The building of the Air Defence Command is huge, and with its twenty-five floors and almost half a kilometre in length, it makes you feel small and humble. But let’s not hang around for longer than absolutely necessary: loitering in places like this may negatively influence one’s health and even life expectancy. So, as soon as I find the main entrance, I enter.
I am immediately the centre of attention of three armed guardsmen.
“How can I help you?” asks the highest-ranking one, and it sounds polite – for now. The guardsman has no name tag, but his shoulders tell me he is a sergeant. I bet there is his commanding officer somewhere close, possibly behind a bulletproof one-way glass masked as a normal wall and almost for sure with a finger itching to pull the trigger of his big gun.
I explain the reasons for my presence, my name and rank and that I have received orders to report to Colonel R.
“May I see those orders?”
“Sure, sergeant.” I hand him the papers and I send a quick thank-you prayer to the god of Armed Forces bureaucracy for my superiors sending me my orders by post. It just looks so much better, so much more trustworthy on a letterhead.
The sergeant reads through my papers and then he reads through them once again.
“May I see your ID, please.” He extends his arm and I hand him my documents. If you do not want me here, guys, I can as well just bugger off, gladly, I think, but I don’t say anything. The sergeant inspects my documents, looking up my records in his computer. He considers what he sees and assesses if everything aligns, the documents, the screens in front of him, my orders, my face and everything else.
I am trying not to look like an idiot while he scans my face with his x-ray eyes.
“Could you please show me your ID tags,” the sergeant surprises me. I very briefly remind myself where exactly I am now, and without a comment, I remove my dog tags and hand them over. The sergeant inspects them (using not just his eyes but also two different devices) and apparently finds them in order, because he hands them back together with everything else and he shows me in.
A standard security check follows, and of course, in this one building, standard means very thorough. I am relieved nobody insists on cavity search.
“You may proceed. The corporal here will walk you to Colonel R.’s office.” The corp in question steps forward and nods in an informal greeting.
“Thank you, sergeant.” I am not going to suggest that I do not need a guide. I do need a guide. This is the Air Defence Command. Things work differently here.
I get lost after maybe our fourth turn. During our quest for Colonel R.’s office, we use four different staircases, one lift and countless anonymous corridors, and I speculate about them doing this on purpose – surely there must be an easier way through this place? Only later will I discover that nope, there is no easier way, and yes, they did this on purpose. The labyrinth-like design of this building is deliberate, and the floor plans were destroyed the moment the building was finished. Health and Safety rules, fire exits and all that bothered exactly no one.
My guide knocks on a door and is quickly invited in. He announces that yours truly is here, a voice asks for me to be sent in, and suddenly I am facing a man with a colonel’s insignia. He looks nothing like I imagined him.
In accordance with the tradition, I announce the obvious. “Private First Class A.B., reporting as ordered, Sir.”
“Come in, PFC. You may go, corp.”
The corporal does not say a word, he just swiftly clears the space and closes the door behind him.
“Please have a seat.” Colonel R. points me towards a chair and I panic a little, mostly about the uncertainty of the situation. I expected him to go straight to the point but he doesn’t, and I am desperately trying to guess what it is he wants.
“You must be asking yourself why you are here.”
I say I do.
“I will explain everything, but I am afraid I must warn you first. Or should I rather say intimidate you… I am about to reveal certain top secret information to you, and when I say top secret, I mean it. Once you are in the inner circle, you will have no choice but work for us. If you decide to be uncooperative, I will have you put in jail until the end of this war – at least.”
I am not questioning the legality of this. It is not legal, but the man in front of me is a colonel of the Air Defence and for these people, this is not how it works is a phrase they do not recognize. They have a range of accusations at their disposition. Treason is a good one. Or espionage. Or maybe leaking top secret information in the time of war – that one is particularly suitable as the cases are heard with the public excluded and the accused tends to spend a lot of time in solitary confinement.
“I do apologize for this. Unfortunately, I really cannot do otherwise. I have a job for you, but you cannot do the job properly without certain knowledge, and once you have that knowledge, we cannot just let you leave and walk around as if nothing happened. You will see why in a minute.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you for your concern.” What else can I say. Soldiers usually do not have a say when it comes to their tasks and assignments, and this applies especially to the low-ranking ones like me. That being said, the officers usually also understand that putting people in places and positions where they absolutely do not want to be usually leads to a truckload of unnecessary trouble, and they often allow at least a little bit of slack. Here, it seems that no flexibility will be available at all, period. OK, good to know.
“I am aware that this is not the best possible opening of a conversation, but rest assured that it could’ve been much worse. My superior insisted on sending an assault team to extract you from your current posting. Of course, there would have been a cover story, a reasonably-sounding crime to accuse you of, and no questions would have been asked. I must say I did not want that to happen.”
A scene from an alternative universe: twenty big guys in bulletproof vests and balaclavas and then myself, handcuffed and blindfolded and being led to prison. Had that happened, there would have been no protests from anyone, because… because. On the other hand, there would quite possibly be someone completely broken at the end of this, because it would be one arrest too much.
No, this indeed is not a good start.
“I do appreciate your gentle approach, Sir.” I think that under the circumstances, I can afford to be slightly ironic.
Colonel R. apparently does not mind. “I thought you would.” His voice smiles but his face does not. How strange. “I don’t think one gets very far with bullying and abusing people, but apparently this is a matter of opinion – opinion and personal taste. But let’s talk business. Do I assume correctly that you’ve watched, read or listened to everything about The Viper you could lay your fingers on?” He looks like he’s going to be exceptionally disappointed if I answer no.
