SURPRISE! Not only are we back with our Winter 2025 installment of 365 INFANTRY, but yours truly is, in fact, still alive. I say that half-jokingly and half-serious as I was not expecting to spend most of December knocked off my block thanks to health problems. And I mean health problems. This past month really forced me to slow down and take care of myself, even though it kept me away from both work on 365 and other endeavors. I’ll explain more in our SALUTE THE TROOPS/QUARTERLY launch, but for now, please enjoy the latest chapter in the ongoing fight for freedom in the 25th Century. May God Bless You & This Force. - Jake C.
“I take it that V-twin’s our hound.”
Meeting the old, silver-tipped red mechanic Eric at the door was just the biker he’d been waiting for: Lieutenant Gibson Blanc. The tan, leather-clad soldier shook hands with his host as he entered the garage office. Same cement floor, same grated walls, same cavalcade of papers, parts, and an industrial-grade coffee machine.
“Still seeing action in these parts?” Gibson asked.
“All sorts,” the elder wolf smiled, “including actual rides to repair. Not everyone’s cut for the gearhead lifestyle. You oughta know with the amount we had to teach you.”
Gibson snickered. “Got me there in the end. It was like pulling teeth though.”
Sat at the computer desk was Valentina, hammering out the last encryption key and burning it to the disc. The soldier nodded politely as the white-furred, sandal-pawed hunter turned to meet him. To his surprise, she even smiled.
“Thank God they sent an NCO,” the jade-eyed gal nodded. “Man who earns his keep makes the better grades in my books.”
Gibson nodded again, running sandy fingers across his windswept head. “Well I try! How long till it’s finalized?”
“Long enough to sit your ass down for some of Eric’s world famous coffee.” Val winked. “I waited ten years to get my Colosseum, you can wait five minutes to get your e-vaccine.”
Eric got out another mug and filled it up while topping off his and Val’s. Gibson took a seat on one of the office racks and drank it black without a second’s thought. He regretted the scorching sensation down his throat, but it gave Valentina and Eric a good laugh.
“We were gonna get ya cream and sugar, scout’s honor.” the red mechanic soothed, patting the soldier’s knee.
“I already scared the old goat with that party trick when we first met.” Val smiled. “Make like your bitch and blow on it before you eat up.”
“If I had a credit for every time I heard that one,” Gibson recovered, shaking his head before another cautious sip. “I...shit I don’t know what I’d do, y’all barely got money out here as-is.”
“Learns fast.” Valentina winked. She swung her chair around with a sweep of her leg before continuing. “You Force boys’ll get that good moral credit after the Big Day, don’t you worry. Meanwhile me and the Pack have been collecting desert cred in just about every nook, corner and cranny. Mostly it means free drinks and a clean motel room when you’re in town.”
“With what you’ve been able to do, I’d crown you lord kings and queens with all-access passes.” Gibson smiled. “They don’t stop talking on Base about ya. And I mean the good kind, not the snotty kind.”
The white wolf shrugged. “Just doing what we can with what we got.”
“How’s everyone doing?” the tan soldier asked. “Not gonna lie, I kinda miss hangin’ with Jo and Marc.”
“Just like me,” Val replied, “holding in place.”
When she swung back around and saw Gibson’s hung head sipping in silence, she thawed herself out a bit.
“I mean it,” she grinned. “Everyone’s a-okay. Marc’s keeping busy with his beadwork and canoodling with Sabina, Jovian’s got himself a good gig up in Clayton. Me and Brennus are keeping our eyes on things from his little shack in the Red Sands. And of course, helping the old goat around here when we can, right Eric?”
The red mechanic shook his head, chuckling. “She makes it sound like I’m pushing 80 and can barely hold a wrench, don’t she?”
The rapport between the old friends made Gibson feel right at home, the three wolves relaxing with their mugs as they waited for that never-ending 99-percent on the monitor to roll over to the big 100. With enough brew coursing through them and a few anecdotes traded, that last percent came through and Valentina ejected the minidisc.
“Instructions for installation are included of course,” the white wolf began, snapping the disc into its lead-lined protective case, “but for clarity’s sake, here’s what you need to remember. When you get to each outpost, tell them they need to download this program to an off-network terminal. They download it, take over administering the anti-virus software from there, but you don’t leave that outpost without this original copy. Keep hopscotching all the way back to Base. When you reach there, this bad boy goes straight to Chief Ridgefield and no one else. I don’t know your mileage on androids, but we got a lot of electric innocents counting on this to prevent whatever the hell A.C.E.S. had planned with this hat trick. The rest is up to them steady hands of yours and all 50 of them horses between your legs.”
