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The call came in on Tuesday night.
For the past two days, Yuri Yamamoto had slowly settled into the rhythms of life on Moreno Island. The Woods had offered to board him and Kayla Fox at the farmhand quarters, in exchange for keeping the place tidy and well-maintained. It was an offer neither could refuse.
The Woods awoke early, well before sunrise. Father and son tended to the fields and livestock, while Mrs. Wood began the daily chores. The Woods and their guests assembled for breakfast at precisely eight in the morning, a spread of eggs, beans, hash browns and bacon. Then the Woods continued working the field. Though they didn’t have to, Yuri and Kayla insisted on helping out.
There was so much to do. Clearing weeds and pests. Herding the livestock and keeping them from getting into too much trouble or damaging the wetlands. Collecting and removing compost from the toilet. Drawing water, over and over again. With so many tasks on the schedule, there was never an idle moment.
The Woods used to have machines to do most of the work. Most of those machines were designed by the Guild or the Singularity Network. After their last run-in with the New Gods, the Woods had sold them off and transitioned to products from independent manufacturers or hand tools.
It wouldn’t have been a problem if they had more helping hands. The Woods weren’t poor by any measure. But neither were they rich. They could only afford to hire farmhands come harvest season. Until then, they had to run the farm themselves. Chipping in was only the right thing to do.
Mrs. Wood prepared boxed lunches for everyone. Tacos stuffed with cilantro rice, farm-fresh vegetables, salsa and pulled pork. Everyone ate on the go, never pausing in their work.
With every task Yuri struck off his list, two or three more popped up. The sun scorched his skin. Sweat plastered his clothing to his body. Dirt spattered across his body. But it was good, honest labor, the kind of life-sustaining work that a man could take pride in.
At day’s end, everyone sat down for dinner. Mrs. Wood had prepared a huge beef casserole and salad for everyone. One last round of evening chores, and the Woods finally settled down for the night.
Which was when the real training began.
In the darkness, Yuri, James and Kayla practiced combatives. Shinkyu Ryu Aiki Heiho blended with the System, the twin arts the Yamamoto family taught. Self-defense was a perishable skill, and this was one skill they could not afford to let die.
They only had an hour. They made the most of it, going slow but deep, burning in every movement into their synapses, using the neurocognitive learning models they had employed on their charges scant days ago.
They operated at a higher level than their trainees, seamlessly integrating empty hands, blades and firearms. Yuri had taught the cadre how to deflect, disarm, detain; here they practiced how to cripple and kill, and how to do it so smoothly and subtly there was no defense against the moves, no means of perceiving them until after the joint shattered or the knife cut or the bullet penetrated.
It was a densely-packed hour. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Everyone had become rusty. It was inevitable. After two years on the run, two years without access to the facilities and resources of the STS, everyone’s skills had dropped off. Yuri had kept in shape as best as he could. So had everyone else. Hard life on the farm had granted James the physique of an Old World demigod.
Even so, skills like shooting, breaching, and room clearing all needed constant practice. Without practice, the edge would dull. Yuri wouldn’t be surprised one bit to learn that the SRT could now outshoot the former STS operators.
The cadre knew more than the SRT now. But the SRT could continue to refine their skills, while the cadre had to run the shadows. It was only a matter of time before the SRT caught up to them, then surpassed them.
But that day was not today. And when that day comes, it would be the highest proof of their achievements.
The cadre didn’t have to bring themselves back to the razor’s edge. They simply needed to outfight and outsmart whatever the New Gods could throw at them.
Was one hour a day enough, though?
Yuri didn’t know. And he couldn’t dedicate more time to training, either.
Yuri had always seen himself as a soldier. A warrior and a leader of warriors. But the art of war was not the art of life. It was the art of inflicting death and destruction. It could not coax crops from the earth, induce the heavens to rain, nor transform livestock to protein.
