The whole experience had left him physically and psychologically drained. He hadn't a drop of willpower left in him; it seemed like hours before he could even open his eyes to the nightmare which had unfolded. There were so many things running through his mind; in the forefront was the death agony of the man who attacked them, and whom Jameson had to finish off by hand. It made him collapse inside to think of it. The fetal position was very tempting, but he laid flat on his back that perhaps another attacker might drop by and unload on him, to put him out of his misery. It would've been better for me if Jameson had to finish me off. He longed for death. This was Hell. He didn't know if the other beings in the sim (were they part of the simulation or other "players"?) were enjoying this, or finding it just as he was, or were used to it. That's how war goes, I suppose. No matter what he tried to shift his thoughts to, invariably they returned to the hideous death which he had observed.Didn't he at least have a right to see the face of the man who killed him? Isn't really the least Jameson could've done? To die from a machine...like getting mangled by a combine. Watching the gun sweep towards his body -- feeling the cool, yet harshly metallic breeze from the spinning barrels and pneumatic action -- face contorted with pain -- writhing in agony from the nails shattering armor and bone alike -- is that a way for a man to die? Is that a way for an animal to die? Are we worse than the beasts which coldly kill their prey, at least following the laws of nature?
He would've sat there forever if he could. He felt an enormous weight pulling him down, holding him against the ground. It was painful, in his mind, to move. To move would acknowledge his place here. Movement was bad. He did not belong in Hell. He was quitting. He would not fight it. He didn't care if he was weak. No man should have to endure This. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
Jameson and another man walked into the ammo room to restock. They were silent. Out of courtesy (such thoughts always puzzled him when he reflects on them afterwards) Moriarty pulled himself up and sat with his back to the wall to acknowledge their presence. After a short silence, the other man spoke. Whether he addressed Jameson or Moriarty, he did not know, for his eyes were searching the stone floor, avoiding eye contact.
"We must plan our attack."
Jameson looked up. "We cannot. Our bot is gone, and our defensive capabilities have been seriously compromised. We will have to draw from the offensive team to make up for it. An attack would not be wise at this point, commander. Out of our original twelve, we now have seven, including our new guy," gesturing at Moriarty. "Until we get reinforcements we should fortify our positions and try to take as little action as possible."
The commander did not move or speak. His posture and expression was very puzzling to Moriarty. He took a deep breath.
"I am well aware of our tactical situation, doctor. In battle, the odds don't always favor your side. In light of the current events, it is most prudent to organize a final attack. I think you know what that means, don't you?"
Jameson recoiled a little at the words. "Yes, I do." A short pause, then, "It will be difficult to convince the others."
"No, it won't. I am the leader. They understand their position in this war. It's a simulation, Jameson, and we're all tired of it. You've seen two men go batty in this. You've killed many more. Yeah, they're simulation men, but do you not want it to end, whether we win or not? We're not giving up. We've fought our fight and done our best. That was the original agreement I got in on. I have fulfilled it, as have all the others. It's time to go home."
The commander's final words had risen from the melancholy drone which he had begun in, to a warm, almost tender voice which spoke of fond memories of a former life. There was a faint glimmer of hope radiating from this man. He was a pinpoint of light in the vast, black universe. And it stirred something in Moriarty.
It was the first time that he actually found the presence of good in this place. He wasn't sure if it had existed at all at first; everything he saw reeked of the most vile and revolting emotions and thoughts. But out of nowhere, there was hope. A way out? he thought. Suicide run? It was just a simulation, wasn't it? Logically, the "game" ends when you "lose?" He almost laughed at himself. Bringing logic into it. This isn't a logical situation to begin with. But then again, how logical is a suicide run, really? Illogical solutions to illogical problems.
