on the men in his command, and his failure to
stop me. Maybe they will even execute him as an example to others. I
don't know.

I can hear him moving while I consider his fate. He knows I'm here, and
he believes he still has a chance. He is almost worthy of pity.

Wait, he is a commander. He was ordered here to hunt me down, he /must/
have been given information on me. Who I was. What I was. What I am.
And why. It would be a mistake to kill him.

I round the tree, crosshairs centring on his weapon. Two rounds, his
pistol flies away, the second round smashes his hand. Centre, a single
round smashes his knee. The leg remains, connected by sinew and torn
muscle. The officer collapses. A Major. The tag on his chest Maj.
Nino Castelli. I walk up to him. He lays in the purest agony, his life
flowing from his shattered leg, the heavy bullet tearing an artery. A
tourniquet will prolong his life. I stand above him. He looks at me.
Fear, loathing, pain. A multitudinous cascade of emotions playing with
his facial muscles above all though is hate. Though his career is in
tatters, his life ebbing, his men dead and scattered, still he finds
enough strength to hate me. A man he only knows through his
information. Someone who does not even understand their own existence.
How is it possible to hate someone so totally? When they have never
been met, when you have never engaged them in conversation to learn
anything about them? I think of the scientists who died at Adam12 as a
result of the hate of L16, M4, R22 and myself. And I understand why
this man, gasping for breath at my feet hates me so much. I have done
to him what was done to me, only in a different way. His life has been
altered beyond repair, much as mine has.

I crouch next to him, and apply pressure on the artery in his thigh,
cutting the flow of blood to his ruptured leg. He looks at me puzzled.
Unable to understand why I help him. I ask him who I am. John Doe, he
replies. Experiment K12. I ask him what experiment K12 is. He cannot
or does not answer. I release the pressure. The flow of fresh blood
over his raw and exposed nerves, broken bone and torn flesh brings on
new paroxysms of pain. I apply the pressure again and ask him what K12
is. He thinks he understands now. He thinks I am going to torture him
to get the answers I want. He does not realise that if he answers my
questions I will help him return to his disgrace, but at least he will
live. He spits at me, a gobbet of dirt, plegm and blood. I look into
his eyes, understanding his defiance. I have erred, he will not answer
my questions now, and I have no desire to torture this man. Earlier I
hated him for hunting me, now I pity him. I glance at his leg. The
knee is completely destroyed, the exposed area of the femur is
shattered, the peroneal artery shredded, shards of bone decorate the
torn flesh. I find it strange that these terms are displayed in my
vision. Why would medical terminology and information be considered
necessary? I dismiss the thought. Effectiveness for killing and
wounding of course. What other reason could there be?

I look into Castelli's eyes again. Defiance is mixed in with his agony.
He is an admirable man, he has much in the way of personal commitment,
and his courage while facing me is respectable.

I apologise to him. He looks at me, confused. I have drawn my pistol
quietly and while he lies there trying to figure out what is happening,
trying to understand my apology. I put him out of his misery. Now he
will be buried a hero. His family given the national flag and a medal
in memory of his courage. He deserves that more than the ridicule and
ritual destruction of his life he would otherwise face.

The magnum smokes gently as I close his eyes.

I stand, arms spread out. I look up at the sky, heavy clouds scudding
across, driven by the wind, revealing glimpses of stars and the moon. I
howl at the sky, at the gods. The ullulation comes from the depths of
nowhere a deep echoing roar driven by the new box in my throat. A
celebration of victory. Of the destruction of my enemies. A primeval
defiance hurled at the immutable skies.

The gods answer me. Lightning lances from the sky to the south followed
by a distant rolling thunder. I revel for a moment in the power of my
body, the strength of my arms. The superiority of my abilities. The
smell of death. I celebrate the moment where I live, and the leader of
my enemies lies dead at my feet.

Turning away from the slaughter I return to the Jungle. To my cave. I
will rearm myself in the morning. Now it is time to eat, to rest. To
enjoy my survival.

+++++End Access
+++++LogOff: K12.

]<<<<<
-- K12 <01:01:33/01-30-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Sat, 31 Jan 1998 06:18:31 +0000

Message no. 27 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/29159A
+++++Login: K12

The small fire is warm tonight, which is good. It has turned cold since
the battle with the soldiers. The system tells me the chemicals in my
blood are almost burned out, maybe that is why I feel the cold more. I
add more wood to the fire, and continue repairing the uniforms I stole
from the dead. My own clothing, or at least the clothing I stole from
Adam12 is insufficient for the current temperature, and I do not like
shivering, it is - unsettling. I have a supply of bullets and grenades,
sufficient to start or stop a small war. I do not know how I am going
to transport it all, or even if I need to. But then, I may not be able
to find ammunition for my weapons again, and I do not think that the
next time I meet soldiers I will have such luck. I stole a radio from
one of the corpses. I can listen to their transmissions now.
Thankfully the soldier was a fool, and carried the code book with him.
I now know their local communications codes and the channels they switch
to. The conversations are boring. One man, General Sebastiano
Galterno, is most insistent that Major Castelli contact him urgently. I
am tempted to speak to the man, and explain that Nino is not able to
come to the phone right now, he has more pressing matters on his mind.
I resist the temptation. They do not yet know what has happened. If I
reveal my possession of the radio they will change their frequencies and
I will not be able to listen to the aimless chatter.

Even though the rasping speech on the radio is boring, it at least is
company. I have pondered on this for several hours. I am lonely. I
think that is the correct word. L16 - Mendez - was quiet much of the
time. Locked into his own nightmares, trying to come to terms with what
he had become, his loss of control over his fate, and the terrible
disconnection he suffered as a result of the things the scientists at
Adam12 had done to him. The few times he did speak, it was to share the
confusion and fear he felt. I believe he felt he could confide in me
because I shared a similar fate. Now, there is nothing. The sounds of
the night foragers and predators outside my cave, playing out their
nightly rituals, following the natural circle of life that all predators
and prey must obey, and although some of the sounds are quite beautiful,
others are disturbing, the fact that the system inside my brain
identifies each by name reduces the mystery to an experience in natural
science. The enjoyment is reduced to text book facts and the mystery
stolen from me.

Although that system has saved my life on more than one occassion, and
it served me well during the battle with the soldiers, I would prefer
the facility to switch it off. Sleep is difficult when the damned thing
continually informs me what creature is near, it's direction of travel,
range and offers a combat solution for each and every encounter. My
head is continually filled with data, numbers, equations and
information. It gets so that I feel I might go insane from this endless
input. I wish for peace from the machine. Yet without that machine I
would be truly alone, it also, in a strangely perverse way is company.

I spoke to myself earlier. While I liberated ammo and other equipment.
I discussed the moral issues surrounding the stealing of clothing from
the dead. In the hour it took to find clothing that would fit I talked
to myself. Many would consider that a confirmed sign of insanity,
though logic indicates that it is only insanity if I answer myself, I
suspect I may have done exactly that. I spoke in normal conversational
tones. I think it was simply for the comforting sound of a human voice
as there was no real reason beyond that. I can think to myself quite
easily and it is becoming less painful to do so, which I take as a good
sign. I do not believe that arguing with myself in my own mind is
insane, only if I vocalise that argument. I find that there is no fear
of insanity, the prospect does not concern me as I feel it should, and I
have little worry about it affecting my judgement. I judge very little
for myself, the systems implanted in my body do that perfectly well,
including informing me when nourishment is required.

I am sure that a feeling of hunger would be sufficient reminder to eat,
without a message flashing across my vision. But then, I spent several
days without food recently, as a result of the intensity of the need to
evade the soldiers. I am curious to know why the message did not plague
me then, and why my own inclination to travel north east was weaker than
the need to follow and protect Mendez. Protect Mendez. That is by far
the strangest thing that I have experienced over the last few days.
This insatiable urge that I must protect L16 from damage, and the sense
of failure when I was unable to prevent him falling from the path. Why
would a creature of flesh and blood - which I at least appear to be - be
required to protect a cyborg like L16? His strength and abilities far
superseded mine, yet I was his guardian, of sorts.

Is that my mission? My meaning in life? To guard? And if so, why was
the attack on my pursuers such a driving force? Is it because they were
responsible for the death of my charge? Is that what I do? I guard,
and when my protection is insufficient, I hunt the people who made me
fail and obliterate them? I am not sure I am happy with this existence.
It is confusing. I am neither killer, nor guardian. I am... What does
that make me? There is no single label that fits. My knowledge of
military tactics and equipment is also a confusing issue further adding
to the distraction of analysing my purpose. Unless I was designed to
protect a military person? A high ranking officer. But no, that does
not feel right, it doesn't ... compute? I dismiss the puzzle and file
it for later consideration.

