WT-S 15/4/2026

I set out for my interview in Cologne with a suitcase full to bursting. Water bottles, filter, sealed food, a personal heater, my heaps of UBS documents, visa, even an up-to-date CSF sample.

Over prepared? Maybe not, but I had no intention of letting ever-changing travel restrictions slow me down. I had even scheduled enough free-time to submit to a few medical exams in quarantine facilities. Yes, I even brought a sleeping bag.

Anyone whose career has forced them to endure any amount of international travel over the last few decades will be nodding their heads. Going from the formerly embattled T2 zone of the United Kingdom into the borders of a secure T1 in central Europe was a daunting prospect.

Or so I thought.

The truth is my journey to the Human Engineering Museum in Germany was impossibly smooth. Air scanners lay in pieces, thermal scanners were only cursorily swept across my line of fellow travelers, the viral security officials, even the Germans, were pleased to greet us. My interview was succinct and jovial, I was even granted permission to ask them a few questions, which might make their way into another article.

So, I had a suitcase full of redundant luggage and a few days to spare in Cologne. Without much of a tourism budget, Yes, reader, I spent a lot of time in my hotel sampling the room service.

By the time I was actually making my way to the interview, I was feeling well-rested and surprisingly optimistic. Indeed, even the museum staff were pleased to see me, and I was quickly ushered into a backroom to meet with my subject, Janek Kleiner.

Mr. Kleiner is short, wide and heavy-set, and although he is a member of the museum’s board, special advisor on viral security to multiple central European governments and former UBS-UG Major, his manner does nothing to betray a storied, successful man.

Before I can finish organizing my thoughts and get to the introductions, my subject has a question for me.

‘What’s this for?’ He croaks. I’m happy to explain my ambitions, and just like that, the ice is broken. He’s a surprisingly animated man despite his cane, his age, and most strikingly, his obvious injuries; chemical burns that might be mistaken for liver-sports or birth marks across his bald head and left cheek. ‘The while thing in a single book? It will be long.’

‘Before we talk about the past-‘

‘What do I do now?” Mr. Kleiner nods his head, obviously no stranger to writers looking to pick his brains, ‘I have very many titles. Manage the museum, viral security advisor. You know all this.’

I assure him that I do.

‘Sometimes I write reports. Endorse politicians. No, this is not work. My real job is this. I tell war stories.'

   ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I tell him, and that seems to please him. ‘I’m hoping you’ve saved up some of your very best.’

‘We have to recap the basics. My record, yes?’ I nod, and he goes on, ‘I made it as far as major. Turnover was quite high, you must understand.’

‘Major of what, Mr. Kleiner?’

‘Ah, the basic basics,’ he laughs easily, ‘Union Guard. Officially, the militant sub-division of the Union of Buffer States. Trained, armed, ready, that was the motto. We used to say “best two out of three” when we were hoping for the best. A sort of mantra.’

‘What were your duties?’ He’s settled in now, giving me the distinct impression he would happily talk all day.

‘Duties, let me think. There were a lot,’ he leans back in his steel folding chair, remembering, ‘the Human Defense Treaty,’ he wags is finger, ‘that was a big turning point. As a child, all we heard, all the time, was doom and gloom. It seemed no-one was doing anything. I was just young enough to remember Twelve-Hour Cold War, you see. It was only a few months after, the, ah-what were they called?’

‘You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Kleiner,’ I tell him, pausing to rest my wrist from taking notes in shorthand.

‘At the UN, predecessors to the Environmental trust.’

‘The IPCC?’ I suggest, and Mr. Kleiner snaps his fingers.

‘That’s the one. After the war, we breathed a sigh of relief. There were block parties, I remember. My parents were still too afraid of the bombs to go outside. We had plenty of food and water saved, but it was one thing after another, wasn’t it?’ He laughs again, this time directed at me, ‘but this is probably before your time. It was a bright spot. Then the IPCC announced nuclear winter had been triggered. We left home after that.’

‘And that brings us back to the Human Defense Treaty’ I prompt him.

‘Yes, the treaty. As I said, doom and gloom. We saw the effects, even as children. Long winter after long winter. It was only later we found out about the photospores and the algae, things were worse than we knew. But, the treaty! Many people were skeptical, of course, it was radical, but I didn’t hesitate. One of the best decisions of my life, I needed the discipline, the purpose! No more wasting away smoking and scrolling through my phone for me.’

‘So you don’t regret your time in Union Guard?”

‘Regret?’ He chews on the word, as if he knows the flavor. ‘It’s very easy to do regrettable things when they give you orders and a uniform and tell you it will make you a hero.’ He thinks for another moment, and I almost prompt a response, ‘I regret much of what we did, but sometimes I wonder if it was necessary. Of course, I knew nothing of this when I started.’

‘So how did you start out?’ I roll my wrist again, ready.

‘The training of our first generation was a mess. It changed from one week to the next. We did physical fitness, a medical checkup. We had riot officers teach us how to de-escalate, but of course most of us preferred to learn how to swing a baton.’

It was the first summer after the treaty was signed, and bureaucrats were fighting cold wars across the continent as their countries were reorganized into the Union of Buffer States. I had no idea about any of this, of course.

Our camp was in France. Calais, I think. The whole place was locked down. Riots everyday. This was not long after the French regime had been ousted by NATO, remember. Most of what we learned was hygiene, and most of our lecturers were EMTs and surgeons. Beyond our basic training, officers selected us based on aptitude. I did not score very high in any area.

So what was your training?

First, maintenance. I became very familiar with the antiseptic hose. Don’t laugh! It was important work and training was abundant. The base crews would loop me in whenever vehicles would return. I resented it at the time, of course, but it put me above the other recruits. They were not looking for commandos, you see.

What were they looking for?

Consistency. Not mindless automatons, mind you. I learned later the UG training program had drawn a lot from space program training. Isolated, confined, extreme, you know these? I-C-E conditions, that is what they were checking for. Once deployed, we could not go out into town or sight-see, we would be on-base at every hour to prevent contamination. I also became quite familiar with UG cypher; that was my first promotion, radio operator.

