Human Factor

One by one their shadowed outlines emerge. Smoke hangs limp in the air, strung up like a set piece, like a dream, sweet-tinged with the stench of rot. It shrouds the soldiers and their boxy equipment, geometric reapers advanced far beyond the grain scythe.

“Quiet here.”

Quiet. Fire crackles far away even as its glow stains the sky. The killing field looks the same day or night, sunset or sunrise. A building sags on its own weight and collapses; a plume of dust rises, the final breath of whatever civility existed here before war burned it away.

The soldiers wait patiently. Finally one steps forward. “On me.” His chest bears a name and one shoulder bears a flag. A winged dagger adorns the other, topped with the letters C-R-O. He crosses the thin band of embers that separate bustling woodland and scorched earth. His team follows him. They will follow him into hell at their nation’s request.

Three American prisoners of war were last traced to a hostile outpost within the city; air defenses at the outpost prevent USAF air transport from getting close, so the team moves in on foot for the rescue operation.

Rifles swiveling, they tread softly as dirt transforms to asphalt. A humanoid outline rests in a vehicle’s blackened husk. None of the soldiers look as they pass. Blue light flickers across

their eyes and camouflaged faces, the datastream tracking and assessing their every move. War is data as much as war is madness or industry or attrition. Somewhere air-conditioned, strategists view real-time information and relay it back to the boots on the ground. The frontline killers represent the efforts of hundreds. Yet they are also mere flesh and bone.

A faint buzz of electric power. Helmet cameras detect glowing hotspots of motion. The squad splits. They dash madly for awnings and doorways. A quadrotor drone passes overhead, barely the size of a human hand. Plastic, wire, microchip. The team waits for it to disappear over a rooftop and carry on.

The cycle of man: discover technology, master technology, fear technology.

Black-powder bombs to nukes. Flintlocks to automated turrets. Paper gliders to explosive-equipped remote drones.

Twisted steel towers around them, warped by intense heat into ghastly spirals like hands reaching for the dead sky. They step around charred skeletons and rubble, careful not to make a sound. They cage their eyes to keep their minds intact. Digital maps unfold in the corner of the team’s vision to lead them to their target. This is neither personal nor clinically impersonal—the fire of war consumed these people just as it consumed so many others.

They have not lived in a world without conflict. Not even a decade of war has wiped all memory of peace from their hearts. The world breeds violence and one day it will stop when every bullet has fired and every bomb has exploded. There will come a time when each soldier in

this unit shows his family a picture or a medal and says we made it, we made it. So each soldier believes and that belief fuels his violence.

The world will be made whole again or it will cease its rotation and become just a rock floating in space.

The ground shakes beneath them. Earthquake rings over their comms. One of the men missteps and his foot lands on a burnt tibia with a sickly crunch. The sound echoes. The squad freezes, looks up—the drone hovers distantly overhead. It swoops down toward them. Its camera clicks and before they can shoot it flies up and disappears.

Quickly now, weapons no longer raised but slung so the soldiers may run. A stampede of adrenaline, fear, each soldier reduced to a stray dog hunted by wolves. They sprint for the nearest alleyway and their maps reroute. A buzz in the air behind them, a swarm of drones approaching. In the center of the alley lies a manhole cover.

The leading soldier raises the cover, jumps down. Two of his teammates follow him. The fourth stumbles, crawls to the edge. The buzz of death irritates his ears. He turns on his back and sees lights in the sky like stars superimposed over black smoke. The lights converge. He hears the manhole slide shut behind him.

The three survivors do not see their comrade reduced to a blackened bloodstain. They only hear thundering explosions then abject silence. The manhole cover crumples inward but holds. Somewhere, a pre-authored email delivers and a vehicle departs for his family’s house.

Words are spoken. He meant something different to everyone he knew, and yet to bleak reality he is a stain. Some men believe in heaven and some find it hard to believe in anything anymore.

Sewage sloshes around their boots, the rippling slime their sole reminder that the world is more than a diorama of a burning city. They lose contact with headquarters and stagger blindly forward in the dark. Parts of the ceiling have collapsed, allowing firelight to flicker into the dark catacombs. Dead rats float in the sewage; they starved when ash poisoned their food. Not even the most persistent bottom-feeders survive.

They pass through what appears to be a small civilization built on maintenance walkways to either side of the trash flow. Extinguished camping lanterns and bedrolls littered with food waste are echoes of the souls who took refuge here. The fighting above drove them underground.

They see the pale glow of the surface down a tunnel. Their maps direct them to walk to the light.

Eventually the soldiers emerge, stinking of sewage and damp at the ankles. As they loom out of the sewers and trudge on an upwards slope, the crescent of the hill sinks into the ground

and a new behemoth materializes. Suburbs, sprawled out for miles like a graveyard. Silent, choked by smoke. Headstones. Some sections lie leveled by war while others remain frozen in time, punctuated by a few lonely high-rises still clawing toward the heavens. Beyond that, houses and more houses, shrinking into the horizon but never waning. Past the skyline, an unseen tapestry of crumbling homes unrolls. Contagiously exponential growth curbed by the hungry whims of war.

None of them say it, but the rows of prefabricated houses remind them of their own homes, their own families. A pinwheel spins on a lawn, blades leached of color. One of the soldiers can be heard murmuring a prayer. He wonders if all this is still God’s plan for the world. He wonders what sin these people committed to be delivered to hell in their own homes.

Another tremor in the ground forces the soldiers to pause. Houses slouch into themselves.

A dog lopes across the street before them, its fur matted with soot. Its pitted eye sees them and its head swivels. The soldiers raise their rifles, waiting for the dog’s snout to twitch. It moves on with a limp, one of its legs matted with blood.

With the onset of global war, disaster relief efforts became nigh impossible. The same USA which once reserved vast provisions for assisting foreign countries in the case of natural disasters no longer makes such kind concessions. The full might of industry devotes itself to prolonged warfare, the humanitarians all killed overseas for trying to help in the wrong places. The people of this ruined city died in isolation, not a bottle of water to be spared for their plight.

It is not cruelty which makes us forsake those in need, but rather necessity. And for the world’s great powers, victory is the only necessity.

The team no longer moves with their rifles raised. They come upon a strip mall, rows of salons and convenience stores and liquor marts, their neon signs still bursting with color. In this ashen world they are eerie, overly bright like poisonous fungi warning forest creatures not to bite. The first soldier in their tripod glances at the foreign advertisements, searching for a degree of familiarity in a land utterly warped by destruction. Headquarters alerts them of something coming their way.

The gentle hum of death sends them running for the storefront. A singular winged drone dives toward them. Its papery wings flap against sheer velocity. The soldiers lunge for the door and the last in line turns and fires, muzzle flaring. The drone’s wing snaps off and they spiral in two pieces like falling leaves. Then the drone’s payload detonates.

Floor-to-ceiling windows shatter. The symphony of glass rains upon one man, unharmed, as he staggers backward between shelves of food. Silt sifts and clatters against his helmet, the ghost of a sensation as shock screams in his ears. Paper, possibly money, flutters softly to the tile floor.

All of this happens at once and very quickly but his mind replays it slowly, in agonizing detail, with the ringing in his ears rendering it dreamlike. He smacks the side of his head and

blinks. One of his teammates lies bleeding on the floor, a shard of glass sticking out of her wrist and the stump of her leg leaking dark blood.

He rushes forward. Tries to block out the pained noises like a trapped animal’s. He grips his teammate’s vest and drags her into the bowels of the supermarket. Cereal boxes frame their mad flight. Overhead fluorescents flicker. A wide smear of crimson follows them toward the rear shelves. He flings open an unassuming metal door near the back. Pulls his teammate in. Slams the door.

Blood spurts from the amputated leg, bone blossoming in splinters that dig back into the flesh from whence they came. The soldier digs in his JFAK, finds the tourniquet. Tightens it until his teammate’s face grows white with discomfort and she hisses through her teeth. Blood keeps pooling, lapping at her boot. He takes the wounded woman’s tourniquet and puts that on the wound too. He cuts away the sleeve around the impaled glass and packs dressing around it.

Bright red arterial blood soaks through and drips steadily on the floor. He wraps the dressings in gauze and stands and wipes sweat from his neck. Need another tourniquet. He reaches for his shoulder pocket and freezes.