The clothes are repaired at last, the holes filled. It was difficult
washing the blood from the uniforms with no soap, but at least they look
presentable now, and they will offer some protection from the elements.
Better than the light clothing from Adam12 anyway. I considered the
armour the soldiers were wearing, and dismissed it. It did not protect
them from me, so why would it protect me from them any better than I can
protect myself? Besides, it would have been a problem finding armour to
fit me, and then repairing it if necessary. I have insufficient tools
to repair such items. At least I now have spares for the rifles and
handgun. That was a worry for a while. The assault rifle is a
beautifully constructed weapon of death, but contains considerable
complexity for it's function. The casless rounds are relatively clean
so little residue remains in the breech, but the mechanisms used to
dampen recoil and the large capacity and capability of the weapon make
it rather tasteless for the terrain I travel through. But then, that
has always been the bane of the infantryman. Governments purchasing
what suited them and their budgets rather than designing a soldiers
weapon. The only weapon ever built that served the purpose perfectly
was the Kalashnikov series of assault weapons. Simple, cheap to
manufacture and tough as hell. Beat a man over the head, roll in mud,
burrow through sand and it would still fire at the end of the day. The
other weapons I have played with could not match that for ruggedness.
The American preference for weapons was ridiculous. Under powered
plastic guns with poorly designed gas suppression and assisted recoil,
guaranteed to clog without sufficient maintenance, and the British
fascination for toys was almost sickening. At least they had better
consideration for their infantry, but the Russians understood the
soldier. They knew he was a mook with a gun, and if possible he would
break that gun in the most obscure ways possible - ways even the
manufacturers could not predict. So they built something that was
capable of surviving the most determined fool and most negligent
slacker. My AK served me well in the swamps when...

Served me well?

A weapon of preference.

I have used the rifle before. I pick up the AR I liberated from the
soldiers and inspect it again. It is... familiar somehow. Beyond the
logic that it is a weapon, and I have training and skills with weapons,
enhanced by the programming living in my head. I /know/ this weapon. I
have faced it before, it has been used against me...

.... running through a swamp, steam rising from pockets of sunshine.
Sweat pours down my face, it's hot, damned hot, and the humidity
compresses that heat even further. Gunfire bounces aimlessly around the
forest, subdued by the thick heavy air, and dense growth. The stench of
the swamp fills my nose, it's repulsive but it means I'm alive. I can
feel leeches sucking on my legs - they'll have to wait for later, let
them feed for the moment - It is more important that the enemy are
killed.

"Romeo... Gamma. Enemy at GR135/12/132, 50 metres. Rapid fire. HE."

"Roger Gamma. Rounds out."

Explosions follow. Rancid swamp water fountains, dragging leaves and
roots and rotten vegetation into the air, followed by the secondary
explosion of the mortar rounds. The mortars have missed the enemy, but
at least they are grounded and hiding from the shells. Looking around I
can see other shapes in the trees and vines. Signalling to a tall grey
haired man, I make five fingers and two north. Three fingers south,
fist forward. He nods, and signals to others. They move out,
disappearing into the thick forest of plant life.....

... I snap awake, dropping the rifle. It clatters to the packed earth,
landing flat on the repaired clothing. The flesh on my arms has turned
to goose flesh and a cold set of feet are marching up my spine. I was a
soldier. Like those I killed, but not them. I commanded a force. I
was a commander, like Castelli, but not a Major I think. Mercenary?
Not official military. Special Forces? I pound my head with my hands,
trying to shake more loose, desperate for the vision to return, the
memories. Growling, I cry out in frustration, hurling the assault rifle
at the wall of the cave in fury. It impacts on the wall, smashing the
butt, the barrel bends, the sights, and grenade launcher damaged beyond
use. The impact fires the mechanism and lights off a round inside the
rifle, with no way to exit the weapon the round explodes internally,
blowing a gaping hole in the barrel.

The explosion snaps me together. Reason returns. I look at the ruined
weapon. I am lucky, I could have killed myself with such stupidity.

Pulling on the uniform, I leave the cave to hunt for a replacement
rifle. I might not like the gun, but it at least offers better
protection than the sharp shooter I possess. The walk in the cool
jungle clears my head, making thinking easier. It is not long before I
arrive at the site of the battle. Animals have been taking advantage of
the free lunch, and insects are monopolising the corpses; laying eggs
and feeding the nests. The stench is beginning to overcome the damp
rotten aroma of the jungle. I find a rifle and pick it up, shaking off
a small colony of ants using it as a highway to the dead infantryman who
previously owned it. Inspecting the mechanism quickly I nod at the
corpse in respect. He knew how to maintain his weapon at least, even if
he did forget to take off the safety before trying to fire it. I study
the body. A young man, barely out of his teens. His life ended before
he had even begun to experience it. Such is the nature of war. Such is
life in this modern world. His face changes momentarily...

.... to that of another man, a few years younger, wearing a different
uniform. His face serene in death, the terrible chest wound finally
silent, the awful sucking noise of his collapsed lung no longer
straining to trap oxygen, drowning in blood. The uniform is of a
school, a university, the badge on the blazer fmailiar, yet unknown...
something printed around it's edges in gold thread... Dominus
Illuminatio Mea The core of the badge a book surrounded by three
crowns... Nearby a woman, her face gone, her body shattered legs blown
off, the ruined flesh signalling the power of the weapon used against
her. My chest burns, I can't breath, my throat has closed. So much
pain, the sense of loss is unbearable. I gasp, a deep breath, air rips
into my wind pipe, leaving my throat raw, a tearing heart-rending sob
erupts from my soul. I collapse on my knees...

Jennifer...

Oh my God, what have I done? What have they done? Why!?....

I lean back, sceaming my pain at the trees, at the skies. JENNY!!! My
voice can barely articulate the name, it bursts from the cybernetics as
a deafening roar that echoes around the jungle, the system monitor
flashes warnings across my vision. My heart pounds, out of control. My
pulse racing.

.... Out of the corner of my eye I notice something move, I spin round,
rising from the floor, my sidearm already barking as the shotgun
explodes. The pellets tear into my chest, my arms. Sharp, burning
pain, searing agony through my left side. My leg collapses, torn and
useless. The Walther speaks again, four rounds, two hit the gunman, one
in his face. He topples forward. An elf. A shamrock and serpent
tattooed by his left ear. A bastard Tir assassin. Something falls out
of his hand. A piece of paper - a symbol on it - NOoooo!!!!....

... the assault rifle falls silent. The explosive rounds have destroyed
a tree. The jungle has fallen silent, shocked at the explosive chatter,
the ruptured tree, my scream. Weak, shocked, horror and loss rebounding
in my head. Confused and alone, I stagger back to my cave. I collapse
by the fire, desperate for it's warmth. Needing the heat to warm my
chilled body. Ice cold, deep in my bones. Shivering uncontrollably I
curl next to the fire, hugging my knees, dry sobs wracking my body.

The badge was Oxford University - my son.

Jenny... my wife.

The radio yacks brainlessly in the corner of the cave. The bio monitor
releases something into my system. I fight the darkness that
approaches...

+++++End Access
+++++LogOff: K12.

]<<<<<
-- K12 <05:37:13/01-31-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Mon, 9 Feb 1998 05:12:53 +0000

Message no. 28 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/02859A
+++++Login: K12

I have sat here for ten days. I watched the paratroopers arrive, and
the giant lifters, the one's they call Muerto, helicopters of Death.
How appropriate. They have not searched for me. They collected their
dead, their equipment and have left. I find it interesting that they
have not hunted for me, but maybe that's because they have lost a truck.
It is possible that my ruse has been successful, and they believe I have
stolen a vehicle and am now travelling their lands in a stolen deuce and
a half. Whatever, I could care less.

The revelation that struck me still rings through my head. My wife and
son killed by a Tir assassin, the Shamrock indicates he was Irish,
though there is a terrorist group in the UCAS who use the Shamrock as a
symbol, maybe it was there, though I feel certain deep in the thing I
call my mind that it was not. It is unbelievably frustrating. The
memory has not returned. Thinking about it has not sparked off other
memories as I expected it to, almost, the images are lost to me, but not
the emotion.

That raw feeling of loss is the one thing that connects me to my
humanity, that convinces me I am still human, despite the knowledge that
I was not like I am now. Whatever they've done to my body, they have
left me with my own mind, regardless of how much they damaged implanting
their fiendish creations I am my own mind. I think, I remember, I AM!
If only I knew WHO I am. The need to know, to remember, to be fully
aware of myself has taken on a pressing need, over riding the feeling
that I should be travelling to the North East, where something awaits
me. Maybe knowledge of who I was awaits me there, though I somehow
doubt it. They would not create this abomination and then send it off
on it's own journey to arrive somewhere to learn of itself. If that was
a purpose, why remove the memories in the first place?

The deer is almost gone, soon I will need to hunt again. That does not
bother me, there is life in this jungle, all of it except the smallest
is edible. Deer and other animals live on the slopes I presently
occupy. I should be able to find food tomorrow with ease. The long
rifle of the sniper will enable me to kill at a range that was
unavailable before, preventing any need for excessive stealth. I look
around the cave, it is home, of sorts. Ammunition stacked up high in
the far corner, away from my small fire. Several rifles and sidearms
lie on a cloth stolen from the camp, along with other items that I think
may be useful in my survival. I stole a truck and hid it a few miles
east of my position. The soldiers know I have the truck, and they have
changed the frequency of their communications. The few communications I
can tune into on the weak radio are using a code I do not recognise, and
one that is not in the operators book, so I shall assume they also know
I was listening to them.

