That day, the earth was quiet.
A world once filled with the ceaseless gunfire of manufactured revolutions found a moment of peace. All across the surface of this big blue marble we call home, wars fell silent, as if mankind’s wholesale butchery against his fellow man had been nothing more than some distant lie.
In Africa, in the Middle East, in Russia, and in Southeast Asia, soldiers all across the globe looked up to the skies.
What happened? they must have wondered. Their weapons, along with those of their compatriots and their enemies, suddenly locked and became inoperable. The bewildered combatants fiddled with their rifles before ultimately giving up and retiring from the front lines. A few with naked guns were still able to fight, but their opponents only folded and surrendered with their arms in the air.
In all the varied combat zones across the world, soldiers falling back to their bases looked up to the heavens. In some places, they looked up to the blue, cloudless sky, while in others they saw countless stars, but all were filled with the same feeling—even those of no faith.
Had God, or some godlike being, descended upon Earth?
Had we angered Him with our foolish ways?
Sure, even with their guns disabled, they could still have done battle with hatchets and bayonets, even knives, but to most of the soldiers killing another man at close range with their own hands was unimaginable. Even only a small fraction of front-line troops in World War II ever fired at the enemy.
Even when their own lives were in immediate danger, people tended to avoid shooting one another. The Vietnam War saw the development of new training methods to condition soldiers to overcome the natural resistance to shooting, but many of them suffered for it after their return home. Psychological damage threw their lives into ruin.
That day, not one single fighting unit anywhere in the world attempted to fight by bludgeoning skulls or thrusting blades into hearts. All conflict had ceased.
I was in the cargo bay of Nomad, concerned about Snake’s condition. He had already started to recover from the mission, but half of his face was badly burned, and his airway, ravaged by the smoke and the intense heat, sent out an endless torrent of coughs and phlegm.
A call came in on the monitor. I accepted the connection, and Colonel Campbell appeared on the display. A woman—off-screen, probably Rose—was just finishing straightening his tie. The conjugal display stirred up a flash of irritation in me. Sunny remained tirelessly at Raiden’s side. His dialysis and treatment would still take a little while longer.
I asked the colonel, “How’s the White House responding? And the public?”
“The president has yet to make an official announcement. But the media are starting to pick up on it.”
Between coughs, Snake added derisively, “He probably thinks he can still keep information under control.”
Despite his dilapidated state, Snake’s mind was still sharp. And yet at times I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore—to see my friend possessed of the will to fight, to see him even now attempting to fulfill his duties.
“No, not this time,” Campbell said. “The war economy has ground to a complete halt. It’s tough to downplay a crisis of these proportions. War economy–related stocks are already going into a free fall.”
Snake laughed. To think that the extinction of war was a crisis. He said, “They must be shitting themselves at the White House right now.”
“In any case,” said the colonel, “the people of the world had better sleep soundly while they still can. Liquid’s insurrection is about to begin.”
Indeed, Liquid’s control over the System had created the calm that fell over the world. The PMCs weren’t the only forces controlled by nanomachines and ID tags—the US Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps were also crippled. America’s entire armed forces were at the mercy of the System.
Liquid would become known in the history books as the man who simultaneously brought peace to the world and unleashed global war upon it—although I guess that would depend on someone still being around to write history books.
Campbell continued, “The first thing he’ll do is try to destroy the System the Patriots built to control the US.”
I narrowed my eyes. What good would that do him? He’d already seized the System—that was essentially the same as destroying it.
When I said as much, Campbell explained, “Supreme authority still resides with JD, which the Patriots still command.”
The three remaining AIs of the Patriots—TJ, AL, and TR—constantly gathered information from the global networks—taxes, family registers (births, deaths, marriages, and so on), medical data, economic indicators, biological data from nanomachines, and of course, the SOP. The computers collected exabytes of information each day and utilized them to create the proper context in the world and to construct the narrative for the human race—and by proper context, I mean the context the Patriots thought proper.
No single core was able to handle the massive amount of data alone. The workload had to be spread out in some way. But the Patriots didn’t want to give the AIs a free hand. They created a central unifying core AI to make the adjustments necessary to prevent any discrepancies from arising between the three narrators.