A faint buzz on the other side of the door. Distinctly different from the nagging white lights overhead. The soldier slows his breathing, puts a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. Easy. Easy. Like teenagers in a slasher film, the killer panting just outside.

The sound quiets. He reaches up and touches the side of his helmet. His other hand keeps pressure on his teammate’s wrist.

“Romeo 1 Actual to Romeo, over.”

Copy, Actual.

“Romeo 1-2 is wounded, Romeo 1-3 suspected KIA. We’re pinned. Need UAV support. Over.”

UAV support incoming, ETA 30 seconds.

He pulls the tourniquet from his shoulder pocket and slips it up his teammate’s arm. The bleeding subsides.

Drones deployed. Over and out.

The soldier eases the metal door open just a crack. Bright light flares through the market’s smashed windows. His helmet filters the loud pop of explosives and notifies him of gunshots at 12 o’clock. He steps out into the open and passes through the bath products aisle to store’s front.

The sky is gray slashed with damp black and bits of plastic fall from it. He looks up and sees at least twenty machines spiraling higher, higher, dancing around each other. They wage their own mindless warfare, simple programs to determine their allegiance. Fierce clashes spark jets of flame and broken components scatter across the parking lot. The soldier watches their muffled, brutal battle without expression.

He finds his third teammate’s body bent around a support column. The face still twisted in grim determination. Torso almost split in half like a jagged mouth. Blood leaks between the toothy ribs.

He takes the JFAK and dog tags and pulls his teammate’s body into a less contorted position. Thunder rumbles overhead and the first dark medallions of rain spill from above, the sky’s maw opening to drool upon a flesh-starved world. The soldier turns his back to the brewing storm and slips back inside, to his sole remaining ally.

She lies still and pale. Deliberate breaths puff past her dry lips. She opens her mouth to speak but finds no words worth projecting into the dark realm around them.

The mission must go on, or rather, they can no longer turn around. The last unbroken soldier pulls limp arms around his shoulders and rises. He staggers through the store and out its shattered windows with his teammate on his back, fused together like a nuclear mutant, freakish and uncoordinated. He glances back at the darkened sign—once bright, now extinguished. Rain patters softly on his helmet. Miles away it will extinguish fires raging across this part of the

world, tempering the white-hot blade of human suffering into a beautiful metal contortion, a memory others will point to and learn a lesson from. But that tempering has not come fast enough to save the poor souls trapped in the inferno.

Headquarters informs him that his objective is half a click away.

The idealized dream of futuristic warfare sees humans retain their status as the battlefield’s epicenter. Our hands on the wheel, on the trigger, mankind extending our will over lethal metal. Bipedal killing machines, quadrotor drones linked to thought itself. The flick of a hand wreaks death, but at least a hand steers, rather than a program.

That dream perished. Defense contractors program drone swarms to combat drone swarms. Battles waged between plastic-and-metal artifacts result in human casualties despite lacking human combatants.

At home, the scale of wartime production causes resource shortages. Global trade stumbles over a requisition minefield; everyone has what someone else needs. If resources are not given, they are seized.

Such ruthlessness creates public unrest, so media groups dredge the faces of the dead, simulating them in almost-real videos. If you perish in service to your country you will continue to serve after death. Deepfaked executions, prisoner-of-war camps, decapitations. Look what the

enemy has done, do you hate it? Support the war effort. The deceased’s families witness their ghosts over and over at random.

Even as thinking machines dominate warfare, they approach an asymptote limiting total control. Some missions will always require a human hand. Combat search and rescue, for example, cannot be done by a bomb-equipped drone. The soldier with his injured teammate sloughing off his back trudges forward on such a mission. He wonders grimly if his visage will be propagandized in death.

He strikes a figure of cutting edges, a spiked and jagged demon shaped from crushed obsidian. With glassy rainwater streaming off his shoulders he seems to have risen from the final circle of hell. His equipment is the penultimate defense afforded to flesh. The helmet with its 360° optics and full scanner suite integrated directly into his vision. He sees all around himself in a rainbow of overlays, the artificial combat assistant constantly assessing and reassessing the battlefield. He is constantly uplinked to headquarters and a personal advisor, though many soldiers speculate if the voices directing them are real or artificially generated. Revolutionary ballistic protection technology shields his body, able to stop even rifle rounds from penetrating his torso, though affording little defense against high-explosive payloads. An expensive soft-kill active protection system on his shoulder is designed to neutralize drones; utterly ineffective, but left on his kit as a comforting placebo.

He has a family but he carries no picture tucked in his helmet, no smiling face to remind him of home. Prisoners of war find who carry such things find themselves subjected to

artificially generated videos of their spouses disfigured or raped. Digital footprints can be lethal; online pictures are used to recreate birthmarks, tattoos, scars. Anything to make simulated snuff films more lifelike. Children are not off-limits either, but national governments tend to find that extreme degree of psychological manipulation indigestible.

He sees the target building towering a block away, a monolith in praise of destructive force; its darkened facade permits no light to exist in the space between them. Gathering storm clouds broil just above its silhouetted rooftop. A seven-floor apartment complex, twisted gargoyles watching its perimeter atop corbels. Water drips from their mouths.

The angular shape of a surface-to-air missile battery on the roof reminds him of his position. He ducks behind houses and follows the rows forward, legs trembling with exertion and boots sinking into muddy, churned earth. When he reaches the final house before asphalt he raises his weapon and tries the doorknob. Unlocked. He eases the door open.

In his mind a silent prayer echoes. Not for safety or for help or for a clear path to do his job, but for an authentic face. For a breath, accompanied by the twinkle of eyes. For wet blood, still molten beneath skin that burns with warmth. He has no care for what kind of human may persist here, whether they be armed enemies or fellow soldiers. He trudges towards the door, not with hope but instead with hungry desperation.

Humans react outwardly, emotionally, primarily to please others, to communicate agony or relief or absolute despair. It is no surprise, then, that the soldier lacks the energy and purpose

to react. His face, leached of color by sweat-streaked ash, does not unfreeze from its statue-esque stoicism. His eyes turn to glass, skating across the scene like blades, reading without processing. Understanding without feeling. He can only comprehend the situation as a reflection of light and an absorption of light. A collection of data, an assessment of a potential threat. Here he feels vulnerable only to detachment, the adversary who drains him of his humanity.

Rot. The house stinks of rot. The pestering flies so eerily absent outside have congregated in force around a body trapped under rubble. They buzz and crawl over exsanguinated, pale flesh. He cannot see the face with its forehead resting against the floor, only a jagged laceration across the back of the corpse’s head. He turns away.

In another room he finds a window looking across the street. Rain blasts into the opening and flings damp curtains open, revealing his objective once more in all its ominous splendor. He pulls the window shut and dumps his teammate on a queen-sized bed. His head bows almost reverently so that his helmet camera can assess damages. Biometrics stream across his vision: tidal volume, estimated body temperature, wound type and severity. The computer warns of compensated hemorrhagic shock. He retrieves a vial of ketamine and a syringe from his JFAK. Administers the medication with thoughtlessness only a well-practiced hand achieves.

His teammate breathes easier, but with a soaked-through uniform and shock symptoms, hypothermia will set in. He strips the outer layer of gear off and tucks heat packs under her arms. He replaces the missing gear with a clean blanket off the bed.

His shoulders feel full of helium as he creeps back outside, freed from the burden of the wounded. Sensation prickles back into his legs gradually. He leans around the corner of the house and scans for movement. Not even the whisper of danger in his mind. He crosses the street, boots sloshing through a river of corrosive ash. He slides to cover behind a sandbag wall, careful not to cut himself on the barbed wire next to his face, rifle posted and leveled toward the building’s front doors.

Dry, acetone breaths hiss across the courtyard, louder than the din of rain. He wrestles his breathing under control. His heart slows down. Even in a machine-dominated world, this is what he signed up for. He crosses the courtyard, rifle trained on the first-floor windows. Presses himself against the brick wall and creeps along it clockwise until he finds a less conspicuous entrance. The laundromat’s windows are cracked and crumbling in spots. He opens its door and slips inside, one hand silencing the bell overhead before it can peal. Water drips off his uniform, marking his trail like a bleeding wound. His rifle swivels, the helmet-integrated cameras scanning for motion or warmth. Nothing. He opens the door at the back of the laundromat and orbits, rifle sweeping every possible angle. Nothing.