Maybe that is why the soldiers did not hunt for me. They did not come
looking because their commander believed I knew they were coming and
have run. The theft of the truck will certainly have re-enforced that
concept. Though if I had been commanding, I would have swept the area
anyway. I might have found this cave, and learned a few things about my
enemy. But then, they also found a few of the traps I set that
Castelli's men did not set off. Maybe he decided not to risk more men
in what was likely to be a fruitless search, I can associate with that.
It makes sense. But to leave the area without some sort of unit to
monitor and gradually search this vicinity is strange. Is it possible
that they have given up on me, confident that I will either drive into a
trap in the truck or die of starvation or similar. In a way, I pity the
men that collected the bodies. Many of them will have provided food for
the animals in this area, especially the scavangers and some of the
predators who are more opportunist and don't mind their meat rotting.

Or. And this is the most sinister thought I have had. They have
decided to let me loose to complete whatever my programming is. It may
even be that they are aware of my urge to travel to a particular
location and they will await my arrival there. I do not know, and until
I understand some of the urges that flow through my mind, I cannot risk
moving anywhere.

It is so relaxing here. The warmth of the fire on my back, a sky filled
with stars above my head, no city lights to obscure the majestic beauty
of the heavens. A light breezer travels through the jungle, carrying
with it a scent of rotting leaf mould, damp earth and an indefinable
something that belongs only to the jungle. It is a clean smell, a smell
free of the corruption of humankind. I would like to remain here, until
my systems break down, or my time is ended by natural span, whichever is
the most likely. Remain here watching the stars rotate above my head,
the clouds travel the paths of the wind, and watch the rain washing the
jungle clean. Enjoying the many wonders of this planet we call earth.
A well oiled machine. A machine of such infinitesmal complexity that it
is impossible for mankind to recreate or immitate it, but damn, they
sure do try. Meanwhile in their pathetic efforts to replicate the
complex definitions that make up nature they poison the very thing they
attempt to immitate. You have to give mankind his due when he earns it.
If he can't copy something, he goes out of his way to frag it up so bad
that no-one else would want to.

A meteorite just burned up in the atmosphere. A brief flare of light,
then it was gone. An old wives tale speaks that for each falling star a
soul is lost and another is born. Was that star for me, or did mine
fall a long time ago? The meteorite so closely resembles a life that it
is hardly any wonder the ancients mistook them for exactly that. The
life of a being on this planet must seem very much like a meteorite in
the long scale of time as the planet, and the universe see it. A rapid
spark in the darkness. Affecting nothing except it's own vicinity.
Burning out into a pile of dust, witnessed only by a very few. I wonder
how creatures such as I and L16 fit into this grand tapestry? Do we
appear as a meteorite across the face of creation, or are we the
abominations? The darkness between the light. Creatures that would not
exist were it not for the ingenuity of mankind. Creatures that have no
right to exist alongside those created by nature. I wonder if a
creature such as L16 were to turn up in a court of law, whether the laws
that govern living creatures would even apply to him. Would the world
recognise him for a life form, or for the absurdity he was? How would
they treat me?

Creatures of incredible size once walked the ground I look down upon, A
sea probably filled the basin to the north. Those creatures existed for
millenia, yet had no civilisation, no infrastructure, and intelligence
only slightly above animal. Yet they ruled this planet for millions of
years before mankind reared his ugly head. And what happened the second
we learned enough to crawl out of the primeval gloop that was our birth
place? We began to destroy that around us which had given us life.
Destroying vast tracts of our mother, and in the process, revelling in
our ability to kill each other. Praising ourselves for our ability to
destroy, slapping ourselves on the back because we could recreate the
power of the sun and harness it in a small steel case destroying entire
cities in the blink of an eye. We called it progress, until we realised
that the use of that weapon would destroy not only ourselves, but the
very planet of our creation. A destruction so complete that only the
lowest lifeforms would survive. Now we have new ways to destroy life.
Ways that for all their lack of intensity are no less ferocious. We can
create battle machines that resemble humans, yet cannot be stopped,
cannot be defeated except by extreme measures. We have magic, a force
so powerful that few are able to harness it's potential, and none can
predict it's terminal ability. A force perhaps that may replace the
power of the atom in it's destructive capabilities. What else could man
do with it, except to learn how to destroy himself.

The shadows of the world's cities running with men and women who care
less about the power they wield. Who have no intention of putting it to
the use which would benefit this planet and all who live on it, but
simply use it to destroy, to kill, for their own greed and pleasure.
And those who follow and support them. Weapons of destruction far more
potent and capable than those wielded by our ancestors, yet still
designed for one single purpose. The eradication of the human animal,
and all it's offspring. Once again after centuries of silence, the
earth begins to rebel. It begins to fight against the parasite that is
poisoning it. Storms of an intensity never before recorded, earthquakes
of magnitudes never experienced, and volcanic eruptions that destroy
islands and shatter continents. Diseases we have no cure for and no
means to combat. And all of it, designed to eradicate the disease that
mankind has become. One day, when it is too late, mankind will awaken,
and realise that he is an insignificant mite on the flesh of a being
far beyond his comprehension, and that he has signed his own death
warrant by his very negligence to accept that fact.

All that will be left will be mankind's creations. Creations such as
myself, and L16, and others like us. The machines and the cities are
simply carbunkles on the backside of creation. Already nature reclaims
them. The deserted cities and towns, those that mankind could no longer
support, that people no longer wished to live in. Moving to the heaving
pustules of the megacities. Open sores in the flesh of our mother,
waiting for the day when they will follow the Mayan, Roman, Egyptian,
Babylonian and all other civilisations before them. Into the decay that
leads to destruction and ignorance. A time of forgetting. When skills
and needs, abilities and reasons are forgotten. A return to barbarity
and worshipping of the unknown. If mankind survives this cleansing he
will once again rise from the ashes and spend his many lives rebuilding
the lessons of before. Repeating his historical and genetic need to
control everything around him, or destroy it in petulance. Until
finally the entity that supports him discovers the means of destroying
the parasite, the disease.

Unless.

Unless the ultimate course of mankind /is/ to destroy himself. That the
creation of L16 and the others is the means to eradicate the disease
known as mankind. The ultimate mission of makind's creations - to
destroy that which created them, in much the same way that mankind is
hell bent on destroying the earth. Interesting. For centuries man has
looked for ways to destroy his kind, to kill as many of the opposition -
whomever that might be - as possible. In that quest they are creating
the ultimate weapon of destruction. Himself. We, K12, L16, M14 and the
multitude of others like us around the world are the creations of man,
in his own image, designed to kill man with efficiency only matched by
mass destruction weapons. It would be a poetic justice that would
probably amuse creation. In his quest to create, man destroys himself
with his own creations. Even I can find that amusing, even knowing that
I might be part of that ultimate solution, though, hasn't that been the
story of man through history?

It puzzles me. I can reason arguments, I have a basic knowledge of
things in order to have a variety of discussions with myself, yet I
cannot remember who I am, where I came from, what I was... I wonder if
the scientists were right, and that certain areas of the brain are used
for different types of memory? If that's the case, then the crap I know
about life in general is fine while my personal memories and identity
were cut out when they installed the headware, which is where?
Parietal, aw what the heck, how the hell would I know, they could have
just brainwashed me. Damn mages and their mind control techniques,
maybe even a partial lobotomy. With all the cyberware they've shoved in
my head I don't even know how much of a brain I have left, and how much
is storage. It is incredible though, precisely how much and how precise
the information is that I have stored in here. The ability to recall
any situation from the recent weeks, and replay them completely in a
wide variety of modes is truly amazing. I wonder though, how much time
I will have before the storage is filled, and how to empty it.

I can see animals moving through the trees, the warmth of my cave has
attracted a couple of snakes as well, but they leave me well alone so I
don't mind. Which reminds me, food is getting low.

The second I pick up the rifle and touch my hand to the grip, my vision
is filled with information from the weapon. Wind speed and direction,
ammo type and amount, range, ballistics data on the bullets and a whole
pile of other stuff. My life would have been a hell of a lot easier
before if I'd had this information. I wonder why I opted not to take
the options when my eyes were replaced the first time?

And there we go again. Now that just pisses me off. I do something, I
try to analyse it, some neuron somewhere makes a connection, and bingo,
I remember a small section of my past. The very second I try to
concentrate on it - it fades away. It is so incredibly frustrating. I
don't even know how I can portray the feeling. It's a bit like someone
asking you for a particular word, it's on the edge of your tongue, so
close you can almost taste it, but still refuses to manipulate itself
into a coherent set of sounds that makes the word. The name of an actor
in a movie, one you really enjoyed - the actor is famous, you can see
his or her face, you can list the movies, but can't for the life of you
remember the name. That's probably the best way of looking at it. My
memories are similar to this. They are partial pictures, hazy images of
a past that I know is there, but cannot remember. Tastes, sounds,
smells that are lost, lost permamently or temporarily I do not know.
But they are nevertheless lost. Imagine the impatience of travelling
behind someone driving in a 75mph limit, at 20mph, the total frustration
that the fool is not going to move any faster, and there's nothing you
can do about it. That is a minimal estimation of the frustration I feel
when something surfaces. If it's coherent, at least I can explore the
memory or image and analyse it, trying to compare it to what I do know,
and what I suspect, but random thoughts... They are the worst. They
make little sense at the time, and don't appear to be connected. But
it's the use of a past tense that gets the attention. It becomes
important to know whether it is a memory from the lab, or from my own
past - the past that is the most important to me.

