Playing the Part

[Proselyte]

DECEMBER 20th, 835 A.S.
PENNSYLVANIA SYSTEM
PLANET ERIE
VOSBURG HINTERLANDS
NEAREST SETTLEMENT: BOMBERRY JUNCTION

- SIZE: TOWN
- DISTANCE: 27 KILOMETERS
- STATUS: LIBERTY OCCUPIED

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Starless skies overhead tonight. Unmitigated darkness shrouded the forests and rocky hills around Camp Monitor. Watchtowers several stories tall and reinforced alloy walls a meter thick, unnecessarily ornate in the style of Libertonian urban architecture and decidedly out of place on this rustic frontier, tower over the main building, landing pads and interior courtyards within the Liberty internment camp.

Someone unfamiliar with Planet Erie may comment on the fortifications as being overdesigned for a simple prison camp. A visit from some striped volenauts, rotund bear-sized rodents that cut their teeth by felling swathes of woodland and devour anything of nutritional value on their overland march, would change their tune real quick. And those are among the more mild of the local critters.

Even the Liberty authorities have to adapt to local conditions sometimes. These mil-spec prefab walls also keep the site unassailable by armed rabble or insurgent threat, so the briefings go, letting Liberty's finest breathe easy.

At the front gate, eyeing the time on his work terminal, a Liberty policeman bellows a weary moan. Officer McClister is trapped in this dreary guard booth for two more hours tonight until he's finally off duty. Not as though he'll get any sleep with those DSE psychos still working around the clock inside. Who works that hard?

The out of shape, scruffy ginger Manhattanite leans back in his rolling chair, creaking it under his weight. He taps away at his PDA to while away the hours, playing one of those guess-the-word games with far too many adverts, transactions and recurring payment traps snuck in.

Mickey doesn't go in for those, though. He's no rube.

D--us---.

Five letters left, two guesses. A bolt of inspiration strikes him, and he types in

"Delusion"

The game launches into a cutesy "you win!" jingle, lighting up his PDA with excessive fanfare, sparks and shooting stars. The numbed cop feels only the barest drip of dopamine. For as long as he's trapped at this worthless posting, he doesn't expect more. The few other cops here are either total rookies or sticks-in-the-mud, not the sort you kick back and play cards with. It's a small consolation that the teardown will be done soon.

While he wonders who he must have crossed to get a duty placement on the skeleton crew, his vision wanders out the reinforced glass, down the road outside. To his bewilderment, there are headlights in the distance. Suspicious shit o'clock. Someone is driving out here at this time of night? In the middle of nowhere?

The holographic sign on the exterior wall outside makes the situation very clear for any incoming. They'd have had to pass one just like it if they took the concrete road from Bomberry.

⯨≡ RESTRICTED AREA ⯨≡

McClister sets his PDA aside, sits up in his chair and acts every bit the professional he knows he isn't, but this is weird. If it's a surprise inspection, typically they fly in from the city direct. Nobody cares to inspect a prison camp that's got no prisoners anymore, except maybe one or two holdovers. By now, the rest have been shipped out to Texas, or wherever.

Either way, that vehicle is rolling up. Well, fine, he thinks. If it's legit they'll have documentation, and if it's some kind of suicidal bandit raid or car bomb, the exterior walls and glass are blast-resistant.

But is it blast-proof?

Maybe that's better answered not sitting right next to it.

Here goes. The vehicle lights dim, and as it pulls underneath the compound floodlights it's revealed to be a weathered, rugged-looking yellow groundcar, an offroad-capable model common to this backwater. It slows up and comes to a stop at the gate entrance, next to his guard post embedded within the left wall. The officer shrewdly sizes up the driver, noting details as in training. Caucasian woman, tall, bushy dark red hair and freckles. Dressed like a white-collar vulture, full suit jacket and slacks, and he spies a folded overcoat in the passenger seat. As her driver-side window retracts, she turns her head and regards him expectantly.

"This area's off-limits to the public. State your name and business immediately", McClister's voice crackles through the speaker outside his post in an authoritative timbre.

"Alisha Marshal, Deep Space Engineering", she says, smooth and measured. Looks a little anxious, though. "I'm here to perform an audit of the worksite."

So it's DSE checking up, not their own. His tension evaporates, but that's still out of the ordinary. He doesn't know how they do things outside his own company, but in-person audits at this hour? Either this broad's married to her job or they work her even harder than him. Or she's a rat. Still, protocol is what it is, pretty face or not.

"Take your Net ID card, press and hold it up against the windshield."

"You got it."

She produces the card from her jacket and holds it as directed, in time with his activation of the scanner. A cool blue scattering of sterile light emits from the projector above the doors and fans over the car front to back.

The card scan displays her employee record for review on his terminal. Name, picture and occupation seem to line up. Employee for three years, currently working out of Harrisburg Station. No weapon sigs or power sources. Still, coming on wheels doesn't make a lot of sense. That's not how the rest of their flunkies got here to start the teardown.

"DSE not clear you for flying or somethin'? Liable to get your ass shot off night driving out-of-town."

"Oh yup. That's my fault. You know how sometimes, when you get really into talking with someone, time sort of slows down?" More than once with the spaceport Janes, and God knows he'd be punching in late after a ride like that. "One thing led to another, then I completely spaced the pickup I arranged with my pilot. Couldn't get her back on short notice, so...", she pats the car's dashboard like she's handling a steed, "beggar's can't be choosers."

