Pathfinder

Part Four

 We used to say that when it came to waste excursions, if it wasn't the elements or the radiation that got you it would be your own head. The human mind craves stimulation, visual imagery for the brain to process and comprehend; faced with nothing but a vast, swirling expanse of grey and white, it quickly starts getting antsy. Time seems to slow, and without any signs of the day's progress it's all too easy to succumb to that quiet but growing hiss in the back of your head that tells you that you're trapped in some frozen, snowbound limbo. That you're lost, never to be found, in the white.

The human mind isn't able to process a concept like infinity.

They prepared us for this during the selection process, figuring out who could hack extended isolation whilst keeping their shit together before we could progress to the next stage of Pathfinder training. What it comes down to is knowing how to compartmentalise, knowing how to focus on the situation at hand and not let your mind wander. Lucky for me, that was a part of the selection process I excelled at.

Lucky for me, the wastelanders I'm after have given me the perfect thing to focus all my attention upon.

Out in the white, progress is always going to be slow. All the technique and practice in the world isn't going to make you navigate your way through drifts of rad-choked snow any faster. I've learned to think of it as a rhythm rather than a race, a slow and trailing dance across the corpse of the Earth. My heavy boots have their cleats distended to help my progress, and I know from the occasional signal check that I'm making good time. The wasterlanders must still be carrying their wounded because I'm catching up.

After what feels like at least a day (but what I know objectively to have been maybe an hour) Sidrovich pings me with a single message: 'Middleman for the deal is dead. Looks like he was tortured for info. You and I have both been played. AV approaching, enjoy the gift package. BRING ME THEIR HEADS.' Sure enough, I soon hear the steady hum of a powerful electric engine over the swirling din of the wind. Turning, I spy the squat, angled form of the AV as its treads push their way through the snow and come to a stop before me. Another perk of working for the Ukrainian—he's reliable. When I crouch down next to it, the AV's storage compartment snaps open and I haul out the set of armour I've been provided with. Older and bulkier than the stuff I came out here with, but at least this new set hasn't taken a MAG round in its back plate recently. Shrugging off my old set and letting the new protection slide over my chest and back where it snaps into place, I reach inside for the second item, then frown slightly. It's heavy and ugly, not my style in the slightest: old Kalashnikov stock, aftermarket railgun barrel modifications, and a scope that's probably older than I am. Still, it's a hell of a lot better in a fight than my holdout pistol.

Sliding the extra magazines I've been supplied with into the armour's webbing, I re-seal the AV's compartment and sling the rifle over my shoulder. There's a certain reliability to the weight, I suppose, the knowledge that I'm carrying a weapon born of two centuries worth of conflict and warfare. Jabbing at the touchpad on my left wrist, I scan again for other connections on my satellite network. Once again the wastelanders' connections bounce back my way, more of them this time, maybe half an hour now from my position. Setting my shoulders, I move off through the snow once again towards my intended targets. The numbers aren't in my favour, and I know from bitter experience that you should never underestimate a wastelander in a fight.

But they don't know I'm coming. That's all the advantage I need.