How long was it until you were deployed? And where did you go?   

Straight into the meat grinder! A few months at basic training and we were supporting Environmental Trust mission in the UK.  The infamous Sector Four.

I had no idea the segmentation of the UK was so early. Where did you operate from?

Stirling Castle. The local government turned over many of their heritage sites to the UBS, and we at Union guard re-fit them into sterile, self contained security centers. It was quite dramatic at first.

I worked hard. Wake at dawn, exercise, and my duty roster would be one of two things: construction or vehicle maintenance. That was my first three years, moving pallets of bricks, applying speed-tape and spraying down APCs.

How was that? Did you feel as if you were making a difference in the way you wanted?

You read my mind. Of course not! It was torture! And I was a grunt, the lowest of the low, no access to intel. All I knew it was what my algorithm told me. Heavily censored, of course, but we all knew it was bad in those days.

Year two is when the I-C-E started to kick in. Understand, we were all young guys, we all thought the bright blue and white UG uniforms made us look like super-heroes! All we could think of was how the women would love us.

But that sort of thing was never allowed?

No! And it was for the best. Our movements were tightly controlled. Monitored at all times. And if we went out it was visor down, mask up. Plenty of men broke the rules, of course. But the 3s-sorry, the plusses among the locals would stalk them. Infect them. Paranoia, that was the worst, especially when the sergeant major would come down with a scanner, or worse, make us all get CSF samples!

You call them 3s, that’s UG-cypher, isn’t it?

Yes, yes. Old habits. That was my first real post at Sector Four. Checkpoint Stirling radio operator. We turned one of the turrets into a command center. Deathly cold if not for all the ELINT and radios we packed in there. Floor thick with cables.

As I said, I had a good memory. We would aptitude test sometimes for internal promotion, all to minimize international travel. I passed enough times to fill in as communication operator.

So: 3s. That’s UG-cypher for an APEP positive individual. Cypher 3. We would never call them “pluses,” not official policy. Dehumanizing, you see. To their credit. “Plus rights,” sounds good. So. 3s.

Were there a lot of codes?

Oh yes. Codes for everything. New ones all the time. Too. Everything we did was in code. Every order was a cypher. That was my job as radio operator, just sit with the manuals, keep them secure. There were times It seemed like I was kept prisoner in that com tower. Old stone, atmospheric, I think you would say, if you had that kind of head.

Not you?

No, never for me. I have a hard head. After five years our checkpoint had gone from observation to the frontlines. We were running more patrols than usual, NTBs all over the countryside. I think it was about three months after our commander banned TV. Solid-state media only.

Early morning, in the courtyard, I was getting an early start on hosing down the APCs. One of the few times I got to see the sky, understand, and the horizon was that pale blue, the air was crisp. I realized I had taken the birds singing for granted, and that morning they were just gone. There used to be weeds and holly up around the base of the walls. All gone. That was when I knew we were in trouble.

Of course, what I didn’t know is that our designation had changed; Checkpoint Stirling was now “active.”

Did that change anything for you?

It changed everything! For the first time ever I was running patrols. We all crammed into our vehicles, me with my big back-pack of communication equipment. All those fantasies about local women seemed stupid then, when they threw bricks at our convoy. But there we were to reinforce the local military.

The UK armed forces?

Plus a soup NATO units. Sector Four was turning into a flashpoint, but that wasn’t what changed everything. No, I knew people would hate us and I knew our post was turning into a dangerous one. Driving up and down the country roads, relaying messages, sometimes distributing rations. No, It was my first real “action,” they would say in America.

We were on the motorway just outside Aberdeen when we got the order. “Unit 5 UA. CI-3. Cipher 15.” My first 15.

What does that mean?

Cipher 15 is authorization of force. CI is for civil unrest, class 3. Unit 5 was under attack, control wanted us to reinforce them and disperse the crowd, so we did. 15 is the worst-no, not the worst, but what it meant was very clear: start shooting.

Let me stop you there. Which was the worst cipher?

The worst? 450. No question. You’ve heard of this one?

I want to hear it from you.

450 is the suicide code. Everyone knows this. I-no, I never got that one. Infection confirmed, treatment ineffective or unavailable. “Auto-nullification” is what it says in the manuals. I did…we’ll get there. My first engagement, remember?

Please, go on.

It was some new residential area. Shiny pre-fabricated houses, all the same. Tiny little village, all clustered around a mossy statue. Miserable weather, cold, just before sundown. We all piled out of our APC. My lieutenant started shooting into the air. Heavy-handed, but it sent them running. This was a CI-3, so, aggressive, intent to harm judged, but no deadly weapons. That’s what we thought we were getting into.

But that’s not what happened?

It was not dramatic. The crowd ran, we linked up with Unit 5. VRA support unit. It was about an hour after, sun fully down, that we got the call. Radio operator for Unit 5 picked his up before mine. I will never forget his face, even through the visor. He went paper white and threw his respirator on. Both hands. It was the one thing drilled into us more than anything else. Funny, the sight of all these UG soldiers panicking and equipping their air filters sent the civilians running faster than the guns.

What was the order?

Code 4. NTBs confirmed. Unit 5-1 UA.  We know they were headed back this way. Of course, for us, little guys with guns any kind of NTB is a death sentence. They would probably come with 3s, maybe S-NTBs, and we were caught in the open with a long run back to base.

So what did you do?

Oh, we had no time to do anything. Before my lieutenant could tell me to do anything the flares starting flying. Crash, gunfire. I was running for cover. Me and half the squad all shaking like scared dogs behind our APC. The sky was full of red fire and thunder. I think the lieutenant gave us some speech over our helmets about protecting civilian life and public order. Credit to him for staying composed. It didn’t save him.

So, we formed some elements and went to secure whatever perimeter we could around the village. Lucky me, I was pushing through some hedges straight towards the sounds of gunfire. That was the first time I saw a Wellington.

The first time? Really?