In the old days, in the Earth that once was, the samurai depended on the farmer. The peasant gave a portion of his crop to the daimyo as taxes, who in turn distributed a portion to his samurai. The samurai in turn used his income to keep himself and his retainers ready for war. In the Earth that was now, Yuri had to find another way to make a living.
One day, no man may buy or sell save he that had the mark of the New Gods. That day was coming soon. Already Yuri knew that everyone associated with the STS would be shut out of polite society. No one would hire them for fear of attracting the wrath of the New Gods. Only a handful would even contemplate doing business with them. Soon there will come a day when Nova Babylonia would be sundered along sectarian lines, when every man had to choose a side.
To survive, he had to disentangle himself from the system the New Gods built. To disconnect from the grid and live on his own terms. But he was a warrior. Not a farmer.
And so he helped the Woods, learning how to be a farmer, banking against the day when the beast of ten horns and seven heads rose from the seas.
Everything was training. The chores were training too. He would dedicate himself entirely to this new profession. And yet, he had a sinking feeling that he was too slow, that what he did wasn’t enough, that he wouldn’t be ready when the inevitable came.
As he sat on the back porch of the farmhand quarters, staring out into the inky blackness of the wetlands past the chain-link fence, these thoughts and more rushed through his head. James had already retired for the night. Kayla was showering. He was just waiting for his hair to dry.
Until then, he stared out into the dark, pistol on his hip and rifle in his hands, breathing and watching and trying to think of nothing at all.
And failed.
“What are you thinking?”
Yuri looked over his shoulder. There was Kayla, a towel wrapped around her auburn hair, in a gray crop top that showed off her muscular neck and arms, and thick blue jeans that emphasized the tautness of her legs.
“Not much,” he said.
She laughed.
“Come on. You’re always thinking.”
She got him there. He chuckled. And sighed.
“I’ve been a warrior all my life,” Yuri said. “The Citadel, the Rangers, Special Forces, Special Activities Unit, Special Tasks Section. I’ve spent more years at war than at peace.”
“You’ve been through a hell of a lot. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like,” she said.
“Once, I tried counting the number of men and monsters I’d killed. Personal kills, you understand, not kills from indirect fires or air support or from orders I’d issued. Confirmed kills with gun, blade and empty hand.”
“How did it go?”
Yuri looked off into the woods. His voice trailed into a whisper.
“I’d lost count.”
“Damn… I… I don’t know what to say.”
“The hell of it is, most of those kills weren’t in the military. They were in the STS. At home. What does that say about Nova Babylonia?”
“It says we’re going to hell.”
“That’s right. The goal of the STS was to try to stop it. Even when the brass used us to play off the new Gods against each other, they were still trying to prevent an apocalypse. Now, though…”
“There’s no one who can hold the line.”
“That’s right.”
“The SRT is going to try.”
“That’s for Moreno Island. Everywhere else… they’re on their own.”
“We’re only human. There’s only the three of us. Six, if you count the rest of the team. And there’s rest of the STS too. We’re all doing what we can.”
“Do you think it’s enough?”
Her silence stretched into an eternal moment. Unspoken thoughts weighed the air around them. Insects called, gators rumbled in reply, but all that sound could not fill the void hanging between him and her.
“No,” she said, at last.
“We can’t save the world. Only the little patch of land within our reach.”
“It’s enough.”
“It’ll have to be.”
He looked at her at last. She was looking at him, _into _him, meeting his gaze with her own. Everyone told Yuri he had a piercing gaze. Few could look him in the eye and hold the gaze. She could, and did.
He had noticed it first during her post-selection interview, when he wanted to see if she should progress to New Operator Training School. Of the few women who had made the cut, she was the only one among them who’d looked at him without looking away, without flinching, without hesitation.
In her warm eyes he saw twin sparks dancing in their hearts. There was an invitation there, if he could just stand up and dig it out.
But… no.
Not tonight.
It wasn’t right. They weren’t pledged to each other. And now… now he needed to be alone with his thoughts.