Rows of numbered doors stretch down the hallway before him. Some are ajar. All are cast in shadow. He crosses the threshold and pauses. His chest rises and falls softly. He takes a knee and opens a pouch at his waist, revealing a small cuboid apparatus.

Known as “the screecher,” it takes ultrasonic and radar images and cross-references them to detect motion through walls within a relatively small radius. The soldier’s helmet detects the

initial ultrasonic pulse and connects to the device. This enables him to seamlessly view its reports in the form of indicators superimposed over the physical world. However, the screecher’s radar emissions draw hunter-killer drones like flies if used outdoors.

For a moment he thinks his helmet sensors suffered damage from the earlier drone strike. Then a blue specter flares toward the end of the hall. His rifle swivels and he approaches swiftly. The figure moves low to the ground. An unnamed ground vehicle? It’s approaching him from a left fork in the hall. He pauses at the corner. Exhales.

He steps out of cover with his finger on the trigger. His eyes widen. He jerks the gun upward. The same injured mutt from earlier stares up at him with beady eyes. Its soaked fur hangs limp and grants it a knobby, skeletal frame. The dog growls for a moment. Then it turns and trots away, its gangrenous hind leg dragging.

He mutters something and looks to the stairs. On the second floor the screecher picks up motion again. This time a baby’s crib mobile spins in the fluttering breeze of an open window. He steps forward—he can’t see over the rim of the crib. The mobile plays “Rock-A-Bye Baby” in tinkling notes. He stalks closer and flips his rifle’s safety on. Pauses at the edge of vision and presses forward before his courage can fail him. Leans forward like he’s about to jump from a plane. The crib is empty. He breathes out.

Two floors pass without incident. He searches rooms on the fifth to make sure he wasn’t sent to the wrong location. In one, a sniper turret squats on a tripod in the room’s center. A

plastic chair and foldable table are set up close to the door, with a touchpad controller designating targets for the turret to fire on. The controller seems to be dead. Ammunition drums with various markings are also arranged neatly on the table.

Floor six. The screecher links with his helmet. Nothing. He stalks the L-shaped hallway that shapes the apartment complex. Floorboards creak underfoot. His rifle skips like a record needle. He’s almost finished with his sweep when he hears it. Human voices.

His heart staccatos for the familiarity alone. In this place, humanity means either enemies or the captives he came here to save. He presses himself against the wall next to the door and fishes for the crucifix tucked away in his uniform blouse. He presses it to cracked lips. Lord please let me be providence to those caught in the jaws of death. Lets it drop.

The door opens. He rushes inside, weapon raised. A command dies on his tongue.

Five darkened desk monitors crouch over a plastic chair like expectant ghouls. He moves to the chair and taps a key on the keyboard, prompting the full suite to light up. Camera feeds, drone status lists, a satellite map, and in the center of all those a black command terminal, its input bar blinking. Voices warble up from a headset resting on the desk.

There is something else in the room with him, something which smells of decay and cleaning chemicals, but his eyes remain glued to the screens and his mouth set in a hard line. To see, to comprehend, would be unbearable.

So there was nobody. Just a generator keeping the equipment on while the enemy seemingly abandoned this place. On the status monitor, individual drones receive their own tab listing a designation, connection status, power, and current tasking. He glances over the tabs, all in another language. Luckily one he can read. Connection status: DESYNCHRONISED. DESYNCHRONISED. DESYNCHRONISED. Every single machine.

Yet they still operate. They attacked his team. They hunt down anything that moves and has a heat signature. Civilians died in burning streets and took cover underground. Which means… which means…

He stands up abruptly. His chair tips and clatters. A vein protrudes on his forehead. His gloves creak as his hands curl into fists.

He leaves. The door shuts behind him. The radio continues its soft speech. Three bodies atop a tarp continue to rot in an organized row. All clad in ripped American uniforms. Little red blossoms adorn each frozen heart.

The soldier skips the 7th floor. Nothing worth seeing there. No luck left in the world. He pushes open the door to the roof. Rain blasts against his face, his helmet, transformed from drizzle to monsoon. Wind howls pure and sweet across a reality once whole and now stained with his disbelief. His eyes barely make out the rooftop’s boundary. If he jumped from this

rectangular island he would surely fall forever, and the raindrops would fall with him. Infinite stasis in a watery void, an ocean too divided to support life.

The surface-to-air missile battery makes a wicked silhouette in the storm, but he disables it easily with nobody to oversee the controls. He notifies headquarters, his voice barely a whisper above the wind screaming at his helmet comm. The unseen narrators on the other side assure him that a helicopter is en route to his location. They will find him. They will find his teammate.

Some part of him will never be found, lost in the rainy abyss, in the ground crushed under soldiers’ boots.

He produces two flares. Green fire burns in each hand as his arms stretch wider, wider. He is divine. He is a bird poised to take flight. His shadow skitters in the downpour, cast both before and behind him.

A glittering jet of flame streaks across his vision, far away and high up. Clusters of lights fall from its route and spiral toward earth. They stall abruptly and spread out, waiting. Eventually different colored lights come to meet them and the two parties clash, making fireworks where they collide and wink out. Machines created to deter war now prolonging it until the world cannot feed them munitions any longer.

As the soldier watches, he remembers a dream. He stood side by side with a demon whose skin was metal and whose breath reeked of sulfur. Rust coated its horns. Together they stood arm in arm and their hands had fused into each other’s backs, so that each puppeteered the other.

They watched the Sun decline over a desert, the sand rippling under a gentle breeze, golden under the final vestige of light. When the air turned cold and the wind bitter, the demon spoke, and it spoke in his voice. It said his children would live in a world where the wildflowers only grow red. He asked what that meant, but it would not speak again. When he awoke he could not recall one critical detail: had he been the puppeteer, or the puppet?

“Lily, are you watching President Fischer’s speech?” Matt called out, reclining in his sofa chair. His pen hovered over his leather notepad. Normally, his writing was a continuous stream of unkempt thoughts. But now, as President Fischer stumbled, Matt found his eyes fixated on the screen. The President slammed his fists into the podium, punctuating each word, leaving both his voice and the podium shaking.

“If you’re with me and you want to save the glorious United States of America… I think we should line everyone up who’s ruining our country – put ‘em against a wall – and shoot ‘em in the head!” He slurred, seemingly drunk – before staggering off stage. The screen filled with static before flipping to a black screen with a few words. A robotic voice filled the homes of millions of Americans.

ALERT. PREVIOUS FOOTAGE CONSISTED OF DEEP FAKE FROM THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA. FOOTAGE IS NOT REAL. THIS IS NOT A TEST. ALERT.

By then, it was too late.

Matt could already imagine the nightmare that would follow in the coming weeks. He hadn’t felt this kind of existential dread since the COVID-19 shutdowns fifteen years prior. His phone lit up beside him with an official portrait of JoAnn Amend – the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. He answered.

“Matt, are you seeing this?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Unfortunately, yes.” Matt said, still staring at the black screen. His wife, Lily, hovered in the doorway as the robotic voice echoed the same message.

“I know it’s your day off -”

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way.” He glanced at Lily and nodded, hanging up the line. “I’m sorry, Lily.”

“No, I understand. Do what you need to do.” She said, gesturing at the television. “I’m going to head into the newsroom anyways. I’m sure the media will have a lot to say about this.” She grabbed her overcoat and disappeared out the door. Matt closed his notepad and gathered his things into an inconspicuous bookbag. Within minutes, he was in a taxi heading to a local deli, which was a few yards away from the CIA headquarters doors. It was better not to tell the drivers where you were heading.

“You watch the President’s speech?” The taxi driver looked into the rearview, the corner of his lip curled into a smile. “Mmm, I’m sure the man was drunk. But you know what they say: drunk words are sober thoughts, yah know. I think there was some truth in his words. We should get rid of those sons of bitches, ruining our country.”

“It was a deep fake from China, I’m sure.” Matt responded, his heart sinking. The driver surely wasn’t alone in his line of thinking.

“Oh you believe in all that?” The man scoffed. “Government was tryin’ to cover that up.