“You do, Sir.” But of course. My orders were vague, but I can read between the lines. I figured out it may have something to do with The Viper or his team, and I gathered as much as information possible before showing my face in this place.
“And you know this picture.” Colonel R. pulls out a big photo of The Viper. The guy in the photo looks between 30 and 40, healthy, fit, with a fierce look in his eyes. His face and posture show total dedication to his job, his orders and his planet. He is closely shaven, his hair as per regulations, and his flawless uniform shows his rank to be a colonel.
He is obviously the manliest hero of all manly heroes out there.
I confirm I do know the picture. Everyone does; everyone knows The Viper, the man who takes down anything and everything that flies and whom nobody can outsmart. It is very obvious that the picture is propaganda at its finest, but that does not mean I am ready for what comes next.
“And you do not know this picture.” Colonel R. shows me another photo. This one is just an ordinary picture from a personal file. The young woman in the picture is twenty, maximum. She wears essentially the same uniform as The Viper, but her face is anything but fierce and dedicated and she lacks the typical military posture of confidence. She looks a bit like she just failed to win a local carnival costume competition.
“No, Sir, I don’t.” I spare us both stupid comments about whose daughter this girl might be.
“I am not surprised.” And then, then it comes. “The reality is that this man,” he points towards The Viper, “does not exist, at all. We put his face together using some psychology tricks – how people would react, how they think a hero should look like, women love him, men identify with him and feel like he is their best buddy, you get the gist. The man doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t mean The Viper doesn’t exist: in fact, this is The Viper.” And he points to the picture of the young woman. I note that there was no dramatic pause at all. “This is probably the only photo of her looking at least remotely like a military officer. All other pictures are pre-war, at least three years old; you can imagine how strange, out-of-this-world they look today.”
I am not letting my surprise out, or so I hope. I am considering whether this is a joke, and I decide that most likely it is not. Air Defence Command does not joke.
“You do not look surprised,” Colonel R. notes.
I decide immediately to interpret this as a compliment and I smile at him. It would be cool to be able to say casually that I am too cynical to be surprised after all I have seen, but I am not quite there yet. “I am just very good at self-control, Sir. I would like to know how this is possible, but I am not sure I can ask.”
“Patience, PFC. I am getting there. It’s complicated, but I am likely to explain it to you today. However, I would like to talk about you first.” Colonel R. opens the mother of all thick paper files and Looking at my mugshot and some personal info, I realize that this file contains all my trouble, all the crap I’ve been through. Why he bothered to print it all out and put it in a file like this is a mystery to me. Only much later will I realize that he is one of those rare people who actually cannot read from a screen. He is not trying to intimidate me (at least not any further), he just needed the material printed to study it. Simple as that.
“I can see that you’ve been in the military for more than ten years,” Colonel R. kicks off.
I confirm. “I actually signed the papers exactly twelve years ago, to date.” I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I remember the weather, what I wore and what I had for breakfast. I remember coming to the recruitment office, at 10 am, with a thick envelope containing all the test results. I remember the name of the warrant officer who helped me with the paperwork and many more details. I think it means something.
“I can also see that it was not always just fun and games for you. Do you care to explain any of your numerous… clashes with the authority?”
No way. No way. Everything I could possibly say, I said already, and more than once. I was open with the investigators, with my commanding officers, with the officers who took the decisions, with the disciplinary committee, or – in two infamous cases – with the court martial judges. And guess how much it helped me. “Is it going to change anything, Sir?” I am afraid that my bitterness and resignation is apparent in my voice.
“Good question. It won’t change your records and it won’t give you back your rank or your money.” When my rank is mentioned, I daydream for about three seconds. Sergeant A.B.… It’s been a while. “It is also rather unlikely to change my opinion on you. But maybe I should mention that apart from one single case, I fully believe your account of the events.”
This surprises me. This surprises me much more than learning the truth about The Viper three minutes ago. “I don’t know what to say, Sir.” And I really don’t. What is there to say, after all? As Colonel R. noted thirty seconds ago, it is not going to give me back my rank, or my salary. It is also not going to compensate me for the days, weeks, months and years. But at the same time, it is nice to know than someone got it. And that maybe, just maybe someone saw through everything.
“This is one of the reasons why you are here today.”
I do not ask. I do not ask why I am here and how that follows from my personal history, and I do not ask about the one case in which Colonel R. does not believe my version of events. I am going to learn the former before this conversation is over. The latter, I will find out in about two months. Colonel R. and I will meet at a tea point and he will tell me. He will also tell me that following today’s discussion, he could not comprehend why I hadn’t asked.
“I was just wondering how this is possible,” Colonel R. continues after a short while, when it becomes apparent that I am not going to comment. “How did it happen that there’s been so much injustice, so many false accusations and their unavoidable consequences, all targeted against just one person? And how come that this person, who keeps attracting so much trouble, is still in the service? You have neither resigned nor been kicked out. To me, one or the other would look pretty inevitable.”
“I cannot answer this, Sir.” I admit nothing. Or maybe not, maybe it’s just that I really cannot answer. Who knows? I know why I didn’t leave. I have no bloody idea why I was not kicked out – pardon, dismissed. I was stripped of my rank three times. I was in prison twice, first time for eight months, then for six months. I cannot count how many times I lost my bonuses and how many times I was reprimanded; and I don’t even want to think about how much time I had spent on fatigue duty when they still used to do that.