No-yes. In person, I mean. Of course, every government on earth had made them famous. You couldn’t scroll a media site without seeing one. You couldn’t go out in public without seeing them on the side of posters or recruitment boards. Seeing them in real life is different.

How so?

Have you ever been to a zoo?

No, sorry. I’m from the UK. I grew up in a security block.

What about a horse? It’s like putting your hand on a large animal, but more. The ground shakes. The thunder, the light of the spotlights. You feel something in your bones. Awe. Fear, maybe, but made by man. It’s not like any other vehicle. A powerful aircraft, maybe.

It was overcast, dark, freezing cold. I remember there was snow in the air. The flares had fallen to the earth and all we has was helmet lights and muzzle flash to see by. It was chaff, small rockets fired into the air. To draw away guided munitions, you see. The smoke and the light revealed it in the dark. The massive machine. It must have been one of the very first UG Wellingtons, and it was already filthy. It stepped backwards, torso swiveled out into the dark. It felt like my head was going to pop, but I couldn’t look away, even for a second. It was like meeting a celebrity!

Well, me and a few others tried to pick our targets, but all we really did was fire out into the darkness. That was the first time I fired my weapon in the field.

Did you save the village?

“Save” is a big word. We did very little saving in those days. We fell back with the Wellington, well back, of course. No-one wanted to get stepped on. When we made it back it was a massacre. After-action told us the NTBs broke through from the west. Our Wellington made quick work of them. Most of our squad had died without us even knowing. But no, there was no saving. We had to garrison the place, stood around for hours. Until the sun came up. A few field promotions, and then the evacuation order. The water system was contaminated, I found out later. Those people lost their homes that day. They probably spent months in a quarantine camp being tested over and over. We did not “save” them.

What did you do after that?

We went back to base. I did two things: first, we all got our own tests. Second, I applied through the UG’s VRA operator program.

So seeing a Wellington affected you?

Of course!

So once you were accepted-

“Once?” You make it sound so easy! You must understand, these were the early days of the Wellingtons. They were little more than hydraulic legs and turrets. We had barely begun to manufacture them for solo operators. That’s what called them in UG, “operators,” not Dragoons, This was before there were free companies or Lemurs. They were loud and they smelled terrible, and really, we only used them because photosphere layers were making attack helicopters and targeted bombing impossible. And they looked stupid in their enormous rubber boots to protect their leg joints. But they gave us hope.

You sound like you have a lot of respect for them.

How could I not. Would a pilot not revere the Kittyhawk? I never got to drive one, perhaps that’s why. It was almost a year before I even went under review for the program. I was surprised to hear my commanders speak highly of me. But I could stick to routine, unlike many of the rest. Understand, this was before Union Guard was a force unto itself. We had no culture to ingrain in new recruits, we did not know who we were. We had too many men and not enough soldiers.

But you did get into the program?

I will get there! Yes, I did. One year after I saw the Wellington. A few passed through our checkpoint, so I made a point to polish the egos of the operators. By then we had official guidelines; ‘dragoon’ was not allowed. Too fanciful. Of course, it didn’t stop everyone else on the planet.

They were always in good spirits. Obsessive about their machines. I learned a lot. A parade of colonels came to inspect us, this, I found out, was something they called a “recruitment tour.” They had a list on them somewhere, they wanted to look all of us aspirants in the eyes, maybe. But the next day I had a new assignment and it was off to Berlin.

Was this-

No. No to your question, because there was no official name and certainly no academy. But it was a relief. No more I-C-E. Better food. Better weather, although German winter had changed a lot since the last time I had seen it.

So if there was no formal academy space, where did you train?

Die Rennstrecke. That was our name for it. Just an office park. Low profile. Even the staff would not wear UG colors. I got a lot more rest, and then there was a written exam. Terrifying.

How so?

There was no time to study, understand? Either we had picked up what we needed to know or we had not. Because I had no idea what was pass or fail, and they gave us just enough time to get comfortable. If I failed, then what? Back to Checkpoint Stirling and hosing down APCs? Genuinely, I might have deserted. I can say that now. But no, the time I spent with the operators paid off. I passed. The truth is there were very few dropouts at that stage. Our superiors had made sure we were all serious candidates. But still, the atmosphere was different. We talked amongst ourselves. We even went out on the town! It was the first real social activity of my twenties.

So how long were you in training?

Oh, years and years. After the exam we had studying. Manuals, all the time, then lectures. End of our first year the UG higher ups tried to cobble together an exam for us: practical engineering. None of us were mechanics. We had a few weeks to learn the tools. The exam was practical. Fix a problem. Wellingtons were on their way out, that is the way with cutting-edge technology. We had no idea most of what we were learning would be obsolete by the time we were back in the field. But again, very few dropouts. It was only then they gave us the simulator. We did not know it was because they were the first ever.

So you trained as a Wellington operator?

Yes! It was a gaming chair! Did you know this? The first ever simulators were built by entertainment companies; they had all kinds of feedback, the chair would shift, sometimes sparks would fly! All of us were glued to them, all hours of the day. Things turned ugly when we learned there were only so many slots to fill. You understand?

We would hide our notes. There were rumors of sabotage, it never happened to me. After that we were in the building, some weeks I would never leave. I was one of the first to move into the boiler room! Showing leadership! The tests they would give us on the simulator were always changing. I don’t think they really knew what they were looking for, either. One week, we would be tested on unit cohesion, the next it would be NTB combat, then we would have strategy. I remember, one recruit, I forget her name, she complained; “why should we know strategy? What are the generals doing?” I thought it was a good question.

So you don’t think the program was well constructed?

No, but I am biased. I failed the final exam and they made me a VRA engineer. A glorified mechanic.

Not what you wanted.

No, but not the end of the world. I was still near the machines, and I was trained to operate them, so who was to say I might not drive one in the future? But that was it for Berlin.

Where did they deploy you?

  Finland, Kajaani. A little town. UG had turned the whole place into a base. Absolutely freezing and getting colder every year. Ha! And you think Germans are hostile? They are, but it is by default, understand. Fins are hostile in specific. It’s not your nationality or your ethnicity or your form they dislike, it’s you. And by the time we arrived, most of the manuals had been updated and the UG personnel were not impressed by our academy training when they had been learning in the field.