They don’t like the truth, nuh uh. Not at all.” Matt fell into silence. If the country wasn’t polarized enough, this would surely tip the balance over. Violence would follow. They pulled up next to the deli. “Enjoy lunch, my man. And stay safe. Heard some are carrying out the President’s wishes.” Matt paused as he reached to open the door.

“Where’d you hear that?” Matt asked.

“I follow this thread on Reddit, you know of it? Called ‘Patriots Want Fischer 2036’.

They liked his speech, mmm hmm, spoke for the people – yes he did.” The man chuckled. “Let me help you out, I’m feeling kind. They wear a handkerchief in their pocket, red in color. You see ‘em, you turn the other way, you hear me? Or I guess, join ‘em. But you don’t look the fighting sort. Am I right in that?” Matt paused before nodding. He opened the door and waited for the car to pull away before heading towards the headquarters doors.

It was chaos. In the hallway, clusters of people whispered in hushed voices. Others hurriedly rushed to who knows where, holding files or talking on the phone. In the chaos – Matt saw JoAnn.

“Agent Russell, in here, please.” JoAnn gestured to him, leaning out of the conference room. He hurriedly made his way in. The table was full of some familiar faces, but also many unfamiliar ones. Two were experts in the U.S. and China relations. So it truly wasn’t real. Matt thought, relieved.

“Now that everyone is here – let’s cut to the chase.” The Deputy Director, Harrison Black, stood by a projection of the PRC and Taiwan. “BLUF: Beijing has infiltrated our media with a falsified video to distract us from their invasion of Taiwan. As the Joint Chiefs of Staff know, and the Secretary of Defense will soon address – there are already warships and fighters heading towards Taiwan’s coast as we speak.” He tapped Taipei with his index finger. “As of today, it is projected that the Democratic Progressive Party will win Taiwan’s general elections in January, which has pissed off a lot of folks in Beijing. Since China’s economy has rebounded and with the release of their newest ballistic missile technology, we are looking at a war likely more brutal than anything we’ve ever seen before. We have been employed by the military to aid in intelligence operations during this war.”

“So, we’re helping Taiwan – after that bombshell China just dropped on us? The conflict within our country will destroy us before Xi Jinping reaches Taipei.” Agent Skelton said. It was unprecedented to interrupt the Director or Deputy before the discussion opened, but Black seemed unbothered.

“If China takes Taiwan, do you think they’ll stop there?” Black gestured at the island chain above Taiwan. “Suddenly, China has historical claims to Okinawa, Yakushima – the whole of Japan even. Beijing has captured the elites within our country, their currency is becoming the most dominant in the world – and you want the United State’s to just let ‘em have Taiwan? What message does that send China? To the world? That with a little fake video – they can completely deter us from aiding our allies?” Agent Skelton seemed to recline back in his chair, thinking.

“You’re right, Sir.” Agent Li broke the silence. “But so is Agent Skelton. Whether we like it or not, people are going to believe the video was real, and we are going to have some real problems.” She said, and Matt chimed in.

“My driver this morning, he spoke of this Reddit thread. People are already planning to carry out the -” he put up air quotes, “President’s orders.”

“Of course, and this is expected.” Black said, scratching his chin. “And we will have people and resources dedicated to minimizing damages caused by the video. But I need you all to be on board with me on this. We are going to stop China in its tracks, and we’re going to preserve Taiwan’s sovereignty.” He glanced over at Matt, who was writing voraciously in his notepad.

“Matt Russell, you are going to be my lead for this, is that understood?” Matt looked up suddenly at the sound of his name.

“Me? But, I don’t know if I have the qualifications-”

“You’re humble, which I appreciate. But, Agent Russell, you are the best equipped for this, and you know it. In fact – if you’re fluent in Chinese and have your Ph.D. in Chinese History, raise your hand.” With a pause, Matt, alone, raised his hand. Black chuckled. “There you go. So, you’re on the case. With that said, if you have any more questions on this, you can go to Agent Russell. You all are dismissed.”

Matt suddenly wished he had earned his doctorates in anything else. He had not the faintest clue how to go about the issue of the invasion of Taiwan. The television to his right flickered on, and the Secretary of Defense stood at a podium, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Fellow Americans, as you all know, China attempted to distract us with a deep fake. And, hours ago, they started their invasion of Taiwan.” He cleared his throat. “If you allow that video to distract you from the unjust and inhumane invasion happening overseas, you can bet that the United State’s will lose its position as the number one most powerful nation in the world. Which is why, without any doubt, our United States’ military will be aiding Taiwan in its defense against the People’s Republic of China.” Matt could practically hear his taxi driver scoffing from here. They don’t like the truth, nuh uh. Matt pulled out his phone and looked up “Patriots Want Fischer 2036”. The Reddit Thread was full of clips of Fischer, or rather the AI version of him, yelling on stage, beating the podium with his fists. The captions were littered with “The Hero We Need!” and “Shoot ‘em in the head!” Matt’s thumb lingered over a video with a content warning. He paused before clicking the “show” icon.

“This boy here posted a video of him burning the American flag.” The video showed a bigger man holding a teenage boy by his hair, a rifle pressed against his skull. Matt’s heart sank. “What do you gotta say about that?” The boy was sobbing. His knees were folded beneath him and his chin was busted open.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He cried out, pleading. “ I love this country, I do, I promise. I was just protesting! Please -”

“Protest this, then -” Matt looked away from his phone at the sound of the bang.

Jesus Christ. Matt wiped his eyes and set his phone in his pocket. He walked into his office and set up his monitors and notebook. Not knowing exactly where to start, he googled ‘China’s invasion of Taiwan’ but quickly deleted it and instead looked up the same in Mandarin, ‘中国入侵台湾’. Most of the results were from Taiwanese sources. He clicked on videos and saw one of a few soldiers in tactical uniforms holding a Taiwanese flag. A civilian in the back held up a sign. Most of it was in Chinese – but one part was in English, clearly meant for American viewers. “DON’T LET TAIWAN FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY ALONE”. On a closer look, he saw a man in the back seeming to observe the chaos. Embroidered on his pocket was the symbol of the KMT. Suddenly, an idea came to Matt. He called JoAnn.

“I need a flight to Taiwan.” Matt said, his pen still hovering over the notebook. “Respectfully, that seems like a waste of money and time – two things we don’t have

enough of.” She said, “And why on Earth would you need to fly there? Don’t you have enough to work off of here?”

“I have a gut feeling. I believe the KMT is working with Beijing to sabotage Taiwan’s efforts to fight for independence. But I can’t get proof unless I can go there and investigate. Tell me you understand, JoAnn.” He pleaded, still looking at the man in the video.

“Oh, don’t ‘JoAnn’ me, Agent Russell. And anyways, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.

A large, six foot white man with blue eyes isn’t going to waltz through Taiwan.” She said, but her voice trailed off. “However, it would be useful to have at least an agent there, maybe to investigate your ‘hunch’. Maybe, Agent Li? Her mother’s from Taiwan and she’s fluent in Mandarin. She could be of use to us there.”

“I can work with that.” Matt said.

“But, Agent Russell… if one of the Taiwanese parties is in fact working with Beijing, is it our place to interfere?” She said, almost thinking aloud.

“The Democratic Progressive Party is projected to win, and, if my hunch is true, the KMT wants to ensure they don’t make it to the elections to find out. Let’s not mistake treason for patriotism.” Matt said.

“Okay.” She paused. “Let me link you to Agent Li and we’ll get to work.” She hung up.

“很好吃吗?” Is it good? The waitress asked, gesturing at the pork dumplings. Agent Li nodded.

“How do you still work, with the war going on?” Agent Li asked in Mandarin. The waitress pondered for a moment.

“What else is there to do, for me? My son and grandson are fighting on the coast. I am too old to fight. And I still need money to feed myself so I’m alive for their return.” She smiled and nodded before disappearing into the kitchen. Li’s eyes began to water as she imagined her grandparents near Jiufen, probably scared and isolated, not knowing what to do. However, she managed to shove the thoughts down so as to not interfere with her work. She was currently in one of the only provinces that hadn’t been attacked by PRC’s forces. Intelligence had garnered that if the KMT was working with the PRC, then the PRC would likely avoid conflict with the area the KMT most resided in. Agent Li needed to go about her search carefully. So far, she had found out that one of the party’s most prominent spokespersons resided nearby.