The rifle kicks savagely, the warthog lays down nice and conveniently
waiting for me to butcher it. It would be nice though, if I could find
some other ammunition than this damned explosive crap. It's hugely
annoying to kill prey and have large chunks of it wasted completely
because it's removed into some decorative spray. The rifle shot has
silenced the jungle, and that is a shame. The sound is incredibly
relaxing, except for the buzz of the insects, but after a while that
also becomes background noise. The strangest noise lately has been the
fizzle pop of insects who are too stupid to realise that the fire is
dangerous and fly straight into it. At least the wood smoke is keeping
the biters away. I'm not sure how well the system implant would deal
with the diseases some of those beasties carry, if at all. I suspect it
might be OK, the toxin extractor is optimal and the other toys seem to
be designed to keep infections out of my system.

Now that has just got to be the wierdest thing of this whole crazy
situation. I can concentrate for a few seconds and get a complete run
down of the cybersystems and replacement biogene body parts. To
actually interrogate my own body, and have something inform me that all
systems are optimal makes me feel more like some kind of machine than a
human, and I hate it. The auto shut down is scary, I seem to have
entered some sort of comatose state as a result of my vision from the
other night. I've tried to replicate that situation, but the monitor
has refused to co-operate, and there is no data from that period to
explain to me how it did what it did, and why. The thing that worries
me, is that it might decide to prevent emotional or system overload at
the wrong moment, and drop me on the ground right when I need to be
mobile. I'm going to have to learn to control the extreme outbursts of
emotion that I suffer from at the moment or end up in deep trouble.

And that bothers me also. The total lack of control over the higher
emotional states. If I lose my temper, it is violently and immediate.
I destroyed one of the assault rifles in a temper. I smashed a
considerable portion of the cave with a lump of wood in a rage. I
curled defenselessly into a fetal position over the death of my wife.
Emotional responses to certain stimulus are extreme. I doubt that I
could successfully exist in any civilised environment before I came to
the notice of law enforcement. I can just see myself smashing up a bar
over some slight that I have taken at a personal level, killing people
and wrecking furniture just in a fit of uncontrollable temper. Or
collapsing like a broken doll in the middle of the street, just because
some other memory has snuck up on me and kicked me in the gut.

No, I'm more suited to where I am. Away from population and away from
prying, curious eyes. Where my temperamental shifts cannot do any harm,
except to my surroundings, and where my predatory mannerisms, and
penchant for efficient violence can be used to the greatest purpose.
Feeding me.

There is a Jaguar approaching. He's low in the trees. I can see him,
25 meters away. He smells the blood of the hog. I haven't brought my
rifle with me, but this doesn't concern me, which is curious. The cat
should put the fear of god into me, yet fails. He is just another
predator looking for a full belly, and there's this nice handy pig
laying in the foliage. He hasn't seen me yet, though if I move I know
he'll hear me. Curious, I wait, watching him. The pig isn't important
to me, I have enough food for at least another two days, though bacon
would be nice. Venison has it's limits for taste when it's breakfast and
dinner. On second thoughts the damned Jaguar can go find his own meal.
I really fancy bacon. He's moving. God he's beautiful. I stand up and
the cat sees me. Food and fresh blood make less cautious than normal,
or maybe he's had a taste of man before, maybe he's the one that killed
the sniper that night. He's certainly brave considering I appeared out
of nowhere. I snarl back. Oops. That appears to have been a challenge
returned. The cat is more than determined that this male intruder
should be removed. Strange. I wonder if I can immitate anything else.
That was a damned convincing snarl if I say so myself.

I remember a large predator I saw in a movie once, and decide to try to
immitate it's growl. Oh wow, that was impressive. The jaguar went flat.
Crouched right down, ears flat against it's head, eyes wide. It's not
heard that sound before. I magnify the resonance and add some base and
echo to it.

Well, I don't know what the Jaguar thought that was, but it sent shivers
down my spine. He's gone. Took off like he had a fire attached to his
ass. Having said that, if I'd heard the noise, and was unable to
identify the thing that produced it I think, even in my enhanced state,
I would run like hell. I shall experiment with this voice box when I
get back, see if I can immitate some of the voices I have stored in the
'ware. It has considerable potential. A considerable number of other
animals took off as well, though they'll be back later. I suppose
that's the advantage of living in an area where predatory killers roam
at large, you get fatalistic about what happens. It doesn't take long
to butcher the pig, and I leave the parts I don't want, one of the other
predators can have them. Normally it would be sensible to bury such
remains, but I don't think I need to be that cautious here anymore. The
soldiers are unlikely to return, they I think, are occupied with
scouring the likely directions I might have taken with the truck. I
should have a good couple of weeks before someone thinks to come back
here and check. I'll take the truck south in a couple of days and head
east then north once I've put some distance between myself and any
pursuit. I figure they will check south first, as that is the direction
L16 and I were heading.

The walk back to my cave doesn't take long, and by god that pig smells
good. I'm looking forward to eating that. I know I should finish the
deer first, but the temptation to have fresh meat of a different flavour
is too much and I succumb to the desire.

While I'm waiting I strip down the rifle and start cleaning it. It has
only fired one shot, but that doesn't matter. Better to clean it now,
than have a problem later because I forgot - though I suspect something
in my head won't let me forget details like that. The act of cleaning
the rifle is pleasantly relaxing, something I've done for many years.
My hands automatically dismantling and polishing without any input from
the systems infesting my body. The smell of the gun oil over the
roasting pig is a pleasant counterpoint - somehow reassuring. A vague
scent of other, better times. Times that are beyond my ability to
remember, but I can still enjoy the sensation of familiarity.

Sitting at the entrance to the cave, my back against the wall, food
cooking, the stars and jungle ahead of me, seems so very familiar. This
is something I have done a great deal I think. I believe I have spent
much of my life here in the jungle. Well, not necessarily this jungle,
but a, maybe many jungles, but it is familiar nevertheless, and I like
it. A vague shape of a man in a stetson hovers just out of my vision,
Heh, I shan't make that mistake again, I let the vision run it's course,
rather than focus on it. The cowboy(?) is sitting on something - a
rock(?), log(?) whatever. He's cleaning an Ingram, an expensive MAC20,
the weapon cheap, but the mods he's added to it aren't. No, there are
two. The lunatic wears them paired. He's got a big old Colt as well,
worn low on his hip in the movie style. I somehow know he's damned fast
with that weapon. He has practiced many nights to get the skill to draw
and fire within an eyeblink. A dangerous opponent, yet not as skilled
as I. His skills are different. I cannot place what he does or who he
is, but I am comfortable letting him sit on his seat cleaning his
weapons. He is not a threat to me. I know this, because I have drunk
beer and laughed with this man. I wish I could see his face beneath the
stetson as it might be important to me, but he keeps the hat on. I can
see his teeth occasionally as he sings a song of some sort - a ballad,
something sad and tragic, I recognise the word "Loredo" though not the
song title, I know it is an old song though, something about a
gunfighter.

.... A young man, stetson pulled low over his forehead, face in shadow.
His lips thin and taught above a strong square chin. He's angry, no
furious. There's going to be trouble. I unclip the restraining clasp
from my Walther, it's primed, and I click off the safety while it's in
the holster. Five men sit around a table, the boy is looking at them,
the rest of the bar is no longer part of his life, only those five men.
He walks up, closer to the table and says something I can't hear over
the music. The table responds, the men around it tensing, they are
quite obviously considering their options, and the odds of reaching
weapons before this boy can do anything. He pulls his duster aside, a
big Colt dragoon is holstered low on his hip. Christ in a sidecar, he
looks like something out of a damn western. The boy's going to die. I
decide not to get involved unless bullets come in my direction. I
motion to the man next to me, sitting in the shadows of the corner - I
can't make out his face, but I know he's seen my signal to sit put.
The men at the table obviously decided that the odds were in their
favour.

Damn, he's quick. The five men stand, almost as one, drawing weapons.
One has a machine pistol. He's the first to die, a bullet tearing
through his face. The next is the threat with the sawn off, two
bullets. The other three drop before they've cleared their weapons.
The big Colt is deafening in the small bar. People diving for cover,
even though it's all over. The boy spins the Colt twice before
holstering it in one smooth motion. Poser.

He walks out of the door just as he came in. No, not the same. There
is defeat there. His body is held differently, his walk less firmly.
He may have killed five men in the time it takes to draw a breath, but
he hurts. Maybe one of them got a shot off? No, I don't think so.
Something else then? For some reason I feel myself drawn to this boy.
Leaving my drink I motion to the man in the corner and follow the
cowboy, police sirens echo faintly in the night as I follow the
gunfighter....

Dallas. That was his name. Dallas. He's gone now, no longer sitting
on the rock over there cleaning his weapons. But I have a name. The
name of a friend. I wonder if he still lives, or if that was his spirit
over there helping me to remember? How the hell would I go about
finding out? There must be a way, some way of discovering where he is,
and through him - who I am. I will search for this Dallas. I know he
was in Seattle, that's where he killed those men, but he is not there
now. He's somewhere else. I don't know where, but somehow I'll find a
way. This headware might help, if I could only figure out how it works
properly. I scan through the airwaves, looking for some music. A
Country station is playing out of Houston. Maybe they'll play the song
and I'll remember something else. I choose to stay on that channel, and
listen to the music, thinking of the young gunfighter from Seattle.