We had started to split hairs by then. Wellingtons had become just one type of V-R-As. That’s Variable Role Armor. Modular designs had come in, carbon nanotubes, even the EEG interfaces, although they didn’t last long.

Was it a big adjustment?

Oh yes! What is it with UG and old castles? I don’t know, but there was an old castle in Kajaani too. It was a little small, not like Sterling, but we had the whole town to ourselves, no locals that might be harboring 3s to worry about.

As I said, freezing. Mounds of snow, ice everywhere. Plenty of nice forest, at least, and a lot of empty civilian buildings to re-purpose. None of them were cleared, though. There was a grid of habitation modules we set out. You know the ones? Big cargo container, big enough for cots and air filters and thermal scanners, that’s where we bunked.

So what did you do on the infamous Kajaani base? Maintenance?

Only for a few months. I had no idea, but Kajaani was much more of a hot zone than checkpoint Stirling. Finland was a T3, just like Scotland. They should be equivalent! But no, we were squashed right up against the T4 Former Russian Quarantine Zone. It was fully NV, that’s non-viable. There were not many refugees, but they were all 3s. The very first day, the Kajaani commander piled us all in the vehicle bay and gave us an off-the-books speech. It amounted to “no asylum, no refugees.” He stopped just short of “shoot on sight.”

How far was this from the French bombing site?

I’m not sure. Not far. Close enough for us to issue the Wellington operators with geiger counters. There were a lot of refugee camps, too. All across the border, though. Dots all over the map. I never saw them until I went out. Somehow, thousands of people were living out there. And what about the NTBs? I have no idea how they did it.

You said it was a “hot zone” earlier. What did you mean by that?

Action, combat, whatever you want to call it. Every few days! Sirens would blare, we would take our posts, check-in. I spent most of it in the vehicle bay. At least I wasn’t hosing them down anymore! But yes, every few days, the Wellingtons would go out, then come back all torn up. The operators were all locals.

Fins are a frightening people. Absolutely ferocious. That was how I learned to get along with them; actions, not words. By the time I learned to lead a crew and re-arm a weapon module in under ten minutes, they would give me a nod as they jumped in. That was the highest honor they could bestow, and it was its own reward, too. And we were always pleased to watch their footage. We had machine learning programs by then. Targeting assistance, rapid structure analysis, to scan for weakponts in NTBs, that kind of thing, and it meant we had to feed them data. Lots and lots of data. So who would watch the footage to make sure it was good quality? Our mechanical crew! Better than a Hollywood movie. We would shout and gasp and cheer. To us in our air filtered engineering bay and cabins it was the greatest show on earth. I had no time to be cold or miserable. It was then we started hearing about Lemurs.

What was your reaction?

Reaction? I had no time for that kind of thing. There were barrels to spin, nuts to be tightened. Piston 14 has a leak! We’re rolling out some kind of new machine? Fantastic! The war will be over by Christmas!

Plenty of the mechanics scoffed at the specs, the whole idea, in fact. I never had time for mixed emotions; good or bad, pick. I picked good. But it was the longest, darkest winter on record. That was when my perspective changed. The movies became real.

Is this the incident that promoted you to UG operator?

Yes. The first real chapter in my “legend,” so called. It started just like it always did. Sirens blare, we go to general alert. We get called in. Operators go for their briefings while we passed around the coffee. I talk to my crew, talk to my operator, we make sure everything is in order, then let them go.

Sometimes, when we could tell things were bad, we follow them out into the snow. It was bad that day, visibility zero, but me and the crew went all the same to watch our Wellingtons stomp out onto the bridge towards the FRQZ. It was all spotlights and snow.

Once a mission had started, we were blind. We had to stay ready, understand? At any moment or machines could return. Often we would take turns sleeping. They were over-estimate. Six hours, I think, but no cipher 320 on their unit numbers, so. We stay ready.

We deployed eighteen Wellington VRAs that morning. At dawn, three came back.

What could have such a devastating impact on them?

STOPLIGHT. The Red Baron, but we will get to him. My machine came in automatically. Of course, we had no idea, so we set about spraying, assessing damage, climbing the racks on the torso to check the weapons. The hatch was jammed. The official term for it was “exotic ejecta.” Slime, basically. Hardened in the snow, a little like earwax. The rest of the crew were terrified, and I knew getting near the stuff would mean going into quarantine and getting a new CSF sample. Fine, my operators had earned that much. But. It was just me with a cutting torch, half wedged, half hanging halfway up the thing. The legs were jammed, mind you, there was no getting that Wellington back to the dock. Every now and then I would bang on the hull. No response.

By the time I had popped the hatch I had a good idea of what I would find.

What did you find?

Ciper 450. Most of the electronics were fried. The operator had waited, you see. Mission aborted, major losses. Critical damage. Contamination filters would have screamed at him. Then Ciper 450, the suicide code. What did he do? He marched back to base. Close enough for the automatic to bring him the rest of the way. Then he did his duty. It was neat. One shot to the head. That was the day it stopped being a movie to me. Operators were not super-heroes. They could bleed and they could die. I never did learn the man’s name.

Did they quarantine you?

Yes, yes. Almost a month. It was ironic. Nothing to do but review the manuals, I begun to have doubts. Was that what I really wanted? Big dreams make life so simple, don’t they?

I received a commendation for my effort in retrieving the pilot. We all knew it wasn’t smart. I could see the incinerator module working overtime from my cabin. But. My CSF came back clean and clear, although I was not back on duty.

What did they do with you?

Well, fate conspired against me. Just as I begin to question my dream, my superiors had seen my character. My potential. Losses were heavy. Operators were needed. The re-fit was extensive, but as it happened. I would inherit the unit I cut open to save a dead man.

That’s how you became an operator?

Yes. The day was like any other. I greeted my crew, then got called in for a briefing. They whooped at me, like monkeys. They had heard all the rumors about promoting from on-base, but I had no idea, since I had been in quarantine.