“谢谢.” Thank you, she said, handing cash to the owner and stepping outside. Dozens of mopeds rushed by her, many adorning the Taiwanese flag. One man lifted his fist and yelled towards her “台湾中国一边一国!” Taiwan and China are separate countries! She lifted her fist back and watched as the mopeds turned the corner. They likely knew that the KMT wasn’t committed to Taiwanese independence, especially at the cost of lives, and were making rounds to convince them to change their minds. She started down the road towards the address of the KMT politician. Across the street from the house was a park. After throwing a small voice recorder into the house’s shrubbery, she sat on a park bench and waited there, pretending to read a book so as to not attract attention to herself. Every few moments, she glanced up at the house, waiting for any visitors. Suddenly, a black SUV pulled up. She clicked on the voice recorder and put on her headphones, pushing up her sunglasses so it was more difficult to see the flickering of her eyes, up and down.

Four men covered head to toe in luxury brands stepped out of the vehicle, laughing amongst one another. They spoke of their wives, children, and their plans for the coming weekend. Agent Li waited for anything of use, tapping her pencil’s eraser on the book. Finally – a mention of dinner. The shortest, stumpiest man’s voice lowered to a whisper.

“Meet at 6 pm tomorrow, my house. We’ll discuss the release of the videos.” The man nodded, his face serious, before waving goodbye to the three others and stepping into his home. A video? Or did he say videos? Another deep fake, maybe? Agent Li’s interest peaked. If she wanted to gather more information, she’d have to get a sound recorder in his house. That would prove incredibly difficult. She would have to knock on his door and speak to him, and convince him to take something from her that carried the recorder. That was when a breaking news notification popped up on her phone.

CHINA CUTS OFF WATER SUPPLY TO AT LEAST TWO MUNICIPALITIES. JOIN VOLUNTEER FORCE TO DISTRIBUTE WATER TO THOSE IN NEED.

Hmm. Distributing water. She smiled. It was almost too perfect. Rushing to the nearest Family Mart, she bought three water jugs. She stuck a microscopic mic to the bottom of one, and decided to eat lunch while she set up the software. She also wanted to put some time between when she saw the black SUV show up and when she knocked on his door – in the very rare case he’d make the connection. The software was pretty advanced for how small it was. Audio feedback usually came back crystal clear, even if obstructed from the speaker by several layers of fabric or some other substance. At three in the afternoon, she headed towards the spokesperson’s house. First, she gave a water jug to his two neighbors, just in case they spoke about it. Then, she knocked on his door, feeling the sticker under her finger. It was almost impossible for the sticker to fall off, but she worried it would be gone anyways.

The spokesperson opened the door slowly. His hair showed streaks of gray. He wore a Rolex on his left wrist and had a golden bracelet on the other. He was wearing distinct tobacco vanilla cologne. These were all observations Li would write later, in her hotel room. He seemed confused, but bowed his head slightly as a greeting.

“Sir, I’m helping pass out water jugs in case this municipality loses water in the coming days. Sadly, we’re running short so I only have one for now, but we will return with more later.” Agent Li held out the water jug, praying he’d take it from her hands.

“Mmm, thank you, but this municipality won’t lose water. Save it for the people who need it.” He said, starting to close the door.

“Sir, how do you know this municipality won’t lose water? You can’t be so sure.” She pleaded – knowing if he answered, he’d have to admit to something more. “Please take it, it will make me feel better.”

“Mmm.” He opened the door a bit, glancing at the jug. Agent Li felt like he could see right through her. But to her surprise, he extended his hand. “Alright, if you insist. Thank you, miss.” He grabbed the jug and brought it inside, closing the door behind him. Already, the software was collecting data and uploading it to her laptop. She walked back to her hotel and staked out in her room, watching the text transcription of what was being said, as well as the audio recording. It seems the spokesperson, Wang Zhiwei, hadn’t known about the water being shut off. He was on the phone with someone with a thick Beijing accent.

“You told me you wouldn’t take the people’s necessities. You told me the videos would be enough to end this war before it could truly begin. I thought I could trust you.” Wang stammered. Agent Li felt herself physically leaning into the computer to decipher the following man’s Beijing accent. It made her think of her Chinese tutor from years ago. Every other word seemed to be -er -er -er. She preferred her parents’ Mandarin.

“It is all fine – not all of the news is true.”

“Not all of the news? In what way?” Wang seemed agitated.

“We cut off water to ONE municipality, but it was full of rich folk. Rich folk seem to whine the loudest, so we knew it’d raise alarms. All we had to do was tell people there that it was three, four municipalities that had water cut off and the news spread like wildfire. Very useful, right?” The man said.

“Do the rich people have access to water now?” Wang asked. “Eh, it’s getting there.” The man said, but he seemed unsure.

“I don’t feel good about this. You’re going to get people killed.” Wang sounded like he was pacing the room, getting closer and further and closer to the jug of water.

“We’ll lose a few. Is the price of war. But it won’t be many, Sir. Unlike if this war is prolonged.” The man assured him. “Trust me, you’re doing the right thing. Once the videos are launched, this’ll all be over. We will be one China, like we once were. You all will be reunited with the number one global super power.”

“Mmm, okay. But I want to be informed in the future. How did I find out about this by some random women passing out jugs of water?” Wang said. Agent Li felt her neck tingle at the mention of her visit. She hoped the Beijing man wouldn’t question it.

“Yes, Sir. We will keep you informed. Thank you.” The line ended. Li exhaled. “Fuck!” Agent Li heard crashing on the other line. Wang was furious. She heard a little girl’s voice.

“Baba, what’s wrong?” The tiny voice called out. “Eh, nothing, little tiger. I fell over, is all.”

“I’m scared, baba.” She began to cry. “Will you die in the war?” “No, no. Don’t worry, we will be safe. Just wait, okay?” “Okay.” Her sobs seemed to stifle a bit. “Promise me, baba.”

“I promise.”

Later the next day, the men spoke of multiple videos. One was of Chinese soldiers handing Taiwanese civilians food and water, and hugging them as they “reunited” with their long lost brethren. Some Taiwanese people that aligned with the KMT party agreed to be in the video, incentivized with the moral standpoint of “saving lives” as well as hundreds of dollars. The second video discussed was the President of Taiwan making a speech stating Taiwan’s surrender, or rather, reunification with the “motherland”. The last video would be the U.S. Secretary of

Defense stating they actually couldn’t afford a war with China and that they wouldn’t be aiding Taiwan in the war – and that his original speech was made in haste. It would be the largest scale disinformation campaign in the world’s history. And all three videos would take over the media at once. Many wouldn’t believe it, but if a large enough fraction did – China could take over Taiwan with minimal resources lost.

“If this doesn’t succeed – then what?” Wang asked. An older man spoke up, farther away from the water jug.

“It will succeed. We have carefully catered every – single – word within each of these videos. We have used the most advanced deep fake and artificial intelligence technology. The so-called President of Taiwan will even wonder if he had memory loss after watching his ‘own’ speech!” The man cackled.

“You are so confident about something that could be devastating if ineffective.” Wang cried out.

“How much money are we getting for this, for giving you access to the media?” Another man said. He must be another member of the KMT.

“Ten million.”

Agent Li nearly spit out her tea. Ten million? The KMT member seemed to be impressed as well.

“Ah, it is done. And when do these videos get released to us?” “Two months.”

“Two months! And what damage will be done in the meantime?” Wang said. Agent Li guessed he was thinking of his daughter, and maybe his wife – if she was still in the picture.

“Relax, old man.” Another man with a Beijing accent said. “We know what we’re doing. But if we rush this, it will not work. It would be completely unbelievable if President Yang gave up within five days of the invasion – would it not? During these two months, we will have time to saturate the media with transitory phases, do you understand? And – the United States will have enough time to destroy itself from the deep fake. They’ll have enough to worry about without worrying about Taiwan, so the SecDef video will be more believable, no?” There was silence, but Wang must have nodded, since the Beijing native continued. “See, you understand. Nothing to worry about.” Agent Li scribbled notes down. The pages were starting to look like Richard Feynman’s chalkboard after a long day of quantum mechanics.

“We will keep in touch.” The Beijing native said. The sound of chairs scraping hardwood interrupted the audio recording.