Morning, and the jungle has woken up big time. I dreamt - do I dream? -
of the cowboy last night, the memory playing itself over and over like a
movie stuck in a loop. Somehow he is important. This has not happened
to other things I have remembered, they have all been consigned to the
dustbin I will for this time call 'a mind', until I can tell whether it
is storage or my brain. Whether I have assigned more importance to him
than he deserves is immaterial. I shall, for this time anyway, consider
him a chance. A possibility of my resurection.

+++++End Access
+++++LogOff: K12.

]<<<<<
-- K12 <06:15:13/02-09-59>

From:	Brian Angliss <angliss@*****.COLORADO.EDU>
Subject:	Huh?
Date:	Tue, 28 Apr 1998 11:41:02 -0600

Message no. 29 >>>>>[Now, wait a sec here. You know where those three guys slaughtered a=
lot of people in the riots? Something's not quite right about that area. =
Now, I've been in Haven a lot recently - they just let me out on my own=
after being nearly blown up - and I know that Haven's got a great, well=
aspected background count. It's a lot easier to cast healing and=
protection magic there, or to summon spirits - although there's a pretty=
good chance they'll go free on summoning, and the resident spirits don't=
necessarily like it - so I'm used to a pretty friendly atmosphere. When I=
left Haven, it faded like I'm about used to. But on the way to my new=
squat, I passed right through that area, and it's just not friendly at all.=
I'm not sure what it is, but it just felt strange to me. Has anyone else=
noticed that, or even checked?]<<<<<
-- Foxey Roxey <11:31:49/04-28-59>

>>>>>[There's a pretty high background count, of course, due to the magic=
used and the killings, but that's all I've noticed. You're saying=
something is different, even beyond that?]<<<<<
-- Diana, Mistress of the Night <11:32:50/04-28-59>

>>>>>[Yes, I am. It's almost as if it's....well, aspected violently for=
sure, but also almost..... well, polluted in some way. I was in Germany=
once, at the site of a World War 2 slaughter. Not a death camp, mind you,=
just a nasty battle between the Germans and the Allies that killed a=
village in the process. The background count was ugly there, even after=
over a century, and it wasn't pleasant. But this felt different. Not just=
violent, but something more.]<<<<<
-- Foxey Roxey <11:35:46/04-28-59>

>>>>>[I think you still need to get some rest, Roxey. You're imagining
thin=
gs.]<<<<<
-- Diana, Mistress of the Night <11:36:39/04-28-59>

>>>>>[Da womon is correct, Mistress. And it feels not entirely bad either.
=
Da "Astral," as you call it, is a tad off there, but it's harder ta describ=
e.]<<<<<
-- The Baron <1:39:34/04-28-59>

>>>>>[Oh, great, if Micheal likes it, then you're probably right,
something=
weird is going on. That free spirit is more than a bit warped. And you=
know it, Micheal.]<<<<<
-- Diana, Mistress of the Night <11:40:50/04-28-59>

>>>>>[Ya, Mistress, I know it. But I'm not so warped as da one who lets
me=
possess him so I can fool around in this artificial, unreal world. I'm at=
least natural - This "Matrix" is so unreal it might make my skin crawl, if=
I had skin.]<<<<<
-- The Baron <11:42:49/04-28-59>

From:	Sascha Pabst <Sascha.Pabst@**********.UNI-OLDENBURG.DE>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Wed, 29 Apr 1998 14:01:55 +0100

Message no. 30 >>>>>[ Foxey's right... This are not the usual disturbances usually
conected to violence. Mind, of course there are dark spots in what you
hermetic numbercrunchers call astral plane, where mobs killed people.

But there is something... else. Not like Chicago, where you still can
smell the bugs, it's... its dirty, corrupt. The only spirit I know well
enough to trust feels it, too, but is as unable to put her finger on it...
]<<<<<
-- Canis <04:57:01/04-29-59>

From:	Kristling Ravenwing <kristling@*******.CROSSWINDS.NET>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Wed, 29 Apr 1998 08:21:35 -0400

Message no. 31 >>>>>[ I smelled blood. Etherically, I mean. That worries
me.]<<<<<
-- Kristling <06:21:12/ 04-29-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Thu, 7 May 1998 03:48:56 +0100

Message no. 32 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/02859A
+++++Login: K12

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Steal the truck, load the
supplies I've liberated onto it, and head out. Yeah. In retrospect it
was a stupid idea. One that has taken me several days to realise. What
the hell am I going to do with a truckload of guns and ammunition?
Start a war? With whom? Nah, stupid idea. I've been looking for a
suitable place to cache the gear, but as I drive, the urge to travel
north is becoming harder to resist. The truck has saved me some time,
of that I have no doubt, it has also saved me some trouble, a couple of
the villages I've passed through seem to accept that a large, heavily
armed man is going to climb out of an army truck, whereas if I'd walked
in on foot, the reception may have been very different. Thankfully, the
webbing and sam brown hide the patched bullet holes in the jacket, which
means I don't have to explain them. I find it fascinating that these
people will help me, they provide food and water, sometimes hot drinks.
Yesterday when I was running low on fuel, the people gathered together
and drained the diesel from some of their tractors. Whether this is a
show of respect for their armed forces, or a collective fear I cannot
discern. There is some of both I think.

Driving is strangely relaxing, watching the road rush past under the
vehicle, the rumble of the engine, and the hiss as the air rushes past
the windscreen is almost hypnotic, I find my mind wanders freely but
aimlessly. I've played over the last few weeks, searching for an
answer. An answer to who I am, and what has been done to me, and above
all why this has been done. The systems that inhabit my body affect me
less, the elaborate amounts of data in my vision is secondary now, and I
find I can ignore it comfortably, looking past the scrolling readouts -
I wish I knew where they were coming from. It is somewhat unnerving to
suffer from continual data input yet have no indication as to the origin
of the data. Does it come from some built in addition to the eyes or
something else? Irritating.

I travelled, according to the dashboard 276 miles south and east. The
urge to travel north became stronger the further south I went.
Eventually I capitulated, and I turned north. There is something
leading me in this direction, and I cannot find what it is, nor can I
switch it off, though the urgency of the emotion has reduced since my
change of direction.

I had to kill again this morning. A police officer was unfortunate
enough to stop me and ask questions I couldn't answer, my evasory
methods were insufficient, and he got progressively more nervous. The
thing that concerns me is that there is no remorse. Snapping his neck
meant no more than crushing a bug or lighting a cigarette, I feel that
it should have meant something. The man was only doing his job, he may
even have had a family, children, dreams, desires and hopes. Yet there
is nothing. Not remorse, not thrill, not even fear of killing a
policeman. When they find the body, they will hunt for the killer, a
cop killer in any country is something both feared and hated, but this
does not concern me either. Not because I know I will be long gone by
the time they begin to search, truth be told I have no idea where I'll
be, not until I find out where I'm going anyway, but because there is
nothing they can do about it, and death may yet prove a welcome event.

This is so damned frustrating. No matter what I try, I cannot break out
of the limitations of this system. I suppose I should have stolen the
operating manuals on the gear when I stole the clothing. Now that
produces an amusing mental picture. An escaped cybermonster reading the
manual on how to operate himself. Oh the fun people would have with
that. It might even be worth a few episodes of "Metal & Meat" -
"...hey Ma, did you see the cyborg with the operating manual - he didn't
know how to switch himself off"...

Monster. I wonder if that is what I have become. How would children
see me. More musculature than you can wave a stick at, speed and
stamina to match a top athlete. A killer without remorse, without
conscience, without memories. No, I don't like that thought, so I shall
ignore it.

It's surprising, even at the wheel of two and half tons of truck,
driving is such a relaxing experience - but I've said/thought that
already. What the hell is it I'm doing here, am I speaking to some
internal microphone? Am I thinking to something and that something
transmits out to whatever system receives this. Is this going straight
to the people who hunt me, is that why they are no longer on my trail -
because they can read my thoughts as I think/transmit them?

ARE YOU OUT THERE YOU BASTARDS!? ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? WELL HEAR
THIS...

I'm going to be coming for you. Sooner or later I'm coming for the
butchers that did this. Not the scientists that stuffed me with all
this gear, but the fuckwits that sanctioned it. Sooner or later you
fucks, I am going to find you, and I will find out who I am, and why the
hell you did this to me.

CAN YOU HEAR THAT? I...WILL...FIND...YOU!

Ah, what's the point. Even if they are monitoring this - transmission -
whatever it is, they won't answer, just in case I stop, just in case I
learn something they don't want me to know, just in case they lose me.
A strange concept indeed, thinking to some system somewhere in the
southern hemisphere with the possibility that someone out there is
reading my thoughts. Well, I hope they're having fun, I know damn well
I'm not. I can't think of anything worse than continual self assessment
and analysis. I l am like a newborn child, learning about the world and
how I can interact with it day by day, minute by minute. Every moment
virtually brings something new, and each day helps me to understand that
which I already know. I don't suppose I ever imagined in whatever life
I had prior to this, that I would be once again learning the ways of the
world - desperate for the knowledge I once possessed, desperate to lose
the knowledge I now possess.