I was stunned. They told me I was getting a field promotion, handed me the manual for my unit, gave me access to service records, that was it. I don’t think they even asked me if I wanted the post. The crew was very happy for me. I was the first mechanic to make it to operator on Kajaani base.

Was it a big adjustment?

The duties, no. The culture, yes! An operator is not just a human being! The staff treated me differently, and not just because of my rank. The other operators saw it too, of course, the old hands explained it to me. The little black box makes all the difference, you see; any one of us could end up in a propaganda reel or on the front of a magazine. People needed hope, and they had decided VRAs were how we would get it.

So what do you say to the people that criticized their effectiveness?

Of course, the first efforts were bad. Half the jobs a Wellington could do, a tank or a jet could do better. Now, could they do it cheaper? Often, but not always. Really, VRAs were the answer to changing conditions. Don’t forget, NTBs have never been static, always changing. They learn about us just as quickly as we learn about them. Sometimes faster. Remember Iceland?

I can’t say I do. I wasn’t born yet.

Fine, fine. You make me feel old. Which I am. The first ever NTBs were simple. Worm-like. Nematodes, I was told. But from there they developed in all different directions. Chief among them was matting. Simple knotted proteins, draped everywhere. It’s hell on wheels and treads. I spent a lot of my mechanic training learning how to safely cut it off.

But of course there are aircraft. Close air support is fantastic when you can get it, but rotors are fragile. So bombers? If you had to pick one discipline to make VRAs obsolete, it would be the jets. It was simple to destroy the viral masses in Iceland for this reason, but now we know better. We have the photospore layer. Jet aircraft will get the job done, yes, but they can only fly so many miles with bacteria in their engines eating away at them. Over the course of a decade, they became less and less cost effective. This has yet to change, and development for so-called “clean aviation” has moved its budget to VRA development.

There is one other thing these critics overlook: it is cheaper and more effective to use a VRA than it is to re-fit a conventional military vehicle to be sterile. Tank, planes and helicopters are not designed to accommodate filtered air and hermetic seals. VRAs were created with these in mind. And of course, I am still only talking about the Wellingtons, where our idea of sterile fighting machines involved coating their cumbersome legs in rubber.

You call them cumbersome. Did you struggle with your Wellington at first?

No. Yes-well, I cannot answer. I was very lucky, you see. It was around a month of my new post when we learned about the Lemurs. As a high-risk area, our remaining Wellingtons would be re-fit. I was one of the first ever combat operators of a Lemur.

How was that?

Jarring. We tore up most of the manual and had to write the new one ourselves. Of course, I had become protective over that month. The unit was not mine. It still belonged to the man who had shot himself, but I had a duty now to protect it.

Then a crew of UG engineers arrived on base, only days after we were briefed, and told us they would be tearing out all our hydraulics! I spent a lot of time hovering over their shoulders, and I took plenty of notes. I had no idea how important the re-fit was, compared to the performance, and of course, now we know that the re-fitting of Wellingtons or other, older VRAs into Lemurs as a great stride in the right direction. Then, it seemed like a risk.

It must have handled differently.

Everything was different. Remember, Wellingtons and the other first-generation VRAs were powered by hydraulics. Pressurized fluid. The Lemurs were carbon nanotube locomotion. Bionic, based on real-muscle. From the outside their legs looked longer. This was before they had tails to maintain their balance.

It was months of trial missions, us at the checkpoint, putting the new muscles of the Lemurs through their paces. Most of it was marching through the snow. Riding in a Lemur is a completely different experience from marching. Remember what I aid about containment? The cabin is completely sealed, we could march them along lakebeds if we liked! And as I said, the culture was different.

Do you want to discuss that?

Simply put, we thought that we were the baddest men alive. On the fringes of civilization, testing experimental military technology that would turn the tide. Yes, we all had call-signs and customizations made to our units, although I never gave mine a fanciful name like some of the others, it never really belonged to me. And although we modeled ourselves off the fighter pilots that were quickly becoming extinct, these early Lemurs came nowhere close to the complexity of jet aircraft. That was then, of course.

How much testing was there?

You know the quadruped module? We tested those too. Union guard is known for equipping their VRAs with them now, I think. If you ask the man on the street to draw some UG armor, it has four legs. An extra power module, a weapons rack and two more legs. The effect was crab-like. What is it they say? Everything eventually evolves into a crab? We were deep into testing the quad-mods when we learned the first hint of what would would become the Kajaani Incident.

We don’t have to talk about that.

It’s why you’re here, yes? You want to hear about it in the man’s own words. And I did promise we would talk about STOPLIGHT. It’s declassified, yes?

Since a few year ago.

Good. I think I will be happy to get some things off my chest in conversation, not a court. And if anyone else asks me about it, I can just refer them to you.

So. Year two of Lemur testing. Very quiet on the FRQZ. All the better for us. Base personnel are being re-assigned, the staff is shrinking down to command, garrison, engineers and VRA squadron, just three units. UG is stabilizing the situation in Europe and deploying overseas. World governments are catching their breath.

We run our morning rounds, then get called in for a briefing. Our commander was Reynaud. We rarely heard from him. He was a disciplined sort of man, very calm, and never seemed to take what was now a fringe posting personally. He kept things very regular and he was not a man to break from routine.

Anyway, we often ate breakfast with him. Another perk of our operator status. That morning we were told our base would be hosting a free company of dragoons. We had heard of them, of course. Private citizens, mercenaries, NGOs, but being told we would be at their disposal, even join them, was a surprise.

Why was that?

Well, we are UG. We do not support. We get supported. But they had the numbers, and of course, not one of us complained. It was not what we expected.

What did you expect?

I am not sure. People more like us. We were not prepared for the “free” part in free company. A free company is very loose, understand? There is little chain of command, only a common goal, and we were expected to add ourselves to this without exerting control. Support only.

Did you find that difficult?