“Yes you can. And I can as well, because I bothered to study all this stuff and understand what’s going on there.” Colonel R. inspects a pile of paper files in front of him and almost immediately pulls out a medium-thick one. He hands the file to me. “This is your profile. I made it all by myself.” I cannot resist having a look. The first page contains a summary of a kind: PFC A.B. in a nutshell if you will. I start reading. And very soon, I get it all. Both why I did not leave and why they didn’t make me leave. Why someone always decided that my performance outweighed the trouble. Why they often handed down the most severe punishment, hoping that I would finally learn. And why, in spite of everything, I have always been regarded as a highly loyal troublemaker and a bit like a not-really-smart cousin who keeps doing stupid things but who also knows how to repair anything in the world and is always willing to help and is just part of the family.
“You understand?” Colonel R. asks casually after a while.
“Yes, Sir. I do.” I also understand at least part of the reasons why I am here. But of course I am: I follow the orders, I discharge my duties, I go wherever I am told to go and do whatever I am told to do. Many times, I was treated less than fairly and yet here I am, still doing my best, not sulking, not looking for petty revenge, nothing like that; I follow my continued professional development programme, I volunteer for unpopular tasks and overtime work reasonably often, and I do all this even when it is crystal clear that I won’t be promoted again, ever. I suspect that whatever I will be doing in The Viper’s team, it will require precisely these personality traits – and I don’t like the job already.
I postpone all emotions (and emotional breakdowns) till later and I notice that Colonel R. is watching me intently. I finished reading a while ago, and since then, I am just sitting here and processing all the newly acquired information. And I really, really don’t get this one thing: why did he bother to write all this down?
“Interesting, innit,” he says quietly.
“Yes, Sir.” Oh yes. I briefly consider asking him to let me read the whole thing properly, but then I decide against it. “Very impressive.” I think he’s got much closer to the real me than I’d like him to get, and that’s one of the reasons why I will never read it. Never, ever.
“Thank you.” Colonel R. shows me a smile, the smile of someone who has just been complimented. “Now, let’s discuss your qualifications. In parallel, I will explain why I picked you and what your tasks will be.” I am all ears, but I make no further comments. “First of all, your marksmanship skills. You were the best, quickest and most precise during your training.”
“That’s been a long time ago, Sir.” Almost twelve years.
“Don’t be so modest, PFC. I am aware of all your official – and less official – trainings, and how well you’ve done in these.”
I am not going to comment on the ‘less official trainings’ jibe. It was not forbidden. True, I don’t know if it was really allowed, because I actually never asked – but that was entirely in accordance with the common practice. The best you can do is not ask, because then nobody forbids it, everybody pretends they don’t know about it, and all is wonderful.
“I must admit that I find your skills with all sorts of firearms very impressive.”
This is no doubt a compliment, but it only makes me more uneasy. Being a troublemaker is one thing – being a troublemaker who knows how to handle guns is something else entirely. “Thank you, Sir,” is the only thing I say.
“I am also aware that your CO has recently sent you to a self-defence and close combat course.”
That is true. Lieutenant D., my current CO, wants me to progress in my career, because, unlike many others, he still believes in me.
“And you did quite well there.”
“I was eighth out of twenty, Sir.” If this qualifies as ‘did well’, fine, I think. It will take me some time to discover that actually my class in the self-defence and close combat course was regarded as exceptional and therefore I was slightly above average in a group which was very much above average. When I learn this, obviously I will feel good about myself – and I will understand certain things much better.
“As I say, you did well. But – I am afraid that if you decide to help us, you will have to do a lot more training in this respect.”
“I am not against that, Sir.” I like self-defence and close combat, it’s good for your overall fitness. Besides, it’s never harmful to get some more experience.
“Glad to hear that. Fine. Next thing, you are a paramedic and a qualified nurse. You worked in a number of field hospitals, and you have a wide and diverse experience. You actually have an impressive range of not-so-common skills, be it bits of physio, nutrition, working with visually impaired and handicapped, and more.”
“It sounds good when you put it like this, Sir.” It does sound good. The reality is less glossy – I was just doing what was needed, in a field hospital in the time of war. Sometimes, no one else wanted to do it, and sometimes, there was no one else to do it. Sometimes, it was stuff no one knew how to do properly, but we didn’t have anyone qualified. Sometimes, the qualified people needed a hand, and I made myself available. I suddenly realize that this may be another personality trait this officer likes. Later, when I read my profile – the one that I resolved never to read a few moments ago – I will be able to confirm this hypothesis.
“Oh, you know how it works. There are several possible interpretations to everything, and I just picked one that’s positive.” He grins, and I grin back. Yes, yes, we all know this trick, don’t we.
“Next, I was impressed with your level of skill in… let us call is ‘field psychology’. You did a lot of training in this – with most courses short but quite intense, and what’s even more important, you proved yourself out there. In my opinion, they should’ve let you do more of this job.”
“That is apparently a matter of opinion, Sir.” The first officer who cared to recognise these abilities of mine was Lieutenant D. He even wanted to send me to an advanced course in crisis intervention – because he’s seen me doing it and was very impressed.
“Well, it is my opinion that people need to be slightly overworked, otherwise they become lazy and they lose their edge. So – get ready to use everything you’ve learned so far, and more.”