"Must be real worth it to ya then, lady.", the cop remarks dispassionately, glancing back at the terminal to double-check her credentials. It all looks fine to him, but the car itself? There's enough to make an issue out of it. Jackpot.

"Your vehicle's got several violations. Worn tires, no geotracking system, questionable structural integrity? You ought to know better than to take it on the road."

"Would you have mercy on me if I said it was a rental?"

"You'd get some free advice: don't shop Zoner. The fine's two-thousand credits, unless you wanna wait until morning to dispute it. From outside." Mickey smirks, satiated. He misses his Patriot. Swinging a little authority around was just what he needed to liven things up.

Now completely mirthless, she holds out a Sirius Credit Card between two dextrous fingers, stewing silently. Right on cue. The cop takes a scan with his PDA from his side of the glass, and deducts the 'fine' from the card's cash balance. All strictly on the record, of course.

"Drive something that ain't a hazard next time."

"Thanks so much for your service."

Bit of a risk putting one over on a suit, but he figures it'd be a waste of her time to try and burn him for this, and she's already behind. That's the cost of doing business.

"Alright, Miss Marshal, you're clean. Wait for the light to turn green, then pull in and take a right for parking. You have a nice night now."

That gets an eyeroll out of her. McClister flips the switch for the gate controls. The heavy alloy doors gradually retract with a mechanical whirr, slotting into the wall segments. Once the light overhead flips green, she pulls in over a speedbump and into the facility, doors sealing behind her.

Totally worth it. He can't wait to get back on the lanes.

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The groundcar trundles into one of the simple parking spaces in a lot just past the gate, denoted by simple white lines on concrete. As it comes to a stop, "Alisha Marshal" checks that all of her equipment is good to go.

The Volgograd-make body armor under her disguise and the snub laser made it through the scan as advertised, along with her stunprod and a shock grenade. The fruits of Coalition handiwork, courtesy of Pinnacle's varied suppliers, though she suspects she owes as much to the LPI. Even a simple pat-down could've put a spoke in the wheels of this escapade. Nobody's invested in keeping the internment camps on Erie that secure anymore without prisoners. Good news for her.

Her laser will need to charge for a time, though, as a full battery might've drawn some attention in the scan results. She pulls the diminutive VMP-29 from within her jacket and plugs its energy cell into the car's device outlet. A modest gun. Easily overlooked, but still lethal. That's what it'll come down to when all else fails. She stares transfixed by the battery indicator as the gun's charge slowly increases, anticipating the sensation of the expelled waste heat. The stuttering flash of the beam. The flickering of final thoughts.

These days, it's all so cloak-and-dagger. When she began advocating for the resistance, Aspen Harlow would never have imagined she'd have her own body count. She's no soldier, but nonetheless she sided herself unreservedly against the occupation. So much false optimism. The tide of history doesn't suffer the pretense of such fools easily. Most Pennsylvanians know the real price of freedom by now, whether they accept it or not. So it goes with the former explorer.

It's a price she accepted late. Whether it's too late to count for her home, she doesn't know. Against Liberty, or otherwise.

The compad Aspen left wedged in the car's cupholder chitters and flashes a notice light, pulling the woman from her daze. She yanks it free, then flips it open after a quick glance about for anyone nosey.

A man's voice, smokey and low, filters through the device, a little out-of-breath. "Hey, Trubs. Visual confirmation of your entry. Can't believe that Junker doohicky actually got you in."

The welcome voice's mannerism gets a grin out of her. He's referring to her false Neural Net identifier card. Not the last piece of secondhand Allentown computerware she'll rely on.

"Ohh, let's not jump for joy. The night's still young. You all set to go?"

"Yehp, just made our overwatch position. Can't see over the walls for nothin', but got a decent line on the front door. How's it lookin' in there?"

Aspen peers out the windshield. Within the initial courtyard, several mobile cranes and field-habs are set up, and even at this late hour there are some men and women in protective gear busy at work. A few police bots, both treaded security turrets and Kishiro humanoid types in LPI livery, move through rigid patrol paths about the premises of the main building ahead. Little sign of other flesh and blood cops.

"It's no encore crowd. It might be the late hour, but I suspect there aren't many badges here."

The folks dressed in high-vis vests and hardhats are stacking dismantled paneling and digging up pipes on the prison grounds, alongside a few humanoid worker bots. Those must be the DSE contractors, congregated around their equipment. No sight of any prisoner holding area. It's not her priority, anyway.

He grunts over the comm, unperturbed. "Ain't no surprise. Makes your job a darn sight simpler. Got eyes on the main office?"

"Looks like it. There's a good few bots between me and there, though. That's gonna be trouble if I exit this way in a hurry."

"Well, we're settin' up the mortar, so if things go pear-shaped, say the word and we'll bring down a little mayhem. Ought to send 'em spinnin' and cover your exit." Sure, or blow her up. Even worse, the uptick of enthusiasm in his voice tells Aspen he's probably looking forward to it. "Get yourself in quietly, though. We ain't fixin' for no marines to crash this party early."

"Soft touch, as planned. I'll see it done."

As the comm ceases, Aspen turns back to consider the main gate. If that's the only way in or out, this could be trickier than they thought.

One thing at a time.

Leaving her gun and her messenger bag for now, she opens the car door and Alisha Marshal steps out, the image of the anxious company woman. She sets off to acquaint with her 'colleagues' until she can make her way towards her goal: stealing the prisoner transfer manifests of Camp Monitor.

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