It was a matter of slotting ourselves in. They were very nice. Like most free companies, many of them were private citizens, some might say war tourists, but they never gave me reason to doubt their skills or their bravery. Then there were operators from foreign governments, salvagers. They came with their own engineering corps. Perhaps what most offended our delicate UG sensibilities at first was the riotous color. UG fields no camouflage, of course, it was decided early on. Camouflage is for fighting against humans, we sported blue and white, and that was it, although we often fought against 3s as insurgents or enemy operators.

But back to the company. It was as if they were questing knights, yes? It was not just that their machines were liveried in every color and pattern, they sported banners, some even hung cloaks from their cabins!

But as I said, they were happy to have us in our quad-mod Lemurs. Between the three of us, we easily represented the heaviest armor and firepower of their company. The actual mission, however, was daunting. We took a briefing out in their camp, beyond the borders of Kajaani. They set heaters and tents. They brought hot food! That is when we started to come around.

What was it they were aiming to do?

Search and destroy. They had bought intelligence, and that intelligence had ben corroborated by UG analysts. Command saw this and thought slotting us in would be a good field test.

Remember, satellite imaging was becoming obsolete, but there were many brave volunteers. They armed themselves with minimal weapons, survival equipment, maps and binoculars. Anyway, they had multiple confirmed reports that a viral mass was forming near the FRQZ border. Bad news for us, back tot he bad days of an attack every few days, and if the NTBs were returning, they would do it in force, or at least would be better adapted. An unnerving prospect for me, considering I would now be the one fighting with them.

So, we had an area of land to search, and then destroy. We equipped ourselves with thermobaric missiles, plenty of flamethrowers with a variety of fuel. There was a rumor, before we began the operation, that one of our fellow dragoons had equipped themselves with a neutron bomb. Does that appall you? In those days, we would shrug. The more firepower the better.

Was there any indication of how things would turn out?

Not at all. After the first day, which was mostly eating, talking, making adjustments to our units, I would say morale was high. I and one other of the operators was new, understand. We had never fought with so many. I remember all kinds of wild dreams: would this be my chance at a medal? In my mind I was already an experimental VRA pilot, the highest possible form of life, so what was next? War hero? Would we save the entire world next?

So, at dawn the next day, we march. It was four by four, quite wide. Our experienced operator, Petrelli, he took the point. Remember, we were using Lemurs with quadruped modules, so our gaits were a great deal wider, although we had begun to use the variable drives to locomotive, so we did not need to take steps. If anything, that was the great success of this mission. After, almost every VRA would have wheels too.

It was on the eastern flank. My machine set to automatic follow. The gong was slow, but there were no complaints. Of course, visibility was low. I spent most of the time sharing sensor data with the column, and we managed to build an affective picture of our surroundings. The problem was that it was a long away, and the further we got from Kajaani base, the more I begun to have unhelpful thoughts. What do they say in moves? It was “too quiet.”

I think there was a turning point as we crossed the FRQZ border. Petrelli was our unofficial column leader, he made an announcement, like he was an old fashioned commercial pilot! “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Former Russian Quarantine Zone.” In that Italian accent. It was almost enough to bring back some of my old bravado. But I made a mistake. You know, sometimes voicing a thought gives it power. I patted my dashboard. I was one of those, you know? I liked to name my machines. It started as a joke from the engineers. I never joined in. They called the unit “Coffin.”

Not a very lucky name.

No, but you cannot always control how something is called. I said it out loud and my VRA Lemur became “Coffin.” It was a bad sign.

Well, I was left to stew in these feelings of dread for hours. Marching through the snow. Every form of imaging showing us nothing. Looped in to the free company’s real-time readouts. Sometimes there would be a mechanical failure, usually issues related to frozen hydraulic fluid. To be unprotected in that weather would have been a death sentence in only minutes.

Well, the external radiation detectors started to grumble. You know the sound, like a broken radio. We crossed over a large bridge. Our Lemurs were almost too wide, and I definitely thought at the time that if I wanted to ambush us, I would hit the bridge. 3s might conceive of such a plan, but NTBs? Who’s to say.

It was not much further after that we encountered an urban area. Our quad-Lemurs were well equipped for this, but some of the old Wellingtons made it slow going. We spread out, but it was not long before we had high airborne particulate readings, even with high winds, and then a positive visual identification.

The viral mass?

Yes, yes. I had never seen one before. Perhaps I still haven’t, this was only over a wireless link. Absolutely disgusting and more cause for apprehension. Where were the NTBs? Could they have abandoned whatever plan they had? We had no desire to speculate.

Petrelli lead the nearby VRAs into a firing block while the rest of us checked in to make sure we had minimum safe distance. It was a concert hall, I think. Thermobaric weapons made quick work of it. Dust and smoke further reduced visibility. The truth is, most of our time out there was spent trying to get a good airborne particulate reading. Remember, if a viable cell culture survived the mass might regrow. It must have been upwards of three hours.

I had plenty of time to stare at readouts. There were times I lamented that I did not bring a book. At that time, the foremost thought in my mind was that I had not fired any of my weapons. It’s for the best I did not. I amused myself poring over the telemetry from the column as they explored the city. I noticed a pattern. At first it was the restlessness of a mind under pressure, but soon it began to trouble me. I overlaid the positions of the VRAs with our digital map of the city and it made a fairly obvious shape.

Can you walk us through exactly what you saw?

It started with unusual hull temperature readings. Internals, too. Some VRAs were redlining their systems while they were idle. A fairly common symptom of underlying mechanical faults, but I noticed these units had small failures too. Air filters, sensors, joint protection. Alone it was understandable, the march was long, but put together their containment might be called into question. Then there was the grid. All these issues began in the north-west and expanded from there. It was a clear cone shape, as if whatever was causing the issue was to our north-west and radiating outwards.

I raised my concerns over the radio. The other UG operator, I forget his name, agreed with me. As the closest of our group. I decided to take a look. I fired a flare. This was before we came equipped with drones, not that they would have been able to fly in the wind. That was when all hell broke loose.

What did you see?