What kind of bullshit job is this going to be, I ask myself. And that question gets me thinking.
One. Here I am, in the Air Defence Command HQ. This is probably the safest place on this planet, with security force so excessive that the security personnel probably outnumber the ‘normal’ employees. The last thing they need is another person who knows how to aim a gun and how to win in a brawl. They have enough of their own people to do these things, and if they ever find that they need more, all they have to do is publish a small advertisement and they will have all the volunteers they ever needed.
Two. I am supposed to join the team that takes care of The Viper – the most protected person in the most protected building on this planet.
Three. I need my paramedic and my psychology qualification for the job.
Four. The Viper is a girl who is about twenty, not a seasoned veteran. Her uniform is a colonel’s uniform, so she is probably a genius, because nobody gets a rank this high this quickly, not even in the time of war.
Five. The Viper needs a nurse, and not just an ordinary nurse, but a nurse who knows how to deal with disabilities, gory injuries and people in all sorts of distress, from trauma and shell-shock to mad killer rage.
And then it comes, then I realize.
“There’s a catch, Sir, isn’t there,” I say slowly. “There’s something seriously wrong about The Viper.”
“Yes, PFC, there’s a catch – a serious problem. More than one in fact. I will explain.” A few weeks from now, I am going to find out that because of what I just said, because I figured it out, Colonel R. won a six-pack of beer in a bet with General M., Colonel R.’s superior.
Colonel R. opens one of the paper files in front of him and hands me another picture. It shows the same young woman as before, but this time, she is not in a uniform. She wears a hospital gown and sits on top of an examination table, in a room that looks like a doctor’s surgery. She wears leg braces which span from the middle of her thighs down to her feet – the braces are the most advanced devices available on the market, the latest generation, so she looks a bit like cyborg. Her knees look funny and somewhat deformed, and her legs seem too weak to be able to support her. The picture is marked TOP SECRET in big letters, and I suddenly realize two things. First, this is from her medical records, and it’s bloody real. Second, once I have seen this, I will only leave this building when I am dead, and this is not an exaggeration.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, but it’s not because of my potential fate, it’s because of the girl in the picture. “Was that a disintegrator, Sir?”
Only much later will I learn that what I’ve just seen is the only picture in existence which clearly shows The Viper and her condition. There are no other pics, nowhere, in no file, no database, no computer system. Nothing. There’s one copy of an old-fashioned off-line picture, and that’s it.
Well, they have a damn good reason to keep it this way.
“It was. It happened quite early on, right as the war broke out and she started her military training. In her third day to be precise. She received help in less than two minutes, but you know how this shit works.”
Yes, I do know. In our field hospital, we only had a few casualties affected by this weapon, but they were the ones most in need of my psychological skills. Why? Because disintegrator is the most clean and efficient way of turning a perfectly healthy person into a wreck, and the person sees it happening and cannot do much to prevent it, that’s why. Due to its psychological effect, it is probably the most terrifying weapon in this war.
“I need to tell you a bit more about The Viper now.” Colonel R. retrieves the picture from my hands and hides it away. “The Viper – obviously she was not called like that back then – was part of the first group that got drafted when the war broke out. Why that happened, I don’t know. It was most likely just a coincidence; she was the right age, and that was probably enough. She was sent to one of the infantry training camps straight away–”
“Infantry, Sir?” I interrupt. Interesting. The Viper made his – no, her – name in Air Defence, not infantry.
Colonel R. laughs. “Oh come on, PFC. You have been in the military for long enough to know how this all works. Before anyone could even think about her talents, let alone realize she might actually have some unusual talents, she was dressed in camo and doing push-ups somewhere in the woods.”
I suppress a laugh. Of course I know what he talks about; I know it very well. I decide that from now on, I count Colonel R. among the good guys. He is not afraid to call a spade a spade, and I like that.
“Three days in, the military base The Viper was assigned to was subjected to an enemy attack. It was four in the afternoon, everyone was outdoors doing something undoubtedly very essential, and suddenly they got a huge swarm of paratroopers. All of them had disintegrators and all of them kept using them until they were killed, to the last one.”
In other words, a slaughter. But not in the common sense of the word: the victims were not dead by the end of it. “You know what they are after, sarge,” The Viper will tell me one day. We will know each other for a while by then, I will have a higher rank, but most importantly, I will have her trust. “They want to mutilate as many people as they can. They see that we, unlike them, care about our wounded, and so they aim for knees, because if they hit you in the knees, it kills your legs, but you survive. And then you are a burden until you die.” Then she will start hitting her legs, using her fists and all the force she can pull, and I will try to stop her. She will be strong and she will fight me, but I will be stronger; unlike her, I am healthy and fit and I know martial arts, so I will make her stop. Then, I will hold her in my embrace, and she will leave it after a while and she will cry through the night. As always.
“Following the incident, The Viper was taken to a hospital, and I can tell you that emotionally, she was done at that point. Then, one of my superiors figured out what sort of superpower she has, and he sent an assault team to basically kidnap her.”
Yes, why bother doing things in an official way when you can abuse your power of an omnipotent Air Defence Command high-ranking officer. I also remember Colonel R.’s words about the assault team that was supposed to be sent to extract me; I can see a pattern there, and I don’t like it.
On the other hand, for an official order to be effective, the officer in question would have to wait for The Viper to be found fit for service. Which, given her disintegrated legs, would have meant a rather long wait.