Liquid had reconstructed GW, the AI we thought we’d destroyed years before. Even when disabled, it had maintained a hidden connection with JD.
To explain it in simpler terms, Liquid shrewdly disguised himself as GW to get into JD’s family. Once he had been accepted, he showed them Big Boss’s genetic information and declared himself the rightful heir.
All that was left was to kill the master of the house, JD, and then Liquid would take over. Once this was accepted by the rest of the family, no one could stop him.
So far, Liquid had only seized the SOP, which controlled the soldiers and their firearms. Without higher authority, he had no access to American nukes and ballistic missiles.
“Which is why,” said Campbell, his face grave, “Liquid plans to launch a nuclear strike on JD. In orbit.”
We had overheard that bit of information thanks to the stowaway Mk. II on Liquid’s patrol boat.
Liquid had discovered JD’s location.
Outer space.
The Patriots’ core AI quietly floated through the cold void within a cloud of space junk, hidden among the countless fragments and metal husks of abandoned Cold War-era spy satellites.
I don’t think I could think of a better refuge for the Patriots—after all, they were born out of the Cold War. Amid the drifting refuse of the past, the satellite looked down, godlike, upon the tiny wriggling humans below.
Liquid had announced his intention to use REX. They were going to take REX and use its nuclear missile launcher to destroy JD. With the destruction of the control AI, the master authority would transfer to the System, just like the order of succession in the event of a presidential assassination. The System itself was created upon the foundation of the S3 Program tested on Big Shell, which was controlled by none other than GW. If Liquid’s attack were to succeed, GW’s priority within the AIs would rise to one.
The only obstacle was the nuclear warhead needed for his plan. Nuclear weapons weren’t under control of the SOP—the Patriots hadn’t allowed that—and remained fully within JD’s grasp. It wouldn’t matter if he had REX if he couldn’t operate it.
That was when I remembered. “Oh,” I said.
“What?” Snake asked.
“REX was scrapped before the Sons of the Patriots System was implemented.”
“Of course. The railgun.”
Metal Gear REX was outfitted with a shoulder-mounted railgun that could fire nuclear warheads undetectable by radar. When I headed up REX’s construction, I had been led to believe the railgun was designed to intercept nukes, not deploy them.
“Indeed,” said Campbell. “REX’s railgun can launch a stealth nuclear warhead into space, unconstrained by the System. In short, it’s the only device they have that is able to launch a nuke. Liquid’s going to use it to kill JD and deliver the coup de grace to the Patriots’ reign.”
Nine years ago, I created the Metal Gear–class mobile nuclear launcher. Told by AT Corp that it was a defensive weapon, I leapt at the opportunity to create a two-legged robot like the ones I’d seen in anime. I never questioned my bosses.
On Shadow Moses, Liquid described it to Snake as “the demon weapon that will drag the world into the twenty-first century.” But now the robot was about to change our twenty-first century into something entirely new.
I asked Campbell, “Where’s REX now?”
He lifted his shoulders and looked at me as if it should be obvious. “I think you know. A long-forgotten base, in US territory, outside the Patriots’ control. The place where Liquid made his debut. The place that serves as a monument to him. Off the Alaskan coast, in the Fox Archipelago.”
Snake spoke first. “Shadow Moses Island.”
Where Snake and Liquid’s battle began. Their ground zero.
“If Liquid destroys JD,” Campbell warned, “and his GW assumes total control over the System, he’ll have the world groveling at his feet. And no one will be able to stop him. Not even the Patriots.”
I looked to Snake. His face, as I’d expected, showed no emotion. He already knew what he had to do.
I turned away. Hadn’t he already done everything he could?
I hated myself for being unable to do anything more for my friend, this old man who would have to end his own life in three months.
Campbell said, “You’re the only one who can save the world now. Snake, I’m counting on you.”
I hated him for saying that.
The world? When had Snake ever asked to be responsible for the entire world? My friend—my best friend—would be dead soon enough. Couldn’t you let him be?
Campbell cut the transmission.