Interlude
The soldiers of the Combine do not know fear. That was taken away from them. Most of them thought little of it before and think nothing of it after. They have no use, no need for fear; one more weakness that the human species had, that was all. It means nothing.
They do not know many other things. Pain, for one. To them the sensation of pain is replaced by a knowledge of damage and functional impairment. The nerves that would otherwise carry the signal have been overridden and put to other uses. Uncertainty, for another. Doubt is replaced by percentage assessments of probabilities.
A thing they do know is anticipation. Their assumption into the forces of the Universal Union did not take that away. It was much too useful a tool, the human capacity to consider chances and feel some preliminary measure of reward for contemplating the possibility of successful result. Left in place, the human capacity to extrapolate positive and negative outcomes, and sample the eventual response thereto, was a far more powerful means of ensuring the Overwatch forces' obedience for far fewer resources than virtually any other option. So while they cannot fear the consequences of failure, they can know them and avoid them; and they can know the consequences of success, and allow the contemplation of that reward to boost their own efficiency and guide their actions.
There is much to anticipate in dropship 3A-C31. The reward set for expunging standard anticitizens is considerable. The reward for mass cauterization is even greater. The soldiers in 3A-C31 have been subsumed into a direct action against the primary critical nexus of anticitizen infectious activity. Successful debridement of the White Forest site will open up multiple pathways to the complete destruction of all residual resistance pockets. For this, the reward will be beyond imagining.
So they wait. And they anticipate. And when the radio receivers in their helmets crackle into life, they sit up straight as one, awaiting their orders.
What they receive is something else.
"-workin', Calhoun? Okay then-"
A human voice. Male. Uncontrolled, unmodulated, unmodified. Resistance signal? On this frequency?
"This is Corporal Adrian Shephard, United States Marine Corps, speakin' to you sumbitches in the dropship up ahead. Me'n my crew've been tailin' you a good little while now 'n you ain't called for backup or air support, so I figure that fuckin' bug you're ridin' in can't see us."
The soldiers in 3A-C31 do not bother to look at each other. They would see nothing useful by it. They do, however, move to ready their firearms and rappelling gear; they may have need of them shortly.
"I just wanted to tell you one thing: this is for Tower 'n Jackson. You fuckers ain't from Xen, but you'll do anyway."
"Chell, target that dicklicker's ass and fire."
They do not know many other things. Pain, for one. To them the sensation of pain is replaced by a knowledge of damage and functional impairment. The nerves that would otherwise carry the signal have been overridden and put to other uses. Uncertainty, for another. Doubt is replaced by percentage assessments of probabilities.
A thing they do know is anticipation. Their assumption into the forces of the Universal Union did not take that away. It was much too useful a tool, the human capacity to consider chances and feel some preliminary measure of reward for contemplating the possibility of successful result. Left in place, the human capacity to extrapolate positive and negative outcomes, and sample the eventual response thereto, was a far more powerful means of ensuring the Overwatch forces' obedience for far fewer resources than virtually any other option. So while they cannot fear the consequences of failure, they can know them and avoid them; and they can know the consequences of success, and allow the contemplation of that reward to boost their own efficiency and guide their actions.
There is much to anticipate in dropship 3A-C31. The reward set for expunging standard anticitizens is considerable. The reward for mass cauterization is even greater. The soldiers in 3A-C31 have been subsumed into a direct action against the primary critical nexus of anticitizen infectious activity. Successful debridement of the White Forest site will open up multiple pathways to the complete destruction of all residual resistance pockets. For this, the reward will be beyond imagining.
So they wait. And they anticipate. And when the radio receivers in their helmets crackle into life, they sit up straight as one, awaiting their orders.
What they receive is something else.
"-workin', Calhoun? Okay then-"
A human voice. Male. Uncontrolled, unmodulated, unmodified. Resistance signal? On this frequency?
"This is Corporal Adrian Shephard, United States Marine Corps, speakin' to you sumbitches in the dropship up ahead. Me'n my crew've been tailin' you a good little while now 'n you ain't called for backup or air support, so I figure that fuckin' bug you're ridin' in can't see us."
The soldiers in 3A-C31 do not bother to look at each other. They would see nothing useful by it. They do, however, move to ready their firearms and rappelling gear; they may have need of them shortly.
"I just wanted to tell you one thing: this is for Tower 'n Jackson. You fuckers ain't from Xen, but you'll do anyway."
"Chell, target that dicklicker's ass and fire."