It wasn’t like that. Operating a VRA gives you a very limited view of the real world. It is not “what did I see,” but the more important question was “how did I see?” It was the dead of night by now. I turned toward the flare and saw nothing. The flare rose above a wave of brutalist apartment blocks and fell behind it. There was snow, wind, debris, streets choked with abandoned cars, all covered with snow and ice. Still, I saw some movement. I like to think it was the instincts of a future war hero.

There were questions over the radio. I could give them nothing, so I switched to my infrared. All greens and grays, but my targeting algorithm indentified something. It was highlighted with “possible hostile.” Still, I could not tell you “what” I saw. A shape, perhaps larger than my unit, that clung to the top of a building, NTBs rarely reach such a size. I called “contact!” It was too late by then.

Was this your first combat with NTBs?

No. No NTBs. If there were, that would be one thing. It is something we train for. Our units are designed for it, too. We have a simple handbook. Decades worth of identifying them by different traits; claws, numbers of legs. The truth is there is no biological foundation for what an NTB is or is not. Maybe now we know better, but back then? Even the experts were guessing. We would call them as we see them. It was an old tradition, I think, but it stuck; we would call out the name of some movie monster or other. You know this? I would laugh, to read through the official guidelines. It was not permitted to give them a name that would intimidate: No “alien,” no “predator.” No “creature from the black lagoon,” either. Too long, maybe. In our area of Finland, a fringe T3, that is, a red zone, we were trained to expect multiple different NTB strains. It was “Chucky,” “wolf-man,” and “gray,” I think. That was why I hesitated. This contact fit none of their profiles. It was not an NTB. It was STOPLIGHT.

But you called contact anyway. Why was that?

It was scary! It was too quiet, as I said. Something in the silhouette, I think. Nothing natural about it. What, was it King Kong hanging off a building? No. Still, I waited too long, tried to get a visual to broadcast to the rest of the column. The dragoons did not wait. The closest few, three, I think swiveled and opened fire.

Petrelli didn’t like it, he thought we had been idle too long, private citizens sitting on billion-dollar toys, jumping at shadows. He called a stand down. I tried to get him some confirmation, but I could find nothing. That was our first signal loss.

Signal loss?

When we operate as a group, we are tightly networked. Especially in long-range, low visibility missions like this. We have real-time readout of our AO. I tried to find something for Petrelli and while I did we lost three of our dragons. All closest to the contact call. We started to converge. We lost two more. By then I was on instinct: weapons free, I fired at movement.

Just small arms. Small is relative, of course. My cannon. I have no head for weapons, the type of thing mounted on aircraft. A few of the dragoons stomped up beside me, we were all crowded along a main street. We formed an element and started blazing away.

The radio was chaos at this point. All most of them knew is that we had contact. Not mass, just one. They wanted to put an NTB head on their wall. Srcatch one more mark above their hatch, maybe sell the combat footage. I don’t blame them.

You’ve said that before. You don’t classify STOPLIGHT as an NTB?

Of course, of course. Biologically, it was made from the same stuff. We called them REDs. I am not sure why. Maybe it was the old anti-communist rhetoric of the bitter europeans, maybe it was a shorthand for “red-baron.” I heard a rumor it was from Asia, from some video game; red team versus blue team, maybe.

So what sets a RED apart from an NTB?

Well for a start, REDs were never officially recognized by UG or UBS or any other acronyms of people who claimed to know what they are doing. We had no training for them or ability to recognize them. I have never encountered many. This time he was alone. Often they are. There are no strains of others like them, either. The REDs are unique. Biologically more complex. NTBs have no sense of self, understand. They will make ramparts or bridges of their bodies, they are not brave, but they have no sense of self. REDs are not like this.

So, we were firing. I had a visual, but I didn’t not hit. By now the sky was full of flares and muzzle flash. Plenty of cars were struck and burning. Even then, it defied my ability to describe. Understand, even now, in my autumn years, I am what they call a “meathead.” Words are not my strength. Let me start with its namesake. The STOPLIGHT. Like a big, red spotlight.

After-action analysis told me it was something like a microwave. Of course, there were jaws. It was long, too, and hunched, although easily as tall as our units. It had a texture like chicken. Not fresh, picked over. Gelatin, bones, muscle.

That was when all my training evaporated. It closed with us, I opened fire. It evaded. I had never been trained to expect that. We pack a great deal of firepower, but we are not quick. As it closed…it was like an animal. There were hull punctures, fuel explosions, some units were bowled over.

Petrelli ordered us to form up. I tried to execute an active retreat, but the dragoons smelled blood. In theory, all I had to do was walk backward and shoot. I had already cleared the terrain, I had a good line of fire. There was no parsing it at the time. The snow was melting, Wellingtons were burning, cars, even old fuel tanks in the buildings exploded. My dashboard was a fireworks show. It was then I noticed the temperature warnings in my own machine. Again, after action. They said microwaves. Another signature of the REDs. Unique adaptions, never before or since have I seen an NTB field an organic microwave emitter. I have no idea idea how that is even possible.

It had become close-quarters. CQB, you see. I had the impression of jaws before it closed on my hull. I could hear the teeth grinding on the armor. It was stupid. Or I was lucky. The jaws, or maybe they were more like pincers, had closed on my starboard fire module. Missiles. I let rip, and I know it felt that. Full panic mode, I turn, engage all four limbs, maximum speed. I thought I had enough distance. I was wrong. If it was jaws or claws, what, I don’t know, but it caught me by the munitions module on my back legs. It must have been heavier than me. God, I still hear the awful girding and wailing of the motors. It was only a few second, but I will always remember the steady red flash. It was eating me, crushing the back of my machine second by second, burning it away. Or digesting it. One clear moment. I disengaged the quadruped module. A few safety surfaces had to be lifted, four switches thrown in succession, and then I was free!   

It almost toppled my unit, the release. I had to swivel my cabin to keep firing. I think in my mind I would shoot and set off all the munitions on the squad-module. It would blow up and take the thing with it. Like Jaws!

I’m guessing that’s not what happened?