At this ray of hope, Moriarty stretched his knotted muscles and pulled up an ammo box to sit on. The doctor and the commander began making plans to regroup with the rest of the soldiers (there were four others) in order to better coordinate their attack. Apparently Jameson was second in command, but both had been separated from their men during a resupply run. At that time Moriarty had picked them up on the radio in his request for help. Essentially, their forces were composed of seven men, as described by the two men in conversation: the commander (he never introduced himself, it seemed rather awkward to do so in battle); Jameson, the medic with the pneumatic gun; Syme was a reconnaissance specialist, trained in the use of sophisticated detection tools; Ratcliffe was a demolitions expert, loaded with a great deal of C-5 (in highly protective casing, of course) and specialty grenades; Kowalski was a long-range combat specialist, who carried a Kimber .30-06, Bausch & Lomb tactical scope, cryo-treated Shileen barrel, and 110-grain hollow-points (the Geneva convention didn't count here); Ransom was a Navy-SEAL type, pretty much an all around guy, who carried an M-16 submachine gun and absurd amount of ammo; then there was Moriarty, who had not found his place in the team yet. In addition, all carried several grenades, a .44 magnum pistol with two clips, and a radio, plus whatever personal gear they had. After some searching, a pistol and grenades for Moriarty were scrounged up, and he had the dead robot's radio.
Jameson had mentioned a security grid, and when Moriarty asked him about it, he explained it in detail. The man-bot was the "handyman" of the team and had rigged up an automatic defense grid before his death, consisting of a TSTN (thermal sensor/transmitter net) which monitored traffic through their portions of the base, and two large caliber gatling turrets hiding in dark corners of the base entrance. The lone attacker who had fired at Jameson through the open door had been attempting to bring down this net, with little success. The sensors provided the guns the targeting information they needed to deal with threats, which then in turn protected the sensors. It was difficult to get near the guns, as several points on the net were guarding areas which would've been a good place to compromise security using rifles or grenades. Though they were sensitive equipment, the effectiveness of the setup the computer-man gave it almost totally untouchable autonomy. It had obviously taken a great deal of precise work, but that was the man-bot's specialty. That was where Moriarty came in.
Ever since he was a small child, he had been a tinkerer. His possessions up until high school were mostly comprised of disassembled toys and home-built gadgets. He often thought of himself as a non-absent minded absent-minded professor, who was very good at inventing but not totally inept at everything else. His prowess at working with and creating machinery stood out in high school where he dominated the shop department with his professional creations. Accordingly, his skills in math were excellent as well, advancing to high levels of mathematical theory before ever entering college. He had graduated from MIT magna cum laude, in two and a half years, with a degree in mechanical engineering, proceeded with a short stint at Black and Veatch (which he deplored), then moved on to work for a prestigious, highly secretive department of the U.S. government, which was what got him to where he was now. Hearing about the security grid intrigued his analytical mind. His first thought was to learn it while it was fully functional, so in the case of an attack he would be able to facilitate its repair (if it was repairable at all; apparently the creator had only left behind a few spare parts, and he carried the operator's manual in his non-functional chipset).
He mulled this over in his mind for a while, then broke in, mid-sentence, on the discussion taking place before him.
"You know, I've been thinking about this grid, and I think it would be wise if I could sit down and examine it so maybe I can repair it when it's broke, or perhaps improve on it."
The commander paused for a moment.
"Well, why should you know anything about something like that? The robot took weeks just to think that thing up. I'd just as soon put you to some more useful, and reasonable, task."
"Sir," -- the title came naturally to his lips -- "I'm about the best of the best in my field. MIT in 2 and a half years, instant promotion to chairman of a department of Black and Veatch, and now I work for the government in a department that most people don't even know exist. I've been there, and done that, sir, and if you want airtight security in the base we'd better get somebody familiar with it so if something might, and most likely will, happen, it won't be the end-all."
The commander paused for a moment, then grunted into his radio, "Kowalski, meet at the main resupply ASAP. We got a guy here who needs your cover."
He looked at Jameson, then at Moriarty.
"Get on it, soldier."