I tried monitoring the Police communications for a while, but the
incessant chattering and the poor quality of their signals was giving me
a headache. I tuned into the Country Station in Houston instead. I'm
actually developing a taste (?), liking (?) for the music, though a
large amount of it does seem to be unnecessarily morbid, lot's of girl
meets boy, girl or boy dies terrible death or becomes hideously injured,
sad ending stuff. They've still not played the Laredo song, which is a
shame, it might help me to remember more about Dallas. If I could
figure out a way to communicate with the DJ, I'd request it, but that so
far has proved futile. I'm convinced that if this headware can receive,
then it can transmit, but for some reason it defeats all my efforts to
get a handle on the process. Only this connection, to wherever it goes,
seems to work, and I dare not lose it, just in case I have no further
way of recording my thoughts. For some reason, the compulsion to make
sure that my ramblings are stored is quite strong. Maybe for me it is
way of making sure that somehow I am remembered, that maybe, somewhere
sometime, somebody will find this information and know what it all
means. Maybe they will recognise something in this that I cannot see,
some information, something, and find a way to save me.

For all my strength, for all my abilities that is what I need more than
anything. Saving. From this anonymity, this emptiness. I'm a human
shell with a computer for a brain. No personality, no memories, no past
experiences that I can base my judgements on. No way to begin to
understand what I have become because I have nothing to compare it to.
No way to judge my actions because there is nothing to judge them by. I
wonder if there is anyone who could possibly understand the loneliness
that inhabits my life. The complete emptiness that is the black hole my
mind has become. I have no friends I can confide in or speak to, except
the few ghosts that inhabit my consciousness, my dreams have become
incredibly vivid, but meaningless, aimless ramblings of a deranged mind.
I can only describe what I have as deranged, I can think of no other
comparison. I kill without thought and without remorse. Is that not
the actions of a deranged mind? Of a psychopath? Oh I wish I could
find something to cling to, something solid that would at least give me
hope. I have a name. But is it a nickname? It is strange indeed if it
were the man's real name, and I am almost convinced it is not. Is he
still alive even? Where do I start looking? HOW do I start looking?
Who am I looking for?

Should I surrender to the people who did this. Contact them on the now
silent radio and hand myself in? It would be easier I think. They
could erase my mind again, and none of this would have happened. They
could fix it so that I don't suffer this pain, this blackness. They
could fix my mind better than they did before. It would end this
stupidity. It would put an end to the fear this instills.

That is certainly the strangest thing of this whole crazy situation. I
do not fear the men who hunt me. I do not fear the Police, or any man
with a gun. Yet I live in terror of not knowing. At night, the very
emptiness of my mind causes chills and cold sweats. My hands shake, my
nerves are frayed, my temper short. I have discovered that I like the
taste of cigarettes - the ones I stole from the dead Policeman give my
hands something to do, and the nicotine calms my nerves, I can at least
control some of the equipment embedded in me, the device in my lungs can
be switched off, and the cool smoke from the cigarette is allowed to do
it's work. The light-headedness from the first one took a while to
shake off, so it must have been a while since I've smoked anything. Now
I am curious to know what a cold beer would taste like, and the effect
that would have. According to the map I will be arriving at a large
town tomorrow morning, maybe I could try one there. I have some money
from the soldiers and the policeman. I assume it can be used here. At
least now I know where it is that I am at.

+++++

The truck is parked in a small copse, some way back. Something
prevented me from entering the town this time. I have driven through
several, but there is something about this one that I am cautious about,
though I do not understand this over-riding desire for caution. I have
watched through the glasses for nearly four hours, and still have not
seen what it may be that has brought this unreasoning nervousness to the
surface. Logically, if I understood how this headware worked, I might
have been able to access some database and survey the information on
this town.

El Palmar. So what exactly is it with this place?

...foil wrapped packages, men and women in short chains, children
buried in a shallow pit...

I turn to the East, and climb higher up the hill. Overlooking fields
surrounded by thickly forested hills. There. That area, almost a mile
south of the town - that's where they are. The glasses whine briefly as
the focus is drawn in. Smoke. Readouts in my eyes identify and target
movement. Identity tags are assigned to each unidentified target...
32. This is the reason for my reluctance to enter the town - the truck
and me with it would have been destroyed to cover the operation that
exists here. Now all I have to do is figure out how I knew, without
knowing. What to do? Something inside asks me to kill these bringers
of misery, yet another suggests that I do not get involved. What would
be the moral path. Would it be more human to help these villagers and
kill those that enslave them? Or would it be to leave the villagers
alone, let them survive, because surely any reprisals against them as a
result of my interference would result in all their deaths?

Decisions, decisions. Go around. Ignore this place. I am certain that
my involvement here would only bring down a death sentence on the
townspeople who most certainly would not abandon their homes. They are
fed and watered for their work, and I doubt the ones with guns would let
their workers perish from starvation. No, it is best to leave well
alone I think. Though something nags at me. Something deep inside
wants to liberate these people from this torment, and punish those that
send death and misery to others. Bah! Such meandering is not going to
achieve anything.

There, there's the pit. The children are covered, perhaps imprisoned to
gain the co-operation of their parents, perhaps to protect them should
government forces attack. I cannot tell from here, but the pit is
guarded, which means they at least are alive. If I attack I will have
to kill him first, or there will be little to stop him turning on the
children - which would not endear my actions to the townspeople. No, I
am right. Leave it alone. Continue north to whatever my destination
is.

+++++

Darkness has become a close friend, the heat of the land in the evening
enables me to drive without the trucks lights, something that I am
becoming accostomed to, it is still a hard habit to break - that of
engaging driving lights in darkness. Not using the lights though, I
believe, may have saved my life more than once on this journey - or at
the very least, saved the lives of those I may have encountered
otherwise.

I can't help a certain feeling of guilt over leaving El Palmar in the
hands of those gunmen. I do not understand why. Guilt is not an
emotion that I understand fully enough to deal with adequately and my
continual self analysis and arguing is beginning to become irritating.
I have had to fight for the last several hours, a strong urge to turn
round and drive back to the town. This I firmly believe would be a
grave error, yet I nag at myself like an old woman to do exactly that.
Is this what it means to be human? To continually suffer self doubt and
criticism of every action? To continue on one path, while arguing why
the other would have been better? And to think, all I wanted was a cold
beer.

I have managed to access the on-board navigation system, the equipment
in my head appears capable of absorbing that information in a
frighteningly short span of time, though I now have a headache from the
effort. That headache does not help the argument going on inside my
mind. I really wish I would shut up. Even music from KLTRB in Houston
does not help the voices to be silent. I suspect it might have been
useful if I had another to talk to, to rationalise my decision and
actions against a more human opinion, perhaps even to the point of
reaching a decision that would have prevented this damn conversation.
And that easily has to be the most irritating thing about this. These
people are having an argument inside my head, against my wishes, and
totally without my involvement.

Damn... Must be more careful when applying the brakes. I'm insane.

That's it. It has to be. I am completely round the twist. Isn't a
sign of insanity when you begin to argue with yourself, and confirmation
when you answer yourself. When that argument takes on a form that is
involved, contradictory and opposed verbally within one's own mind while
one is listening to it? Surely that must be the answer. <laughter>
Well, that makes me fell so much better. I'm nuts, crazy, flipped, my
brain is marshmallow and I'm the toaster, the lights are on but nobody's
home, out where the buses don't go, no stars shining in that black pit,
five can's short of a six pack, one basket short of a picnic, no wheels
on my wagon. I'm a certifiable loon. Wonderful. Well, time to
celebrate I suppose. I have finally analysed my condition, now to find a
nice tinned pancake, stick a candle in it and sing a nice song to myself
to celebrate. I wonder how I can access the argument?

+++++

It didn't work. K ration pancake tastes like polyfilla, the candle
wouldn't light, and I couldn't access the argument to put my two penneth
in. However, at least for the moment that act of eating foul tasting
sludge has shut them up. Obviously they didn't like the pancake either.

Something... Rangefinder, targetting, combat software kicks in,
smartlink focuses the crosshairs on the target, my finger takes up the
slack as the onboard systems identify the target. Christ I'm fast.
Godamn what a rush. Hah, it's a cow. I just scared the living crap out
of flaming cow. It snuck up on me while I was thinking. The poor
bugger's going to be running for miles. Wait a minute, if there's a
cow, there's got to be a village or farm. Hot food, maybe even a decent
drink. Oh, this I've got to find. I'll follow the cow, hopefully it's
heading for home, and not some obscure part of this country. The truck
should be able to cope with an overland jaunt.

Now, where did it... Ah, there it is. I can seeee youuuu. Heh. I
wonder if cows can see in the dark? Now wait a minute, they sleep at
night. Why was this one awake? Oh.

Ground coming up fast, hit hard, roll with the fall, roll, find cover -
where? There, that indent, leads to a ditch. Drainage? Weapons.
Sidearm, knife, two 15mm grenades, AR's still in the truck. Do I fetch
it? No. No time. They're coming. How did they find me? My
transmissions? No. Perhaps the truck has a homing beacon. But why so
late, they could have done it anytime. How many. Scanning. Smartlink
locks three, motion detector picks two more. Damn, low light only,
they're shielded from IR., bastards. That's cheating. 16 rounds in the
clip. Enough. Range too far, solution too low to warrant firing.
Bugger, why did I leave the rifle. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn't
I realise the cow had been disturbed before I chose to follow it? Silly
mistake. I expect a greenhorn to make that mistake. I should have seen
it. No, they were covered, baffling prevented the system from seeing
them. They have learned since the jungle. I will need to be more
careful. The truck. Damn and blast. Wrecked. Engine smoking, tyres
gone, cab riddled. I bet they hit everything except the damn rations.
Wouldn't mind if they shot that foul stuff. Can't have hit the ammo
boxes, no secondary explosions. Fuel tank's secure. The fuel tank.
Clip load, regular rounds, 147 grain, semi jacket hollow point, mv 1290,
trajectory .7, range 50 yds. Odds on igniting 0.03%. Not good. Ok,
that's out then. What else? Ammo boxes - penetration at this range is
for shit, 17% chance of ignition. Fuckit. Options?