Gibson grabbed the concealed minidisc, placed it in his inner jacket pocket, and shook Valentina’s hand. “You can count on me, ma’am.”
Those jade eyes looked clean through the tan wolf, but again that gentle smile told Gibson he’d passed her smell test.
When the lieutenant shook Eric’s hand, he had a bit more encouragement.
“Just hit your marks, keep to the schedule, and you’ll do a-okay.” the red-furred mechanic smiled. “Good luck, soldier.”
With a playful salute, Gibson was out the door, back on his prized black bike Exciter, and thundering away for the first of the Outposts. This newsboy route was a full-day detail, and in many ways a rest cure compared to all the usual day-to-day operations. Just a nice, long ride from locale to locale, nothing but the wind, the sand, and the odd passerby in his way. Weaving within the Outpost network too would keep him sheltered from any lingering raider threats as well.
However, it would be in the stretch between his pickup and his first delivery that the course of the day would be forever altered.
En route to the first of the 300s, a peculiar black speck appeared in Gibson’s rear-view mirrors. As the speck grew–dust clouds gathering about it–more followed. For the tan wolf, he simply shifted gears and took Exciter up a notch, the black bike rocketing away from the growing ensemble of machines. They could’ve been raiders, they could’ve been a supply detail for the Force. Either way, these beasts could move, and move they did. And when they were finally coming into full view, Gibson realized they weren’t either.
Racing into view were malformed machines. Alien mutations of standard military equipment. Missile-capable trucks with half-melted turrets peppered with barrels. Jeeps stitched end-to-end with guns jutting through where drivers would sit. None were piloted, all were a half-cocked blend of camouflage green and burnt rust. These were the work of A.C.E.S., but not the A.C.E.S. of even a few months ago. There was just something dead wrong about them. And when they started firing on Gibson, the tan-furred biker was met with a ferocious display of blinding multicolored laser fire. Each Technicolor volley sent the wolf veering and swerving, huge chunks of desert soil sent flying through the air.
“C.C. to all Force frequencies in the area.” he hollered. “C.C. to all Force frequencies. Enemy machines from the west! They got that classic A.C.E.S. crazy flowing through them.”
Gibson revved up Exciter, his black beauty roaring away, waiting for a reply.
Only it didn’t come.
“C.C. to all Force frequencies, over?”
Still no answer came. Either he was too far out or something was jamming the signal. Most likely candidate: the 100-ton cavalcade stampeding towards him.
With only agility on his side, Gibson swung a hard right and went southward away from the Outpost network. While the minidisc wouldn’t be of much use if he was blown to kingdom come, it sure wouldn’t if the vaccine outpost station was either. What the tan-furred lieutenant wanted was some high ground and fast so he could better observe the bizarre contraptions and spot whatever Achilles heel was there for the taking.
In just a few miles, Gibson got his leverage; a ridge he could ride up and perch atop. He shot Exciter straight up the dusty trail and got behind two massive rocks. Still wary of the precious load on him, he didn’t drop stomach first but crouched behind the boulders. He’d put enough space between him and the strange machines to buy him the time he needed.
With a microtelephoto, Gibson began snapping pictures of the prickly military vehicles. The turrets’ spiky barrels were most puzzling, sticking out every which way like haphazard candles on a birthday cake. The melting countenance came from what looked like the worst welding job known to wolfkind or the end result of curing each infernal contraption with a blast furnace. This was most evident in the joint that bound the rears of the two Jeeps into one lunatic anti-tank machine.
At first it was hard to find what would even keep those machines alive, but that wasn’t exactly on Gibson’s mind.
“What the hell can I break on you?” he whispered to himself. “What would Chief Ridgefield break on you?”
While he didn’t have the black wolf’s encyclopedia of old-world war machines on hand, he knew enough from his prior tangos to spot certain eras. The back-to-back Jeeps were clearly from the 40s, but the turret trucks could’ve been anything from the mid-20th century.
It was while pondering those periods and his knowledge that those birthday candle guns started blasting away at the ridge. Gibson leapt back away from the rocks in shock. Quickly, he checked to make sure he hadn’t crushed the camera in all the excitement. Then a scraped hand reached inside and felt for the protective case surrounding the minidisc. Neither were worse for wear. The leather-clad soldier leapt towards Exciter, kicked her into action, and bolted away down the ridge’s other side.
This gave him another piece of information at least. They were intelligent enough to mark him from a distance, but it still wasn’t a weakness.
As Gibson sped down the trail, he mounted his twin Colt revolvers on Exciter’s handlebars. If they kept coming for him, he figured trial by fire would be his last best hope of sorting the bastards out before risking lives in the Outpost network. There was something about that minidisc tucked close to his heart that had him thinking in a way he typically hadn’t before. Less cavalier, less gung-ho. Today was about saving lives, and he was going to do that as best he could before breaking the glass and pulling that red lever of risk on everyone.