“The Viper did not like that,” Colonel R. continues. Even at this moment I see this as a huge understatement, but later I will find out just how huge an understatement this is exactly. “You see, sarge, they sent a bunch of idiots in balaclavas, with assault rifles and all. I was in a bloody hospital at that time, I could not get my head around what happened to me, I thought I would never walk again and I could not cope with that prospect. Hell, at that point, I couldn’t even sit straight! And they stormed my room, grabbed me like a thing and took me who knows where, without a single word of explanation or compassion or anything, just like that. I could not and did not defend myself and yet they nearly broke my arms. I was so scared! I didn’t want to die, whatever happened, I didn’t want to die. They scared the shit out of me.”
“I am trying to imagine the consequences, Sir,” I say slowly, thinking aloud. “She was a traumatised teenager and they treated her like a hostage.” People usually say, in a very toned-down way, that it’s not nice to be held hostage. I say that it is one of the shittiest situations you can find yourself in, ever. I did a survival, evasion, resistance and escape training not long ago, and I hated every minute of it – all the while I knew that it was not for real.
“Exactly right, PFC. It left her even more traumatised – perhaps more than people realize. I will get to that soon.” When I get to know The Viper a bit, I will quickly realize that she was left not just traumatised, she was left with deep scars for life. Before the war, she had everything she wanted; Colonel R. is about to explain this to me, and she herself will tell me many, many times. Then, she had to go fight in a war. Three days later, she was finished, and she knew that without a substantial medical breakthrough, she would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair – and in this situation, instead of the help and support she needed and deserved, she was just further hurt.
“But first, I have to explain to you why my superior wanted to have The Viper here so much. You will understand many things much better – not just why we all adore her so much, but also why is it sometimes… complicated with her. How much do you know about e-sport?”
“As much as an average Joe, I guess, Sir.” So, not much. I have heard some names, and I have seen some streams. I was once invited by a prospective date to watch a competition, and it was one of the most boring things I’ve ever seen. That’s about it. I resist the temptation to liken e-sport to football, which does not interest me at all.
“Before the war, The Viper was one of the rising stars in e-sport. People used to say that such a gifted player comes perhaps once in a decade. And she was only eighteen, so everyone knew the best was still to come.”
“Did she have a name, Sir?” I don’t think Colonel R. is going to tell me, but I try anyway. I have two reasons for this. First, I could’ve heard about her. People often know the best footballers or the Wimbledon champions even if they are not interested in their sport. Second, I have always considered The Viper a super super stupid nickname. Now that I know a little bit about the real person behind the callsign, I think of it as even more stupid, and I would like to have another name to call her by. A bit later I will learn that The Viper also dislikes her callsign, but she can’t do anything about it. We cannot call you any other name or nickname, everyone keeps telling her. We must not give anyone any hint of your identity.
“Of course she had a name, but you are unlikely to ever learn this name. Unless she tells you one day, but that would be a very obvious and very serious breach of security rules, and if she does it, I will personally chew her ass so badly that she will never fully recover.”
“I see, Sir,” I give up immediately. Of course she will tell me herself. Not in the first days obviously, but it will come. She will also tell me how much she hates her real name, because a) to her, it sounds like falling rocks, and b) for anyone who is not from her country, it is absolutely incomprehensible, and impossible to tell if the bearer is male or female. “I want to have a normal girly name. Daisy. Or Lily. Parvati. Layla. Marie. Elizabeth. Amanda. Zaynab. Whatever. In my online life, I had this nick, Marylou. I liked that. It’s just an ordinary name, nothing too fancy.” This will ring a distant bell. “Marylou? That Marylou who made the videos? The tutorials for the games, I mean.” “Yes, exactly that Marylou.” She will be happy, and flattered, that her nick will be familiar to me, because by that time it will be clear to her that I couldn’t care less about gaming. “However no one can use my chosen nick here, because that could lead to my identity being revealed. Pure stupidity, I tell you, but you cannot make them stop this.” The Viper will often be very open about how frustrating she finds some of the regulations. Sometimes, I will try to explain to her the purpose of the regulations; sometimes, I will agree with her that they are stupid; sometimes, both. And by the way, of course Colonel R. won’t do anything to her – he will never find out about this little conversation, ever.
“She used to play various games. A lot of first-person shooters, like everybody else, but her hidden talent was Divide and Conquer. Do you know that one?”
“I have heard some stuff, Sir. D&C is the most favourite game in our field hospital, and you cannot get away with not knowing at least the basics.” I am trying to make my brain remember who used to be the most well-known player before the war, but – blank, not a single name, not a single face comes to my mind, and it is somehow clear to me that searching for this information later is an absolute no-go if I ever want to leave this place unharmed.
“I know what you mean!” Colonel R. laughs; seems that it is a favourite pastime here as well. “The Viper is incredibly good in this game. You wouldn’t even believe how good she is. She can play whatever, any position, any character, for or against anyone and anything, and her results are consistently awesome. She was accepted to play for a big team when she was maybe fifteen. She made money and became famous; a fifteen-year-old superstar with all the sponsor deals and news interviews.” “Our team was named quibuscum viis,” she will explain to me one day. I will ask her questions about this sometimes, because it will help me to understand her, understand what happened to her and why is it such a loss for her. She will miss certain things which she considers her biggest achievements. I will soon understand that she literally mourns her pre-war life, the one in which she had everything, the one that’s not coming back. “It means ‘by whatever means possible’ and it sounds very smart because it is Latin, you understand. We were five: myself, BojrnMorten, erzsebet, SneakySnake and Bastard. It probably sounds like five stupid nicknames for five stupid gamers to you, but oh what a team we were. After all, we won the World Cup together. Twice, actually.” In that moment, I will suddenly remember. I will remember hearing about this. Five young people who emerged from a relative obscurity and sensationally went to win everything there was to win, and more. People were ecstatic about them.