No such luck. It’s as well, I was too shaken for a good one-liner. But the thing was off me. My drive modules were cranked up to full, though. I took the roads as quickly as I could and met up with the other UG VRAs. Petrelli was calling for a withdrawal the whole time, of course, while the dragoons were cross-chattering about some maneuver or other. He’d made the command decision that the mass was probably destroyed and moved us on to the next phase of the operation: RTB, that’s “return to base.”

You retreated while you were under fire?

No fire. While Petrelli relayed all this over the radio, the dragoons were coordinating their fields of fire. They must have got some good hits in, or maybe STOPLIGHT started to feel my hits. The dragoons didn’t respond; who were we to give them orders? To my credit, I wanted to go back in, and in the interests of squad cohesion Petrelli agreed. By the time we were in a position to assist them, however, they were reporting all clears. Another thing NTBs never do.

STOPLIGHT retreated?

Yes. Of course, there was no telling for us. We might have killed it. That’s what we all wanted to believe, but no-one could ID any remains. It was gone.

The dragoons sounded off and Petrelli got us back in formation. As far as we were concerned, that was it. RTB.

We lost six VRAs. I think one of the dragoons put down a beacon so we could recover their units . I spent a lot of time on the way back poring over the read-outs. Between the microwaves, the environment and STOPLIGHT’s direct attack, every VRA was damaged in some way. Most had internal sensor failure. A few lagged behind. It was slow going. A full twelve hours in the cockpit.

I spent most of the time re-calibrating my sensors and checking my systems. It was valuable data, understand, the ejection of my quadruped module in combat, so I made sure the system cached all my readouts for the engineers. That was the first sign things were about to go wrong.

What exactly was it that tipped you off?

Atmosphere readings. The storm had died down, visibility was rising, although it was now the dead of night. Wind speed was way down. We have sensors to detected AAPF. You know this? APEP airborne particulate field. Can you nest one acronym inside another? I do not know. It’s a simple parts-per-million reading.

Usually, the more NTB activity the higher it goes. Sometimes it can be an early warning sign. How it works, I don’t know. I only had my eyes on it for our approach, when we found the AO empty, I paid it no mind, and I only happened to glance as I was organizing my data. It was elevated. Very high.

I brought it up over the radio. No-one wanted to stop. I don’t blame them, it was only a few more hours to base. Of course, that’s when the real “Kajaani incident” happened. We get into range. Petrelli radioes in our status, but instead of a “come on in,” they tell us to stand by.

Was that not normal?

No, definitely not. We are VRA operators, but at the end of the day we are still grunts, at the end of the day we take orders; we don’t argue or grumble. The dragoons were a little different, but they had a healthy respect for us by then.

So there we were, sitting tight. Not far from base, on one side of a frozen river. There was an old bridge, of course. We had crossed it already, and many of the dragons were in the process of crossing it again. We wanted to keep column cohesion; we all agreed that is what we would say in our reports and de-briefs. We went with them far enough to see the lights of the base. It had just become dawn by then, and there was some idea that this last confusing leg of the journey might be over soon.

That was when the code 450.3 came in.

When received it at the same time. Of course, I didn’t want to believe it. So much, in fact, I convinced myself it was a communication error until Petrelli got on the radio. He had a more level head then me; he had figured it out already.

The suicide code?

In this case it was more like the friendly fire code. 450 is the suicide code, yes. 450-2 is a designation, a “friendly kill” code. 450-3 is “mass friendly kill.” They had just ordered us to gun down what was left of the free company.

As I said, Petrelli had figured it out: the base had joined our uplink and determined the dragoons were likely to be contaminated. Of course, the bastards could have waited for them to disembark; 450 them then and save their units, but no. Maybe they wanted us to pin it on the NTBs, alter the after-action report. I don’t know.

It was true, almost all their filters had failed or their internal sensors or both. They had all been in close contact with NTBs or viral material. We could have held them for quarantine. We could have done a lot of things.

What did you do?

We followed orders. Formed an element. I forget the other operator’s name. We swept, left to right. I turned my radio off. There was no return fire.

Reynaud, our base commander, got on the radio to walk us through the rest. No witnesses, he said. Casualties total. They were tough units. Some of them ejected. Some of them opened their cabins to try to escape. I think you understand.

Was that the end of it?

No. We went straight into quarantine. We were not de-briefed for days. I learned later that there UG soldiers on foot sweeping the woods and the town. Reynaud coached me through my debrief. Part of me wanted to keep notes, but that would never have worked.

Did your testimony ever lead to anything?

Justice is very slow moving. The trials were only three years ago, remember. The other operator, I believe he was KIA somewhere. Petrelli refused to testify. It was not the only time UG would tell me that what they did was necessary. How could they have done so many awful things if it were not? Still, I don’t know. I’m very lucky to have survived long enough to tell all the stories and try to put some of it right.

Where did your career go from there?

There was a lot of hand-shaking. I received a medal for something-or-other. Bribery or love-bombing. I don’t know. The unit was broken up and we were all re-assigned. I retained my operator status, of course, and they shipped me back to the UK. Sector 4. One of the bases in the north, I think. A small pocket of T2, so I could leave the base if I wished. That was how they bought my silence. I was over my boyish phase by then, and there was no desperate need for me to go carousing every night.

It was far from quiet, of course. And not even close to the deadliest engagement of my career, but it gave me room to breathe. I joined a profiling unit of cataloging NTB behaviors, but we never settled on a system for predicting the movements of REDs.

Did you ever encounter them again?

Not directly. I supported some operations. Maybe exchanged fire, but nothing up close. I certainly never ran into STOPLIGHT again. I heard it was confirmed killed a few years ago. I’m not sure how much that means for an NTB.

Still, they were far from my deadliest engagements. It was always other UG operators that were the worst.

Did you fight with them often?

No. Not often. Enough. A successful 450.3 on my record changed things for me. There were no ranks or medals but it was there.

Our conversation fizzles out there, although Mr. Kleiner stays happy to discuss weather, politics, sport and I see no reason to push him. He shows me around the museum and gives me guided tour around his old UG VRA, still intact. I notice as he reads from the diagram on the wall beside it that nothing there names it “Coffin.”

Maybe things like that are best left forgotten.