“Talk to you soon.” Wang said. Agent Li waited for an hour longer, but there was nothing but the sound of a ticking clock and air conditioning. He must’ve gone to bed. Agent Li packed her things. She’d return to the United States tomorrow.

“My god, Agent Li. You are truly remarkable.” Matt scanned her notes, his eyes widening. “I mean, I think you alone have changed the tide of this war. This could really, truly help us. We need to get this to the SecDef.”

“Agent Russell, how are things here? After the video?” Li asked. He seemed taken aback by the question, and his eyes returned to the journal.

“I mean, this is good stuff, Agent Li.” He tapped the notebook hard with his index finger. “Good, good stuff.”

“Matt – how is it here?” Li asked again. He fidgeted with his hands, still looking down at the notebook.

“It’s… not good.” Matt began, running his fingers through his hair. Li swore there were more gray strands than the last time she’d seen him. “ In Langley, it’s been alright. But down south? It’s projected that about fifteen thousand have died here in Virginia alone, either from killing those of the opposite party or defending themselves against those who tried to kill them.”

“Fifteen thousand?” Li gasped. “How did it get so bad so quickly?”

“The police are trying to make arrests – but there’s just too many of them. Not to mention the portion of police who have sided with ‘the President’.” Matt said, shaking his head. “It’s a shitshow. The National Guard is just about the same.”

“Agent Russell, respectfully, my notes will only do so much if the United States starts a civil war.” Agent Li said, her hand reaching for her phone. She wanted to call her mom, and her husband.

“You’re preaching to the choir, Xiumei.” Matt said, glancing at her hand. “Listen, take these notes to Agent Amend, then go visit your family. Thank you for your hard work.”

“Will there be a civil war, Matt? Be honest with me.” She asked. Her heart was thumping against her ribcage. There was silence. Matt opened a drawer and pulled out a flask of whiskey.

“I would be pleasantly surprised if there wasn’t.” He finally said, taking a swig. “Now go see your family, will you?”

“Yes.” She felt her knees get wobbly as she stood up and walked to Agent Amend’s office.

She was floating through a dream as she drove home. Her heart dropped as a trio of F-22’s raced across the horizon. Was the United States a warzone?

She pulled up to her mother’s house, her breath caught in her lungs. The front door hung off its hinges and furniture was strewn about in the front lawn.

“Mom! Mom!” She barely put her car in park before rushing inside. She prayed her mother wasn’t dead. “Mom!”

“Well aren’t you a fine looking girl?” A voice called out from behind her. She turned around frantically, her hand feeling for her handgun. She suddenly remembered – she’d left it in the car.

“Stop right there, I’ll shoot.” She called out, putting her hand where her gun would have been. The man emerged from the guest room. A red handkerchief hung out of his pocket.

“Feisty too, just like your mama.” He sneered. She felt her face heat up in rage. “What did you do to her?” She cried out, sprinting forward and tackling him to the ground. “What did you do?” Her fist crashed with his chin. He groaned, the air forced out of his lungs from the impact.

“Real, real feisty.” He tried to laugh, but it was interrupted by her left fist punching his gut. He grunted. “Fuck you, you chink!” He snarled, spitting in her face.

“Where is my mom?” She asked again, her fist hovering right above him. He winced as he looked at it before looking back at her.

“Don’t worry, she’s alive. Showed her a good time, is all. Boys took her away. She’s a traitor, just like you. You. . .” she knocked him out with an elbow to the temple. He slumped over. Exhaling shakily, she sat on her mother’s bed. She had no idea what to do, or how to begin finding her mom. She pulled out her phone and called her husband, praying he’d answer on the other line.

“Xiumei! My God am I so happy to hear from you.” He said after the first ring. “We’ll figure this out together, okay. Just come home to me.”

After rejoicing, the two of them sat on the sofa and turned on the news, hoping for some sort of relief. But it was worse than they ever could have imagined. President Fischer was taped during a conference, fully in hysterics.

“It wasn’t me – my God won’t you believe me! That footage wasn’t me! Don’t kill your fellow American! Don’t kill your neighbor! Turn back to God!” He screamed out.

The Vice President showed up on screen, holding papers. She cleared her throat behind the podium.

“My fellow Americans, this is an unprecedented time. Those claiming to be fighting for America are the least American of them all. They are inciting violence – taking away our freedoms to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They -” A man in a suit walked up to the VP and whispered in her ear. The color drained from her face. “Texas, Alabama, South Carolina, Louisiana -” She almost whispered. “Seven states are aiming to secede from the United States…” The footage cut to red handkerchiefs in Charlottesville, lining the street with hostages.

“This is what happens when you stay with the losers instead of joining us winners!” One man said. Bruce clutched Xiumei’s arm. He saw it before she did.

“Mom!” She cried out. Her mother was kneeling on the ground, blindfolded. There were about twenty people kneeling beside her. A gun was pressed against her back.

“As one of our founders once said – Join, or Die!” The man yelled. The television cut out at the sound of gunfire.

Xiumei froze. Her heart was a wardrum, thudding loudly against her ribcage. Her trip to Taiwan was a century ago. The room was suddenly very, very small.

Agent Skelton’s words echoed in her head.

The conflict within our country will destroy us before Xi Jinping reaches Taipei.

He was right.

Part 1. Goodbyes.

Los Angeles, February 2035

“Saoirse! You should probably go! I put your bags in the car!” Marge yelled from the bottom of the staircase.

I snap on my computer of a watch and grab what is left on my desk—a pink envelope, a notebook, and a 10-pack of Pilot G-5 07 gel pens. My favorite pens, newly adapted, the package said, to write, “when one is in the lowest lows and the highest highs”, with a cartoon image of a girl scuba diving and a boy floating in space.

I look around the empty room, remembering all the times spent—and quickly turn before I feel the tears. Once I leave, Marge will move to Silicon Valley, and our apartment will be sold. I hurry down the stairs.

Marge is waiting for me by the car, talking to the hologram of Marco projected from her watch.

Marge had met Marco last year on InPerson, a new dating app that came out a couple years ago so that you could be dating someone “in-person” and real-time despite them being hundreds or thousands of miles away. I had seen their advertisements projected on the sky many nights, as a commercial in the broadcasting of the daily news. An actress was shown on a date with a hologram of a bison sitting across from her, licking salt off his plate. The actress is shaking her head and looks over at the camera saying, “A date too awkward? Just click the cancel button!”

She clicks it happily, and the bison freezes momentarily before disappearing. Granted, one could never do that with an actual person, but the app was popular with the younger, screen reliant generation.

Marco worked in the tech hub of Silicon Valley. He had hoped to become a cybersecurity analyst, trying to develop strategies to protect against cyber threats. However, he become one of America’s greatest assets one afternoon a few years back when one of his buddies came to him with a supposedly flame-retardant firewall on a major global network. This new firewall, developed by the Department of Defense, was supposed to be the greatest network security device—preventing unauthorized access and be the end of Chinese cyber-attacks. In trying to ensure it was safe, Marco broke the barrier between trusted internal networks and untrusted external networks, successfully hacking the system. Shocked, his company reassigned him a new position, from trying to protect systems to trying to hack them. He spent his days locating potential security breach points of American networks used throughout the Pacific coast. A white hat hacker.

“There she is,” Marco says, “La journaliste!”

I wave my hands in the air smiling. Yes, I guess. That’s me. A journalist.

“Good luck and stay safe,” Marco says.

“You keep protecting America,” I respond.

Marco laughs. Marge blows a kiss to the air and closes the projection.

“You will be back for our wedding in the fall, won’t you?” Marge asks.

I look at my best friend and instead of answering, I hand her the pink envelope I am carrying enclosed with my maid-of-honor speech. “You can’t open it until your wedding day,” I tell her.

Marge didn’t repeat her question. She takes the letter and sets it behind her. She grabs my face in her hands, “I love you, and I believe in you.” She pauses and tells me firmly, “Do not let anything or anyone make you forget why you are there. You got it?”

“I won’t.” She kisses me on the cheek, “Bye Saoirse.”

 

Part 2. How the war started.

I get into the backseat of the car and tap the screen on a tablet next to me.

A projection of an elderly woman appears in the front seat. She turns around and greets me with a British accent, “Good morning, dear, where would you like to go?”

“Hi Ms. Baker, to LAX Terminal B, please.”