Run, unacceptable, need the supplies and clothing, need the rifle.
Fight. Odds of five to one at least, possibly more, backup en-route, it
will need to be quick. Estimate: 4.63 minutes to solution.
Unacceptable. Diversion. Yes. Explosion, the grenade. Too risky.
There. What is that? No time to identify. Drop clip, load blank, clip
grenade. Aim, fire. Fuck me.

What _was_ that? Flames, heat signature through the roof, blind on
three channels. shit.

System check. OK. Internals? OK.

Change clip, run north. West. There, target. 92% solution. Two
rounds. Duck, run west, south. Scanning. Targets, two. 59% and 86%
solutions, firing, three rounds, two rounds, hit, both down, one
screaming. Wounded? Where's the fifth. There damn, he sees me.
Firing. Five rounds. Missed. Four left. Burning. What? Analyse.
Leg wound. System releasing endorphins, pain gone, functionality 75%,
80, 94%. Acceptable. Bastard's gone to ground. Scanning. Damn that
fire, it's screwing the sensors, audio useless, vision hampered. Motion
sensor... got him. Aiming. Not enough. Can't waste more rounds.
Grenade. One left. Change clip, fit grenade. Range finder 73 meters.
Firing. Ooh, I bet that hurt. Running east. Move, duck and cover,
move north towards target. Look. There he is, moving west. Not close
enough, solution unacceptable. There, that rise. Run, aim, fire.

System integrity: OK
System condition: OK

Disengage combat systems. Search the body, ammo, good. Change clips.
Now, where's that wounded fucker. Ah, there he is. It won't do any
good you know. You can't crawl quickly enough. He's young, 18, maybe
19. To young for this. Why send children against me? Senseless. He
could not possibly have gained enough experience for this operation.
Must remember to check the other bodies. Got you. Kick him over onto
his back.

Fear. He fears me. Poor slob. Where's the medkit? Ah, found it. OK,
where did I hit you sunshine? Hmm, not nice. Sorry, but it was
important.

"Name, rank, unit?"

"Corporal Jesus Mendargo, 15th Mechanised. Don't kill me."

Tears of pain. That wounds has got to smart some, and the iodine won't
help. Pain suppressants? Yes, he has them, excellent. 2cc should
suffice to take the edge off. "Your shoulder is broken, the round has
fragmented against the bone. With quick attention you should keep the
arm. Without it, you will lose it. The leg wound is flesh, a bullet
burn, it simply hurts more. I've given you a painkiller, it will take
the edge off the pain, but not enough to kill it. You need to feel
this, so you won't do more damage by being silly. You're not going to
be silly are you?" He nods enthusiastically, whincing with the pain
that obviously shot through his shoulder. Silly boy. Nod slowly next
time.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"K-12."

"Unacceptable. Who am I?"

"K-12"

"OK. What am I?" He looks puzzled. Didn't expect that question. He's
not going to answer. OK. Show him the gun. Point it, where? His
groin. Young man, probably got a girlfriend, values his dick. Repeat
the question.

"Madragore. Angarthelin K series, model 12 combat cyborg. Designation
A12-9783/4343-7, Control systems interface module 3M, primary program
parameters. Assassination."

A WHAT!. Combat cyborg? What the fuck is that? Assassination? I'm
an assassin. A controlled fucking system for killing? God he looks
terrified. What the hell must I look like to him. I relax the muscles
in my face. I was snarling at him, swearing at him, in what? Gaelic?
Where the hell did I learn that. It's not part of my system. Previous
memory. God it must have sounded strange to him. Already I'm a demon,
now I speak in tongues. Urine? He's wet himself, why? Oh. Now why
did I do that? I remove the gun from his forehead and drop the hammer.
Poor fuck. So, now I know what I am. Great. How do I deal with that?

"Name?"

"Jesus..."

"Not yours. Mine"

"I... I don't know. We were only given your designation. You killed
the scientists who knew. You will need to speak with General Sebastiano
Galterno. HE can tell you. He's in Caracas..."

"General Galterno? The man who sent the soldiers?"

"Yes."

"How do I get to him?"

"Surrender..."

"Unacceptable."

"There is no other way. I..."

"I am going to let you live Jesus. Go home, to your mother, your
girlfriend. I care not. Do not come after me again. Next time I will
kill you. Do you understand?" He nods again. "Very well. Where's
your transport?"

"You destroyed it. The jeep was..."

Fuckit. So that's why it exploded like that. I should have known.

"How did you know where I was, and where to wait?"

"Surveillance. A flight in the area saw the truck, photographed it, and
plotted the route. We've had a drone on you for two days. This was the
best place. We figured you'd stop nearby, but didn't think it would be
on top of us. There are others. We weren't alone. They'll be coming
now. They'll get you. You can't escape. Surrender now, and you will
live. Run, and they'll kill you."

I laugh at him. He actually believes that. "They can't kill me. The
same as Galterno's soldiers couldn't. The same as you couldn't. I am
K-12. This is what I do. Where are your operational instructions.
Your data?"

"In the jeep. You destroyed it."

Punching the ground does not help matters. It also doesn't achieve
anything. I search his webbing. There has to be a beacon here
somewhere. Yes, there it is. Short range transmitter. He looks
disappointed that I found it. I think I had better work on my
reassuring smile, it doesn't have the desired effect. What? Does he
think I'm going to eat him? "I'll activate this before I leave.
They'll follow it to you. Tell them not to come after me. My battle is
not with them, or you. I do not wish to kill them all, but if they
follow me I will. Do you understand?" He nods slowly, he learns
quickly this one.

Jogging to the truck I grab the assault rifle - it's not damaged - good.
Several bandoliers of clips, and a few grenades. Wet weather gear.
Running out of time. Got to leave now. Food. Water. Anything else?
No. I jump from the tailgate, and hit the ground hard. My leg.
Reaching in I liberate the med kit from the wheel arch. OK. Time to go.
I break the seal on the transmitter and throw it to the boy. The blue
light on top of the unit flashes happily. He looks, almost relieved.
Good grief, he thought I was lying. I wonder why? Why should I lie to
him?

Think later. Leave. Now.

+++++End trans
+++++End access
+++++Log off: K12

]<<<<<
-- K12 <03:42:13/05-07-59>

From:	Avenger <Avenger@*******.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Huh?
Date:	Sun, 17 May 1998 15:44:03 +0100

Message no. 33 *****PRIVATE: Stonewall
>>>>>[

+++++Archive Access: K/12-A756D/02859A
+++++Login: K12

Rain. Continual blasted rain. It turns the ground into a swamp, the
undergrowth into a treacherous mire and even the plants become an enemy.
I do not know if those who follow are faring any better, I dare not stop
moving to investigate. It was a close enough call yesterday as it was.
I believe they are using technology against me now. Rather than relying
on training they are employing some of the toys that I am equipped with.
It makes it a more level playing field but they outnumber me, and even
with the toys I have built into my body the odds are not altered much in
my favour. The rain although hateful, at least helps. If it affects
the capability of my toys, it would be safe to assume it also affects
theirs.

They are more careful this time as well. For the first time since this
started I have no idea of the numbers pursuing me. I figure at least
four, five man teams, though it maybe more. The only advantage I
believe I have at the moment is that they will need to rest before me.
I've kept this pace up for two days, system analysis indicates that I
continue for another two. The pursuers will need to rest before then,
or suffer the consequences. With luck I may be able to find transport
ahead, the maps indicate a village of some sort, with an old ranger
outpost. With luck there will be minimal manpower allocated and I can
steal one of the overlanders there. With a little luck the location
will demand that they have an ATV to hand, in this terrain that would be
a godsend. I am heartily sick of trudging through this damn quagmire.
The snakes and bugs have taken to the trees, it becomes more and more
dangerous to move through the jungle, already I have lost count of the
number of these poisonous vipers I've killed. The unfortunate thing is
that in so doing I leave a trail they can follow. What other choice is
there though. Hope the anti toxin can deal with venom or kill the
fucker before I find out. Myself I prefer to kill it first, others may
disagree. Even hurling the carcasses into other areas won't delay them
for long.