“She was universally accepted as a highly gifted and truly universal player. Her reaction time is extraordinary, as is her creativity; she is calm and focused, but also aggressive exactly when needed. She can play under immense pressure, sixteen hours in a row if need be, and in the last hour she is as focused as in the first. When she was seventeen, she played the World Cup finals. She did not freak out, not even when her team was losing by what, ten thousand points or something. No, instead of collapsing under the pressure, she made maybe 6.5k points all by herself, she lifted the spirits of her team and led them to victory. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”
“I think so, Sir. She’s taking down enemy planes because she knows how.” Or, rather, she knows other things which require a presumably very similar skill set. Give her a weapon, and she will work it all out in less than five minutes and shoot and shoot until there’s anything to shoot at. This is how D&C works: the first step in the game is the game AI assigning everyone their role and their equipment, and it can be almost anything, including the most random things. Like, for instance, an intelligent space ship, a cyber-dog – or a cook who only has pots and pans at their disposal. Then it’s up to the team to be creative and flexible enough to deal with what they’ve got and turn a seeming disadvantage into victory.
Later, after a bit of time to digest today’s conversation with Colonel R., I will realize that there is one more aspect of the situation, and I will ask him the following question: how did General M. know that all this would work? How did he now that someone who is good at one specific computer game – even if it is a game such as D&C and if good actually means probably the best in the world – would be any good in air defence? Colonel R.’s answer will be very straightforward and a bit scary: General M. did not know. He just tried. He acquired a number of different people; some were gamers and some were good at other things. He made these people go through a series of tests to see if they would be any good. The Viper passed these tests with flying colours. Those who did not pass were sent somewhere they could not do any harm in case they decided to talk about their experiences. It was obviously not the front line, because that’s not how it’s done these days, but their assignments were not the most sought-after positions either.
“At the beginning, she did that almost all the time. She was taking down planes, twelve hours a day, sometimes more. She was given a team of people like her, and they were all sitting there, shooting, shooting and shooting. But then, things changed. They changed so much that now we are actually lying yet again. The Viper is not that guy from the poster, and he’s not taking down planes. Not anymore, anyway.”
“That’s not lying, Sir, that’s propaganda. There’s a difference.” I afford myself a lame joke because I know a lot about this.
“Very true, PFC. Very true. So, are you going to ask me what she is doing, once you know what she is not doing?”
“No, Sir. I figured you are going to tell me on your own very soon, so there’s no point asking.”
“I think you are going to be a good fit here,” Colonel R. says somewhat ominously and gives me a smile. “The Viper’s beginnings here were humble. She was given a crash course in how Air Force works, she received a rank of second lieutenant, she was given a computer, and she was let loose on the enemy fighters. She was good at that. Very good; almost too good. She was so good it started to be quite suspicious in fact. Then we discovered that she was also good with AIs. At the beginning, she was given the standard, not very clever AIs, and she worked miracles with them. Except that that was because she kept tampering with them, feeding them stuff that was not exactly standard and training them to do things the way she liked.”
For the briefest possible moment, I ask myself how lucky one has to be to keep their job after such interference.
“My superior was obviously extremely pleased,” Colonel R. says, undoubtedly in response to my face. “There were people who wanted to strip her of her rank and put her in jail for hacking the systems and making unauthorised changes, but my superior told those people a very clear and very strict ‘no’.” Good. General M. is not a 100% villain after all. Maybe he prefers an unnecessarily heavy-handed approach, but at the very least, he does not mind his people showing some initiative – and brains. “Well, they gave me no rules,” The Viper will explain once we get to discuss this. “And if there are no rules banning something and it brings me an advantage, of course I will do it. I will do anything I can to gain an advantage. That’s one thing I learned when we practiced for the D&C World Cup.”
“And so The Viper switched from gamer to… developer, Sir?” I guess the obvious.
“Indeed. Most of her time, she now develops and trains the AIs to take down planes instead of her. Which is superb, because she’s unbeatable, and when the AIs learn that from her – and they do learn it from her because that’s how they are designed – it’s perfect. You know the stories, don’t you. The Viper never sleeps, The Viper never lets anything go past him, the planet is safe when The Viper has the watch. This is pure propaganda of course, but there is something very real behind that. People can see the results. Not how she gets there, but the results are obvious, and we can build on that.” The Viper will agree that whatever she does, it is valuable for the big guns, for propaganda as much as saving life and property. “But look at me, look at the price. I often sit here three days in a row. I need to keep going: code, train AIs, lead my team of sidekicks, aides, students and idiots, deal with an occasional air raid in an old school way, code, train AIs, deal with another raid, and so on and so on, never ending story. They give me so many drugs in such copious amounts that it’s not even possible. Amphetamines, caffeine, stuff to keep me awake and focused, and then stuff to get me to sleep when I can finally have a break. Most important of all, stuff to keep me motivated. I am totally addicted to nicotine; they give me the pure thing in an inhaling device. I would never, ever pass anti-doping testing like this.” She will make a face and add, rather cynically, that it’s good luck she probably won’t need to pass anti-doping tests ever again. “I doubt I will live to see the end of the war, let alone another gaming competition.”