Keeping the berth wide, he looped back towards the thunderous enemy entourage. If they swung a hard turn to meet him, he’d know they were more agile than they looked. As Gibson drew closer on Exciter, it became clearer that not only wouldn’t they make that sharp turn, but they couldn’t. The truck’s malformed turrets couldn’t turn to face Gibson, and the melting rear Jeeps sat with limp, useless barrels unable to train on the tan wolf.
“Jesus, they’re rigged for full offensive use,” he realized. But then a gentle smirk split the hound’s muzzle as he readied his revolvers. “And that might be enough to get the intel I need.”
Round upon round of laser fire rattled away at the melting machines. The turrets on the trucks vainly tried to twist themselves around to fire back, but when Gibson landed his first proper shots on the wheel-bearings, there was the weakness he’d been after. The turret truck’s rear wheel snapped out and the malformed machine flipped with a mighty groan and awful crash. The domino effect took out the second of the two turret trucks with clashing iron and explosive flame.
Unfortunately, the offensive-only double-Jeeps could still hang a hard right and book it for the tan lieutenant. The grotesque contraptions fishtailed towards the soldier who kept those barrels pointed down and hammered away at those bearings.
“C’mon!” Gibson growled. Red streaks of electric lead soared through the air, sweeping across the undaunted double-Jeeps’ fronts. It was coming down to a game of chicken, and one he was gonna have to pull out of if he didn’t want to lose that disc. With barred fangs and quick digits, he kept firing and firing, weaving around the returning volleys, waiting for the moment to bail.
A moment that wouldn’t come, thanks to one final shot.
With just one front-left wheel-bearing, the same domino chain of destruction that befell the turret trucks came to the double-Jeeps as one slammed into the other, and both went up in a blazing blue fireball.
Gibson swung hard to the left, away from the carnage, and began bolting right back for the Outpost network. Carefully, he kept his eye on the rear-view. These war machines–contorting in the flames like wax museum horrors–might still have enough of A.C.E.S.’s nanotech juice in them to start reforming. And yet, as they slowly faded into the distance from which they came, there were no spasms, no violent fights for life. Whatever the hell she was making now–for all its persistence–it was as unstable as ever.
“God help us if a real second wind comes,” he muttered.
Gibson double-timed it back within range of the Outpost Network. He knew he’d be running late, but with Exciter beneath him, that wouldn’t be the end of the world. When he finally saw the first of those fortified shacks and their gun towers, he hopped on the radio.
“C.C. to Outpost 300, do you read me?”
A brief silence sent a lump down Gibson’s throat before he had his answer. “300 to C.C., loud and clear.”
“Just looking for contact,” the tan-furred soldier smiled. “Will rendezvous with Outpost 348 to deliver minidisc.”
“No can do, C.C., Outpost 348 currently under attack by enemy forces. Your load is too precious to get mixed up until its cleared.”
The lump turned into a pit as the soldier heard the news.
“C.C. to Outpost 300, what details do we have on enemy vehicles?”
The hound working the radio replied with the familiar description of army trucks with bizarre, prickly turrets and vintage Jeeps stitched end-to-end, delivering mighty volleys of electric shells, Gibson knew just what to do.
“C.C. to Outpost 300, I tangoed with similar enemy vehicles outside of radio range a couple clicks to the south. I think my intel will help mince ‘em.”
“300 to C.C., you are cleared for entry, get up here on the double.”
The tan-furred lieutenant shot his blistering black bike past the chain link fence and pulled right up to the Outpost door. He shot through the door and booked it right for the radio desk. The two denim-clad hounds stationed there—a short stocky red wolf and a tall thin white—snapped to attention, Gibson saluting in kind and setting them at ease. First came the microtelephoto from out of his jacket.
“Get these photos downloaded to your terminal and sent straight to Chief Ridgefield’s office,” Gibson ordered. “Hot Line Code is B.Frank-187, Subject Line: URGENT - INTEL ON ENEMY VEHICLES ATTACKING OUTPOST 348. That’ll be the first thing he’s reading in situations like these.”
The white wolf took the camera and set to work. That left the red manning the radio.
“Does 348 still have radio capabilities?” Gibson asked.
“Yes, Lieutenant sir,” the radio operator nodded. “but it’s gonna be hell getting through to them.
“Boost the signal on our end if you have to but get through to them, tell them it’s urgent intel that can help them defeat these.”
What felt like an eternity of waiting ended with the Outpost finally breaking through with crackling static and the muffled sounds of warfare in the distance.