“Of course, dear. And what airline will you be flying today?”

“I’m flying with Chaser today. With an 0827-take-off time.”

The car starts moving. I still cringe when I see Ms. Baker’s projected hands floating above the wheel. I remember how skeptical people were a decade ago when the autonomous car industry came into retail sale for the general population. The prime reason the economy of self-driving cars didn’t hit the ground running was due to a mere comfortability factor based upon the social norm. People felt more comfortable when they had a “person” driving them. Hence, the image of a driver projected in the seat. Ms. Baker shifts her floating hands above the wheel.

With the information I just gave Ms. Baker, she says, “I have found your flight dear. Here is the information on your timeline of arrival.”

On the tablet screen next to me a timeline of my trip is presented:

     0817 Car charging station
     0820 Arrival at LAX, Tom Bradley International Terminal B
     0825 Board Plane at Gate 2
     0827 Flight to Nairobi
     Flight Time 2 hours, 7 minutes
     1034 Arrival in Jomo Kenyatta International, Local Time 2134

I sigh. There was no need to rush with a full two minutes to spare in between boarding and take- off. The car slows to 100 mph before pulling into a massive metallic facility, with hundreds of parking spots, mostly empty. Each spot is blocked off with metal walls on the left, right, and top. From the top, the metallic covering at top opens and an arm stretches down and plugs into the port on the roof of the car. A countdown appears on the tablet. Using a Level 8 DC high-powered current, the arm from above releases from the port only 30 seconds later.

The car speeds up and I see the speedometer number turn to 220 mph. I look out the window to watch blurry LA skyscrapers pass by, remembering the times I was a little girl sitting in rush hour traffic with my dad wishing our car could just fly home. I may not have been flying now, but I was close; the freeway is largely empty.

In the past 7 years, the population significantly decreased along the coasts. The culprit? VIR-28. It was an infectious agent that spread at the beginning of 2028—not even 10 years since the last global pandemic. In comparison to the last world health crisis, the response to VIR resulted in lockdowns that were harsher, regulations that were stricter, and treatments that were baseless and ineffective.

The disease vector was not biological, nor was it airborne, foodborne, or waterborne. It took 3 weeks for investigators to pin the cause of transmission on direct contact surfaces. Exports of electronics, toys, apparel, and machinery to the United States from China were traced with the virus, which was able to live on the inanimate objects for days.

It seemed random who lived or died from the virus. As a result, a fear frenzy erupted across America. Extreme measures were taken by the masses. People locked themselves in empty rooms for weeks on end. Communities broke down out of mistrust. Stores went out of business when in a sterilization effort, things tagged with “made in China” were burned. Human isolation resulted in a skyrocket of mental health issues within the population, with the prevalence of suicide deaths almost surpassing that of cancer. The fear induced isolation, which in turn induced loneliness and depression, which altogether may have killed more than the virus itself.

It did not take long after its emergence to confirm that VIR-28 was an act of biological warfare. To say people were confused about the ways and means of the Chinese Community Party (CCP) was an understatement. It was unclear whether the virus was supposed to backfire on China or if the CCP did not care about their people because a large percentage of the China’s population also died from the virus. When the international news of the violation of the United Nations Biological Weapons Convention (BWC) was heard and a war declaration was to be made, an emergency global summit with the world’s leaders was held immediately. At this meeting, the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons (TPNW) was officially ratified by nuclear-armed states and their allies after being under the threshold of ratification for years. At least the leaders of the world agreed on one thing—there would be no use of nuclear weapons in the coming conflict.

The car stops. A little ramp extends from the back of the car and my bags are lifted and gently lowered onto a conveyer belt that will go directly onto the plane. I say a quick goodbye to Ms.

Baker who smiles and waves kindly. Sometimes I forget that she is only a product of artificial intelligence. I am reminded she is when the tablet shuts off and her projection disappears suddenly. The driverless car drives away as quickly as it pulled in.

There was no need for formal security with the detectors built into the conveyor belt leading directly to the gate. At the entrance of the plane is a man. I do not know if he is a person or a projection, but he asks for name, birthdate, and reason for travel.

I respond, “Saoirse Lincoln, October 07, 2007,” and hesitate before saying, “for work.” My face is scanned and a green light above me signals I am free to board.

The plane has large seats for the 12 passengers, all in business attire. Leisure travel was a thing in the past. It was clear why. Everyone had seen the broadcasting of the first commercial planes going down when their electronic controls had been hijacked from thousands of miles away.

Officially, it was the date of the first fallen planes, June 16th, 2028, that the United States declared war on China and its allies. And so began World War III.

 

Part 3. Georgina.

The state of WWIII consisted of Chinese cyber-attacks that seemed to have the potential to infiltrate any system any time and technological hijacking that aimed at causing drastic operational disruption in day-to-day life. At one point, the CCP-controlled apps on smart phones were able to hack into the user’s screen keyboard records and track passwords. Little by little

withdrawals from American banks to Chinese companies started occurring, individual’s identities were stolen, and privacy was lost. The war was not so targeted on life and death, but rather directed on causing emotional discomfort, irritation, and unease, often playing into human weaknesses.

In the past 7 years of constant testing and challenge, America saw great growth in terms of technological development and defense. The existential threats enacted by the CCP to undermine American values ultimately failed, as the United States became ever so united during the 2028 presidential election. The results were almost unanimous for the leader of the free republic, Retired General Thaddeus Paxton. His campaign for presidency could not have been at a more perfect time. President Paxon not only had the charisma and energy of President Theodore Roosevelt, but also the determination and wisdom of President Abraham Lincoln.

I sit back in my seat and close my eyes for take-off. With the development of hypersonic commercial flights, the speed of the plane can travel upwards of 4,570 miles per hour. A voice on the intercom reminds us that the flight today will be 2 hours and 7 minutes.

It has not been 5 minutes before the seat in front does a 180-degree spin to face me.

“Georgina,” she says.

We are too far to shake hands, so I just nod and smile at her.

Georgina has long, straight black hair. Her bright red lips contrast with the black suit jacket and skirt she is wearing. She says she is a senator on the way to visit a US military base out in Mombasa for a momentous event that she says will have great historical significance.

Although not much older than me, Georgina shares a wealth of stories to me, the way an elder woman might when reminiscing on her past.

I learn that our lives are not so different. LA locals. Law students—at one point at least. Both our families moved to middle America at the onset of the war where the population was largely unaffected. Both of us currently on a flight to Mombasa, SFB.

We talk about the current climate of the war and if WWIII could have been prevented. She says, “It would have been fine if China just wanted to become stronger and better on their own term, who are we to judge if they weren’t disrupting others in the process you know? We were becoming stronger as a nation too. Their problem was that they did not know where and when to stop. Seriously what did they think would happen in that massive infrastructure and development project that was pretty much new colonialism.”

I pause, “Yes,” I say, “and now with those awful labor camps across East Africa. I’m going there for investigative work to document human rights violations.”

Georgina says, “I could have seen those camps coming—easy. The first protests of Chinese presence in Africa started way back in what? 2012? You must have been in kindergarten. The

first included the Kenyan block of a Chinese coal power plant that would affect their local industry in the archipelago of Lamu and the Zambian workers protesting hazardous working conditions in those Chinese-run mines. Those protests two decades ago were relatively peaceful. It was only a matter of time before the violence escalated. And in 2023, there was that Kenyan trade protest in Nairobi when they called China’s actions an invasion, and the traders chanted, “Chinese must go!” But China only cracked down using their usual tactic of force. When the protests began to get out of control, the Chinese military presence grew until that Tiananmen Square like incident occurred outside of Westgate mall.”

She takes a deep breath and continues, “The same thing happened in China when the CCP control became too much. How many acts of defiance by the Chinese protesting communism do you think were censored by the government to the masses? And think about what happened when the CCP lost their ability to control their own people. Remember the Uyghur ethnic minority group—when they saw them as a threat to their interests. Gosh, there was obvious global condemnation to those re-education and concentration camps but what could the rest of the world do to stop it? How disappointing that the scramble for Africa and colonization had to repeat to this extent?”

I am not sure if she expects answers or if they are rhetorical questions so sit silently waiting for her to continue. But she doesn’t. She pulls out an e-cigarette.