“Which finally brings us to your new job and what your tasks here will be.” Yes, about the time. I need to have an answer to the following question: how do I fit in this mess of propaganda, secrecy, commitment and exhaustion?
“As I mentioned already, The Viper has a serious medical issue. She was actually quite lucky – lucky in all the misery, you understand – that the paramedic helped her almost immediately. Therefore, she only lost feeling from about fifteen centimetres above her knees down to her toes. Mid-thigh and above she is fine.” Colonel R. just described it as ‘lucky in all the misery’. The Viper will always call it ‘a fucking stroke of fucking luck’. “It was nothing else than a fucking stroke of fucking luck, sarge,” she will explain to me once. “Normally it goes all the way up to your belly, so if you are less lucky, your gut is ruined and you slowly die of diarrhoea. I, however, avoided that.” “Did it hurt?” I will ask her at that moment. “Not when it hits you. It’s more like a strange dull feeling, nothing exciting. What hurts as fuck is the twenty huge injections the paramedic stabs you with. And then he gives you twenty more and tells you to keep going to stop the shit. So you keep stabbing yourself with them, your legs, your belly, everywhere, to stop it from progressing. That’s fucking freaking.” I won’t be sure what to say at that moment.
“I think you already figured that this medical issue has… consequences.”
I ask Colonel R. to elaborate. It is now clear to me that when I finally meet The Viper, I will also meet her full psychiatric diagnosis, but I am not so interested in the jargon right now. I just want to be ready, or as ready as possible.
“Let us be very frank for a while,” Colonel R. smirks. “First of all, she’s twenty-two and technically an adult – but she does not act quite like an adult. She’s more like a teenager who is spoiled and traumatized at the same time. She is under huge pressure. She spends much more time on duty than she really should. She feels underappreciated because everything around her is top secret; and while people who work with her adore her and would do anything to keep her happy, most of this building, let alone people outside, have no idea she even exists. She needs a break, a holiday, but there’s no way for her to have more than a few hours off. So she spends all her time here, growing more and more tired, annoyed, frustrated and depressed. The consequences of all this are, how to put this…”
“The consequences are that she’s difficult, aggressive, impossible to talk to, hostile towards everyone and everything, and basically just kicks around herself, Sir. Is that correct?”
“I think that’s quite an accurate summary,” Colonel R. nods. “The last time I have seen the sun was three years ago exactly,” she will tell me one day, and she will sound very, very bitter.
I think I now understand everything. “Let me guess, Sir. You need me to be somewhere between a bodyguard, an assistant, a nurse, a caregiver, a psychologist and a friend.”
“Yes and no, PFC. Not somewhere between. You have to be all this. You actually need to be much more than that. Ideally, you will be the nicest, most easy-going and most peaceful person in the world. You must never get angry, or take offence, or escalate the conflict with her. As you noted, she kicks around herself. Most of the time she can’t help it because the pressure really is enormous and she is exhausted and she’s not okay with what happened to her and she’s too young to be zen about all the fuck-ups. But this knowledge won’t help you once she starts criticizing everything you do, being offended by literally everything you say et cetera.”
Yes, exactly right. Staying calm under such barrage will be next to impossible, I am sure of that already.
“She will freak you out, bring you on the verge of collapse, and then start threatening you. She may tell you that she would accuse you of bullying her, and then she may start describing vividly how you would end up in prison for at least ten years for that. When this happens, you must not yell at her, you must by no means try to hurt her, and you must not have a breakdown.”
No, I won’t yell at her, and I won’t have a breakdown. But I won’t leave it, either. Of course she will do exactly what Colonel R. just described. Why? Because she can. And because it works, it does bring her wicked satisfaction. Except that I am not yet another assistant assigned to her. I have been through so much trouble and some of it was so serious that I just won’t buy it. Unlike her, I have been in jail, and not just for a few days. The consequences are obvious, the first time she tries this, I will be able to defend myself. Instead of aggression towards her or towards myself (so, instead of murder or suicide), I will be able to keep calm and absorb her attacks and turn them into something constructive. At first, she will just go on and on, escalating her threats; then, she will find out that it’s not working, and she will break down in tears. She will cry all night, and I will stay awake with her, talking to her and trying to make her feel better about herself and the world. I will reassure her, tell her that it’s OK to feel miserable and OK to be pissed off, but I will also tell her that it’s not OK to take it out on us and make the whole world suffer, because whatever happened, it’s not our fault. After that one night, she will try her bad behaviour against me a few more times, but she will finally just give this habit up. Colonel R. will quickly notice, and he will start seriously considering awarding me the highest decoration for valour.
“We have regular supervision sessions, debriefings, all the mental hygiene stuff. Support will be available; you don’t have to worry about this part.”
And I will need it more than I can imagine now. At the beginning, The Viper will hate my guts, because as her assistant, I will remind her of the life-changing nature of her injuries. Unfortunately, I won’t like being here either, and that’s not going to make things any easier. I will feel abandoned and hopeless; I will feel a huge loss over leaving my hospital and my job there and all the people who were nice to me and did not pay too much attention to my past. Lieutenant D. always had so much confidence in me, even when no one else did, and I will be very sad about leaving without ever saying the simplest ‘thank you’ to him. However, with the right support, I will manage. And the moment I put myself and my feelings in order, I will start putting The Viper in order, because I am just too old for this bullshit.