“I’ll be staying out here for a while longer,” he said.
“We’ve got a long day and an early start tomorrow,” she said.
“I still have more thinking to do.”
She nodded, her head hanging low. “Alright then.”
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight,” she replied.
She headed off into her bunk alone, leaving him to ponder the weight of a life lived at war.
Morning came as swiftly as a bullet. He wasn’t sure how much rest he’d gotten. All he knew was that after meditating for an interminable amount of time, he had finally crawled into bed. It seemed like a moment after he’d closed his eyes, the alarm screamed.
He wasn’t sure if he’d rested at all. But he was awake and there was work to do.
The Tuesday routine was the same as the previous day’s. Work, work, work, from break of dawn to set of sun. The farm wasn’t going to look after itself. As before, Yuri committed himself completely to the day’s labors, keeping himself fueled up on black coffee.
Night came as a relief. The darkness promised he could, once again, be the man he once was, and always would be. If only for a precious hour.
This time they practiced with weapons. Dry fire with lasers and fusion goggles, taking aim at the assorted wildlife creeping around the edges of the farm. They practiced target indication, hand signals, stealthy movements, patrols, all the critical skills needed for rural nighttime operations.
Or, at least, that was the plan, until Sheriff Clark called.
Yuri was crouched at the edge of the river, goggles down, sweeping the waters of the river running along the outer boundaries of the Wood family farm. An alligator lurked in the depths, camouflaged within a lush patch of shrubbery, exposing only its eyes and snout. With the naked eye, it was invisible. In thermal view, its body heat betrayed it as a bloom of red.
It was a fifteen-foot monster. The prince of this patch of swamp. A fine trophy for any wall. Yuri had no intention of taking it as game, but it would serve as an ideal, if unwitting, dry fire target. He smoothly swung his M83 carbine over, watching the red dot play across its head—
His phone vibrated unpleasantly in his pocket.
Yuri exhaled.
“Bang,” he whispered.
The alligator grunted.
And Yuri answered the phone.
“Yuri, are you with James and Kayla?” Sheriff Clark asked.
“Yes.”
“We have an SRT callout.”
This quick? Yuri couldn’t say he hadn’t expected it, but he would have liked to give the SRT buffer time to settle down before they were called up.
“One second,” Yuri said.
He lowered the phone. Next to him, Kayla and James turned to look.
“We have a callout,” Yuri said. “You in?”
Kayla nodded.
“Of course,” James said.
The trio quickly backed up away from the waters and up a slope. When they were sure there was no wildlife around, Yuri set the phone to loudspeaker mode.
“What’s the situation?” he asked.
“Suspected drug lab at Corcoran Park. A trailer park at the outskirts of Saint Lucille. The neighbors reported a strong chemical smell around a trailer. Some of them report headaches, nausea and a sore throat.
“A patrolman went to investigate. He caught a whiff of the odor and developed a headache as well. He also spotted toys scattered around the front door. There’s a possibility of minor children in the trailer. He hung back and called for backup.”
“You’re sending SRT for this?” Yuri asked.
“SRT and Narcotics. SRT will make entry, arrest all suspects, prevent destruction of evidence, and evacuate any children and civilians. Narcotics will process the lab when the raid is over. Meanwhile, Patrol will lock down the site and evacuate the neighbors.”
“Your patrol deputies can’t take this call themselves?”
In Babylon, at least, patrol cops would handle it. Specialist units would only get involved if it were a preplanned raid, or if the suspects were known to possess weapons, tech or magic.
“They’re not equipped to handle hazardous materials. It’s on SRT.”
“You’ll need a hazmat crew from the fire department,” James said.
“Yes, we’ve alerted them too. They’re on the way. As far as MISD is concerned, however, SRT is the lead unit for taking down drug labs in Moreno Island. I’ve already called up the team. Are you ready to help out?”
“Always ready,” Yuri said.
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