They are smart these pursuers. I have not seen in the last three days a
campfire or much other sign that would give me a clue as to their
number. The only information I have is from the young infantryman. I
still wonder on the logic of leaving him alive. If I had killed him I
might have gained extra time in escaping, as they would have had to
search for my trail, rather than follow his accusing finger. Was I
wrong to let him live? I don't know, but I like to believe that I made
the correct decision; the humane decision. I have been analysing this
need to believe I am human, and not some construct like Mendez. The
blood from a cut, the flesh wound from the ambush, bio readout from the
monitor, all mean I live, but there is nothing to show I am still human.
I could be anything, that is possibly the most frightening thing about
modern technology. They can do anything to anyone, and convince you
that you are something else. Some would describe that as an obscenity,
others would count it a blessing. To me, it is a curse. I can think of
nothing, nothing at all that could justify what has been done to me, and
I pity any who like Mendez are even less human than I appear to be. Oh,
there are advantages, I would be hypocritical to say otherwise. I have
made use of those advantages, and I firmly believe that without them I
would be dead now. Though it is a fair argument to say that without
them I would not be here, therefore I would not need them to survive,
but that conversation is cyclical and pointless. I am here, in the
middle of nowhere, running from an unknown enemy to an unknown fate in
an unknown location. Goddamn that is so reassuring.

It appears that I am able to interrogate the devices that are implanted,
extracting more than just status information. I was able to access the
version and manufacturer, suggested maintenance date as well as the date
of activation of the implants in my lungs and chest. Curiously they are
earlier than I expected. I only remember waking in the laboratory with
one mean motherfucker of a headache, yet the implants are nearly a year
older than that, and American. Implantation occurred in St Louis.
Curious. Now, if I can obtain that information it would seem, to me at
least, that these units would also carry other information, things that
might be useful, such as the name of the surgeon who implanted the
units. That would to me seem sensible if the units were to be
maintained, any hospital carrying out the maintenance would need to be
able to access the previous records. Now the way I figure it is that if
such information is available, it would provide me with a name as well
as a location, which should facilitate a relatively simple search and a
hell of a lot of information. of course, the trick is knowing what
question to ask and how. That's the part I haven't figured out yet, and
I am assuming that I would be able to access that information anyway,
and that it is in fact included in the system.

God I hate this. Continual self analysis and interrogation. Going
round and round in endless circles like a goldfish in a bowl. Always
finding a new path in the same space. Heh, perhaps though in this
particular cirumstance the goldfish actually has an advantage. at least
it can't remember having been there before. The IR keeps playing
tricks on me. It picks up a variety of objects and movements, that
rapidly change from man-shaped to something strange and then into some
sort of vegetation, but I dare not disable it completely, it has been
more than useful in the past and cycling through the various functions
does not bring a headache anymore provided I allow time to adjust. I am
also, slowly getting the hang of this talkative unit in my head. I must
confess to a certain amount of amusement when I discovered what I can
only describe as an on-line help file. I was angry that I couldn't
change the channel of the radio station without storing it as a pre-set
and I suppose I must have shouted at the implant, because it promptly
told me how to do it. Rather nice actually, I now have four pre-set
radio stations to listen to, and have even found a decent rock station.
Finding out how I managed to access the command listing was fascinating,
now i have some several thousand pages to browse through in order to
understand how the bloody thing works. Great, perfect for those lonely
nights in the jungle while sheltering from the downpour. Bloody storms
still affect it though. I suppose it could just be atmospherics that
cut the radio stations causing them to lose to static or fade in and
out, but that would seem to indicate that the same thing can happen to
transmissions. Of course, I am making the wild assumption that this
pseudo diary is in fact being transmitted anywhere. I wonder if this
would be described as arrogance, or futility or something. Thinking to
myself and transcribing it to what I presume is a permanent record,
although similar to keeping a diary is I suppose a form of arrogance. I
mean, who the hell would be interested anyway? Aside from the creatures
who constructed me of course. I dare say that if they have access to
this log, they'll be poring over it with their microscopes, analysing
every word and every inflection. I can think of a million reasons why
they'd want to, but I can't think of one reason that this would mean
anything to them except the random ramblings of some... What the hell
am I? Oh heck with it. Rogue project. Yeah, that sounds kinda nice.
I'm no a machine or a number, I'm a rogue project.

Damn, must remember not to laugh aloud. I forget myself and that is
stupid. No good, I might as well carry on, I can't hear a damn thing in
this infernal noise. Who would have thought rain could be so loud, or
so continuous? The thunder has stopped, as has the lightning, so I
shall assume that the storm is burning itself out. It is impossible to
predict when these rains will end, and I have not yet found a way to
access local weather stations. In many ways, it would be useful for
this weather to continue. Although my passage through the region leaves
a path, the mire that is formed must hamper the progress of my pursuers
considerably. They have not attacked, they have not, I believe, gained
ground, so to that end at least this is useful. I wonder though on
their condition. I vaguely recall that this type of environment was
invariably detrimental to general hygeine and health. I am fortunate in
that I do not appear to need to worry overly about such things, but the
infantry following me will most certainly have to consider the
consequences of exposure to the conditions. It would be tactically
sensible for them to find somewhere to shelter, and attempt to pick up
my trail again with scouts and aerial surveillance. I suspect however,
that they are continuing in their pursuit, at least that is what I must
assume. It may yet be that I will tire of this cat and mouse game, and
turn to attack them, but for now I will continue with this path, I will
at least make a token effort to evade them. The temptation of equipment
and food though is difficult to resist. No, I must continue with my
chosen direction, perhaps I will reconsider at a later date when it is
apparent that they will not give up this pursuit as easily as they have
before.

It is interesting though that they have chosen to engage me once again.
From the first incident, was it really so long ago now? They have left
me alone, perhaps content that I was following their programming and
heading to a pre-arranged area. Now they have chosen to pursue again.
Does that mean that they have discovered something? An error in their
conditioning perhaps? Maybe they have realised that I have greater
control over my decisions than before and have decided that I cannot be
allowed to continue , perhaps as a rogue I present too much of a threat
to them. Or maybe it is simply that they do not like one of their toys
running around the countryside. Who knows. Well, one person knows.
This General Sebastiano Galterno. He knows, he knows everything I need
to know, and he's hiding somewhere in Caracas. Perhaps I should pay the
man a visit. I'm sure he'd be more than pleased to meet his creation.
The man-machine that has made a joke of his precious military patrols.
Ah, but the journey to Caracas would be predictable. The young soldier
no doubt has spoken to his superiors now, and is undergoing a fairly
intense debrief. They will know that he told me about the General...
Now that brings a new thought. The young soldier spoke to me, he
betrayed one of his superiors. I believe that by letting him live, I may
have signed his execution. From what I've seen of this country's forces
so far, they are surprisingly rigid, almost fascist in their procedures.
If that is the case, then it may well be that discipline is strictly
enforced. To betray a superior in such a manner...

Why should I worry about it. The boy knew what he was doing when he
spoke to me. He was aware of the consequences of betraying an officer,
mayhaps he will neglect to mention that part of our conversation.
Though I suspect that intelligence will be most interested in learning
why I didn't kill him, why his wound was dressed. Killing. Hmm. Now
that's a point. Up until that town, they had left me alone. I've
killed policemen, what I assume are underworld or gang figures, in fact
anyone with a gun that has either posed a threat to me or to my somewhat
skewed sense of justice. But the town I bypassed, and then they chose
to hunt me again. I didn't attack, I didn't kill the smugglers in that
area, I left the townspeople in a position of servitude to smugglers,
and allowed the status quo to continue. Then the military laid an
ambush in my path. They knew where I was and the direction of travel.
They also knew that I'd been to the town, that I was aware of the
situation there. That means, they have a way to monitor me. Is it
these transmissions? I am unsure. Or something else. Something that
they've implanted for just such an eventuality, a way of tracing me.
What if the escape wasn't an accident, but a deliberately staged
situation. No, that can't be right. They would not have sacrificed so
many people to allow the four of us to escape. Unless, they intended to
cover it up, and the best way to achieve that was to allow the deaths of
those who knew who and what we were. Mendez was an accident, he was not
supposed to have turned on them, so they destroyed him. I didn't, so
they have allowed me to continue. Now, because I avoided a conflict
rather than seek one out, they are hunting again, driving me forward.
Forward to what? They have to be driving me, I am being guided to
something. It would be a simple matter to vapourise a part of this
jungle while I occupy it. A FAE would kill a considerable part of the
jungle, but would almost ensure my destruction, even a concentrated
attack with napalm or similar materials would almost certainly guarantee
injury or my death. They have materials and equipment available to them
that would prevent my continuing, yet they send teams of soldiers,
patrols, helicopters to search. Illogical. Are there other methods of
finding me? I don't know of any, satellites would be incapable of
penetrating the canopy, so that's out of the question, as would aerial
surveillance. I would be surprised if the choppers were effective in
any way, except to make sure I keep moving in a particular direction.
That means...

OK, that's enough. I need to know if there is anything in this damn
body that's telling them where I am. Some sort of transmitter, or
homing beacon. Something that is sending a signal that allows them to
trace me. I believe that this transmission is encrypted, it is also, as
far as I can tell, not heading towards any of their receivers, but is
relayed through to another, far distant. It is time I stopped, and had
a damn good look through what is inside me. Time to play them at their
game. That means either finding somewhere that I can hide and allow the
patrols behind me to pass - but if they know where I am, then the
patrols will be aware that they have passed. I will need to kill them
then. Very well, so be it. If that is what it takes for sufficient
time to search the systems for their trace, then that is what I shall
have to do. Unfortunately, it's such a lousy day to die.

+++++End trans
+++++End access
+++++Log off: K12

]<<<<<
-- K12 <15:42:13/05-17-59>

Mailing List Logs for

Further Reading

Disclaimer