It was rather slowly that the reasons for China’s acts that led to war were uncovered. I remember that exposé from the photojournalist in late 2027 of the images taken of the labor camps in Kenya that without a single word said thousands. They led to international uproar.

The UN cracked down on the absolute injustice in Africa, targeting the CCP with crimes against humanity. It an effort to salvage what was left of their reputation and prevent the loss of their position on the global stage, the CCP decided to start what seemed to be inevitable for years.
War. VIR-28 was a failed last stitch effort by the CCP to destroy the American economy before we could take actions against them. At the same time, the virus was propagated to divide Americans to prevent the election of Retired General Paxton. Paxton’s campaign focus was for America to become a voice for international justice with harsh stances on China’s expanding hegemony at the cost of human freedom.

The CCP hoped that a war would unite their population under their government. It did not. The communist government, by that point, had become too corrupt and citizen support was only displayed at gunpoint.

All this had occurred with America’s focus directed on the INDOPACOM region and the tensions that lie there. We did not realize the degree of China’s widespread expansion into Africa until it was too late. The human rights violations, the creation of the camps, and the forceful uprisings in Africa fighting China’s presence were already in full swing at the start of the war in June of 2028.

 

Part 4. Warzone.

Kenya, Africa

If I am honest with myself, I should not be here. In 2034, my life took a turn, I want to say for the better, but I am not sure. It happened last year in law school, when I was hit hard with a murder case I was assigned to assist. As the partnered defense attorney, it was disclosed by my defendant that he was in fact the murderer. I did my job, maintaining attorney-client privilege. I fought for that man and advocated for a murderer.

When the verdict was declared, Not Guilty—I felt as if I had been shot. A moral injury. I thought about the weight of the lies and shame I would be burdening if I was a part of a group that preached justice, yet accepted injustice. Nobody thought I was going to quit, but I withdrew from the program by the end of the week.

I went home, unclear how I was going to pay back the debt that schooling incurred and help Marge with the rent after my temporary crash at her apartment turned more permanent by the day. Right before the feelings of regret over my decisions started creeping in, I got a call from the advising dean of the law school. She asked if I was looking for work. A position was for an investigative journalist position had just opened out of Mombasa.

I told her I would consider it.

With a background in political science and social philosophy, I was readily accepted for the position.

It was only after I accepted the job that I found out the last journalist had died when he visited the Chinese labor camps in Kenya. I had heard the news on his death later, that he got the stomach bug and some sort of flu that turned septic. By that time, my paperwork was approved and the date to leave was set.

So here I was, stepping into a war zone.

Three languages are displayed on a large screen when we talk into the airport, “内罗毕欢迎你 / Karibu Nairobi / Welcome to Nairobi.”

Georgina and I are immediately surrounded by bodyguards. We each tell the bodyguard in front of us the individual we are supposed to meet. He calls an armored car to which he tells both of us to get in. Confused as to where we were going, but afraid to talk back, we both got in the car. It is dark outside, and I realize how heavily guarded and sanctioned the airport is. Small parts of the city are lit with bright lights, but the majority looks vacated of humanity, leaving only warped concrete from fires and walls barely held together by skeletal frames. The deteriorating buildings appeared to be trying to tell the story of what once was.

However, I would be lying if I was not impressed by how far-reaching China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) (一带一路) was. Watching the high-speed Chinese Mombasa-Nairobi Standard Gauge Railway (SGR) above our car, there would be no denying that it significantly improved

connectivity between cities, enabling fast and efficient transportation. When the vision of China’s BRI project was first announced in 2013, it sounded on paper to be an overall positive project, enabling infrastructure development, trade expansion, economic growth, regional connectivity, and cultural exchange. Sadly, there were ulterior motives that involved labor right violations, damage to local industries, and debt issues. The large infrastructure projects came with large loans. Those countries in Africa that had limited financial resources struggled to repay high debts from China and soon fell into major economic instability and increased dependence on China. The infiltration of Chinese workers took jobs from Africans, and the conditions violated a whole plethora of labor rights.

Going at the speed we are, the man driving says it will take a little over an hour and a half to arrive at Mombasa, Space Force Base. He apologizes saying that all the Americans flying into the Moi International Airport would be far too risky. I look outside to see land fenced off for miles on end. For agricultural land and mineral resources, the driver explains. I can barely make it out from the car, but there are camps of displaced persons living on the land. The driver says they are forced to workday and night in a way resembling slavery more than indentured servitude.

 

Part 5. The Mission.

The car stops. We are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by gently rolling plains that remind me of the landscape of Wyoming. The driver makes a call. Below us the ground shifts, and before I know it, we are underground. I cannot help but laugh in my head—what a dichotomy—the space force, operating primarily below ground.

The base was an engineering masterpiece. The lights were bright, and the rooms were all pristine white. Georgina and I are escorted to a conference room where the Commanding Officer, Colonel Howard, is in the middle of a classified brief.

“The last of our team has arrived,” Colonel Howard announces, looking at me. There are 7 individuals sitting around the conference table.

“There has been a change to your plan,” Colonel Howard says to me, “We have decided that you will serve as an embedded journalist for our Operation EndEx. We could not risk telling you out of security concerns.”

She continues with the operational plan. Tomorrow, there will be an anti-satellite attack on China’s main satellite system for navigation and communication, China’s BaiTu Navigation Satellite System (BTS), which serves a critical component of China’s space infrastructure. A missile will launch the kinetic kill vehicle (KKV) into orbit, which will use energy from the high-speed collision to disable the satellite—causing their operational capacity and networks to become momentarily unfunctional.

A lot of complex terms that I cannot follow are said. I recorded it all. She mentions at one point that tomorrow is the coordinated day because of a vulnerability detected by a Pacific Coast company in the Chinese networks. Cyber analysts will attack this vulnerability prior with the

KKV launching into orbit as a distraction. I smile when she says this because I know that Marco is the hacker that found the flaw in their system.

At the same time, she says, we will launch via a direct ascent toward the International Space Station (ISS) where we will come together with the other space agencies including NASA, Roscosmos, JAXA, ESA, and CSA.

“Then, together, if we complete our objective here,” Colonel Howard points the laser at the 3-D projection of earth with the location of the CCP’s ISR Space Shuttle shown in red—she somehow seems to make eye contact with all of us simultaneous, “This will be how the space race will be won.” She pauses, “This will be how World War III will end.”

 

Part 6. Operation EndEx.

The next morning came fast. The pre-launch preparations were made. I stood on the side, meeting the astronauts on the team.

At one point I see Georgina talking eagerly at a man who appears to be the President of the United States. She waves at me and confirms who the man is when she mouths the words, “President Paxton!”

Colonel Howard tells me as we get strapped into the spacecraft, “Lincoln, your job is to provide accurate and timely coverage of the military events that will happen today. You’re about to be a part of history, and you have the job of documenting it for the future.”

The acceleration of the spacecraft presses me down hard into my seat as the rocket engines propel. I am here to document this front-line experience, so the world will never forget.

There is a large part of me that fears this unknown, but another part of me is full of wonder. What lies beyond the earth, the vastness of the universe. I see the earth shaking in the rearview of the window of the spacecraft. Soon, the moon appears in view and if I squint hard enough, I can see the American flag waving in the distance.

I cannot help but think of President Reagan and his quote, “Well I`ve said it before and I`ll say it again-America’s best days are yet to come. Our proudest moments are yet to be. Our most glorious achievements are just ahead.”

I reach into my jacket and pull out my notebook and the Pilot G-5 07 gel pen and let the words flow.

The end.

 

Citations

Bartlett, Kate. “Silence on China Protests, but Analysts Say Africa Watching.” Voice of America,
1 Dec. 2022, www.voanews.com/a/silence-on-china-protests-but-analysts-say-africa-
watching-/6858044.html.

Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). www.ebrd.com/what-we-do/belt-and-road/overview.html.

Verdon, Michael. “Meet ‘Stargazer,’ the New Hypersonic Plane That Will Fly From New York
to Tokyo in One Hour.” Robb Report, 1 May
2023, robbreport.com/motors/aviation/hypersonic-aircraft-venus-global-flights-in-hour-1234837362.

Wikipedia contributors.
Wikipedia. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_space_program.
—. www.ebrd.com/what-we-do/belt-and-road/overview.html.