“I am grateful, Sir, that you told me all this. I really am.” It’s good to be warned. When it comes, I will remember this conversation, and I will draw some strength from the fact that I am not the first one to face these problems and it’s not my fault.
“Good. Now, on to more practical things. You are not going to like your working hours, which basically will be 24/7. Unfortunately, even in your short and precious times off-duty, you will be unable to leave this building.”
“I am not surprised, Sir.” I would be surprised if it were otherwise. I assume – and I will soon be able to verify this – that this building contains everything you need, and more. There is a huge library and a cinema, gyms, swimming pools and halls for athletics and ball games, relaxation zones, places to have coffee and cake, even an ice cream parlour. Compared to a field hospital, this place is like a paradise.
“The next point, security. As you will understand, we have strict rules. People who do not follow the rules face consequences, which are usually far from pleasant.”
“May I have a piece of paper so that I can take notes, Sir,” I ask.
“Not necessary, PFC. Don’t worry, you will receive all the necessary info in writing. Now, I am going to give you only the main points.” Colonel R. outlines the expected: super tight rules about never, ever doing anything that’s not been explicitly ordered and cleared by the security. It is actually rather lengthy, so I am trying to remember only the most important stuff, those things that could easily lead to me being assaulted or even shot by the security team without any warning.
After all, this is the Air Defence Command: there are thousands of people and things, of which many are at least as important as The Viper, if not more.
I ask myself whether she knows it, whether she knows that while the propaganda portrays her (well, actually him) as the most important person ever, one should not believe everything the propaganda says. I get the answer much later. “I hate that bastard,” The Viper will mention once, looking on The Viper’s official portrait. “You see, he gets all the fame, all the credit for my achievements. He gets to fuck all the hot women, too. Nobody cares about my achievements here. They often treat me like just another GI, like a thing, not a person.” Which is far from true, given how tolerant they are when it comes to her less-than-polite behaviour towards her subordinates, but I will still be able to understand why she feels that way. I will also often feel like a thing, a piece of equipment which is used so much that its lifetime is substantially shortened, so I will be able to empathise.
“In addition to your basic salary, I managed to negotiate hazard pay and a substantial monthly bonus to compensate for the insane working hours. Therefore, you will receive about three times as much as you get now. Your expenses here will be much lower, because almost anything you will ever need here will be issued to you, and the rest is either for free or ridiculously cheap. I know that this would sound even better if you were able to leave the building and enjoy your life, but hey, let’s focus on the positives – at least you will have some savings for later.”
“That does not sound bad to me,” I admit. I am not going to pretend that I don’t care about money. I am not exactly rich, and all my trouble did not help.
“Good. So, one last question. Are you ready to help us, or would do you consider going to jail until the war ends a more appealing option?”
“The former, obviously,” I say without hesitation. “With all due respect, Sir, I see you have never done time.” In the end, Colonel R. is an officer with pristine record. He has no idea.
“I did not want to insult you, PFC,” Colonel R. says, and I believe him. No, this man is not my enemy. “Right. In that case, we are nearly done here, and I guess it’s about time to go and check on her. Let’s go.” One last surprise today. I did not expect to see The Viper; I expected to have to undergo at least one more round of security checks and interviews, but then I get it. All the security checks and clearances are finished, otherwise I would not be here. I just passed the last job interview, the final test.
I get up and I am ready to go. It is very clear to me that this is one of the few turning points in my life. Something important is about to begin. When I am done here, in three and a half years from today, I will be someone else entirely, and not just because Lieutenant General R. (yes, he will also be promoted in the meantime) will invent a brand-new identity for me, an identity with a much higher rank, an exceptional record and a few medals, and without all the trouble. An identity which I will be able to use to live my life the way I always wanted before I clashed with reality.
After navigating the labyrinth of corridors once more, Colonel R. knocks on an insignificant-looking door. The answer is an angry stream of curses and profanities. Colonel R. opens the door and we enter a dark room without windows. There are desks, and sitting at the desks are people with state-of-the-art hardware around them who look a bit like zombies and a bit like ecstatic priests.
“For. Fuck’s. Sake.” The young woman who said this is sitting at one of the desks. She wears an Air Defence uniform, but instead of an as-per-regulations white shirt etc., there is a highlighter pink t-shirt under her jacket. She smashes her mouse into her desk, removes her headset and angrily throws it towards her three screens. Then, she pushes away from the desk: she’s not sitting in an office chair but in a hi-tech wheelchair. “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I made myself clear. Fucking no one is to disturb us when we do training and stress-testing!”
“I would like you to meet someone,” Colonel R. says calmly. The Viper looks at me. Her eyes take me in, measuring, evaluating. Then she smiles, but it is not a nice smile, not at all.
“Fuck me running,” she summarizes it. “I am not in the mood for this. I can’t work here. Whatever I do, someone is guaranteed to fuck with my concentration. All the time.” A very warm welcome indeed. I can hear Colonel R. inhaling and exhaling deeply, as if he were silently praying to God to grant him the strength.
I keep my face fairly indifferent. I understand the breathing exercise. I would like to do the same, but I make myself not to.
At this moment, I am certain of only one thing: there are truly interesting times ahead.