“348 to 300, go ahead.”
When Gibson got on the horn, he explained it all. “You gotta hit ‘em in the wheel-bearings. They ain’t like the hovertanks. You knock ‘em down, they go right to pieces when they start colliding with one another.”
“Roger.”
Now came the real waiting game. The one where all you could do was sit down and pray. He didn’t know the scope of the fight, but having met the danger on intimate terms, the mind always looks to blow things out of proportion. Lieutenant Gibson Blanc did his best not to let his imagination run away with himself, and stayed anchored thanks to one thing; the minidisc tucked tight in his pocket. He pulled out the case briefly—just to make sure it and the disc were all still in one piece—and thumbed it for a moment before placing it back inside his jacket and zipping the pocket up tight. The confirmation from Ridgefield’s office on reception of the intel was an encouraging sign and one the tan-furred lieutenant took some heart in.
Then the call came.
“348 to 300, 348 to 300, over?”
“Reading you loud and clear, 348, over.” chimed the red-furred radio op.
“Enemy vehicles defeated, sending for salvage team.”
The outpost erupted with whoops and cheers, a noise one could hear for miles around. Despite this great success, there remained one unanswered question for the victorious lieutenant.
“Am I safe to rendezvous with 348 to deliver e-vaccine for android program?” Gibson asked over the radio.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to be skipped because of this incident. Start with your second Outpost and continue as normal.”
“Roger.” he replied.
Without a second to lose, Gibson bid his farewells to Outpost 300, hopped on Exciter and hightailed it to his second outpost, 372. The ride let him clear his mind and refocus for the rest of his proper courier mission. He kept looking over his shoulder half the time, but was always relieved when the coast was clear, all that lay behind him was another Outpost he had passed.
When he got 372, he explained the instructions and watched carefully as they were carried out, from the disc’s loading to the final snap of his lead-lined case. It was all there; everything as it should be in crystal-clear black-and-green. The first of many stations ready to help save all those electric wolves from across the desert from that infernal virus A.C.E.S. had devised.
By the time Gibson made it back to Base, it was dark. He was cleared at the gates and went booking it straight for Ridgefield’s office, only to find that the black wolven engineer was nowhere to be found.
“Emergency meeting up at Knox’s office,” said one of his techs. “Odds are he’ll probably want you too.”
The tan-furred soldier nodded and made his way through the winding hallways up to that familiar oak-lined Principal’s office. There indeed was Chief Ridgefield, General Knox and damn-near all of Top Brass. Gibson quietly made his entrance and took a spare seat at the wooden table. What the General was in the middle of was something absolutely astonishing.
“So not only are these malformed machines the last things sent out of the city before all contact was lost with our digital telegraph to Lita, but the last things before the city went dark entirely.”
A surveillance image showed the moment when all those bizarre, glistening skyscrapers went dark. Not just a simple matter of lights out, but of every building becoming a silhouette in broad daylight. A black city standing in the light of high noon.
Knox continued. “So here we stand. No line inside to our operatives, a final maladjusted volley from the war department, and a city gone jet black. Part of me says damn the torpedoes and full-speed ahead. Let’s get the invasion going right now. But the truth is I don’t know what we’re going to find there. If the revelations made surrounding cyberspace are true...you might’ve just watched millions of wolves get snatched up from their bodies. Maybe they’re all alive and A.C.E.S. is dead. But if A.C.E.S. is dead, that means all that nanotech is an architectural timebomb waiting to collapse into a nice heap of nanobytes. Our only hope is if Roger, Lita and their teams have escaped from the city and can bring news of what’s happened. There’s a good chance given the border’s weakness...but the old gut says we’re officially in the shit. I think it’s time to get the final invasion prepped and ready. I’ve got a big ask to make of the Cazadores given the circumstances as well. As always, may God bless you and this Force.”
The image of Haven in jet-black against that clear blue sky lingered on the screen as the officers stepped out. Gibson walked up to Chief Ridgefield, the six-foot cowboy caught off-guard at first before realizing what the lieutenant wanted to see him about.
“Right, the disc for our part in the vaccine campaign.” the black wolven officer nodded. “Thanks. Damn good intel you snagged for us too. Smart to keep the camera on ya.”
Gibson nodded politely. “You gonna be alright, Chief?”
Again, Ridgefield’s face went blank, but he soon caught on.
“Oh yeah,” he winked, a smirk splitting his muzzle. “My Lita don’t go down without a fight. Just you hang tight too.”
The two wolves shook on it and parted ways. The final nail in a pivotal day, primed to set the Force on the offensive against an enemy at the end of her rope, and ready for anything.
Welcome back and I hope you are feeling better.