Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot (22 page)

But Big Mama hadn’t fought on behalf of that faith.

“You fought for Big Boss,” Snake said. “But what about Ocelot? Why did he join with you? What did he fight for?”

“The same as me. Big Boss. He didn’t fight for the Pentagon or the Russians. And certainly not for Zero. Ocelot was dedicated to Big Boss. He idolized him.”

When I think about it, Ocelot had a terribly complex role on Shadow Moses. He participated in the rebellion with FOXHOUND and was a spy for the Patriots, but his real goal was to outmaneuver the Patriots, bury one of their founders, and retrieve Big Boss’s body.

But now his body was controlled by Liquid.

Big Mama said, “We can’t allow Liquid to inherit the same sins that corrupted Zero—manipulating people’s minds for the sake of his own ego.”

Just then, the sanctuary doors opened.

Snake and Big Mama reflexively spun to face the intruder, a lone man in a buttoned-up trench coat and a hat lowered over his eyes. He looked like he’d just walked in from a noir movie. The resistance fighters raised their guns, a hive of bees ready to strike.

But Snake felt something was wrong.

The coat fell to the floor and the silhouette of the man crumbled and split off.

The rebels yelled in surprise. I couldn’t blame them. The supposed man was really three small surveillance robots standing on each other’s shoulders, like three kids in a trench coat pretending to be a grown-up.

Each robot was a black orb the size of a bowling ball with three long, slender humanoid arms. They shed their disguise and scattered across the floor and up the walls.

Big Mama said, “Give,” and took a gun from one of the young fighters. Immediately she shot one of the robots on the wall. Then she moved her gun in one smooth arc and fired shots at the other two. The robots skittered around the room with infuriating dexterity, but within seconds after the first had fallen, Big Mama’s unerring aim finished them off.

The resistance fighters exchanged troubled looks, some biting their lips.

“Scarabs,” one said, “Unmanned scouts.”

Without emotion, Big Mama said, “They’ve found us. We’re moving out.”

Either this was a frequent occurrence or she was handling it gracefully so as not to rattle her men. Her reaction impressed Snake—now he knew why this woman who called herself his mother had so many followers.

From the satellite image feeds and the density of wireless transmissions, I could see the PMC were quickly converging on the monastery. I told Snake they would be on him in less than five minutes.

Big Mama headed outside to the vehicles. The resistance fighters were already preparing their escape. She walked up to the driver’s side of one and asked the driver, “Are they ready?”

“As they can be.”

Big Mama lowered her voice. “We’ll send the real one through the canal route. Get it ready. Hurry!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Gekko’s cries rang through the air, and all eyes turned to the bright moonlit sky. The howls of man-made beasts filled the empty streets.

Snake knew the situation was about to get bad. There wasn’t even time for a smoke.

Big Mama called him over to a row of motorcycles beside a garage. Some already had riders warming up their engines.

As she walked into the garage, she said, “We’ve got decoy vans set to draw some of our pursuers away.”

At the rear of the space, a motorcycle slumbered beneath a tarp. EVA threw aside the cover. Dust flew off the plastic and danced across the beams of moonlight coming in through the windows.

“She’s a Triumph,” Big Mama announced.

The bike was a T120. Designed in 1959 and the first of the Bonneville models, it had retained a persistent popularity. Even in the twenty-first century, its parts were still sought for tuning. At one time, Auto Race riders, believing the Triumph engines would bring out the best of their racing abilities, competed over Triumph Engineering engines. A vintage bike suited Big Mama. Beauty and power combined.

She rolled the motorbike outside and indicated the resistance fighters’ quiet, frenzied preparations with her eyes.

“They’re all orphans,” she said softly. “As children, they all worked in arms factories, and when they grow up, they want to join a PMC. They seek revenge on other companies—the PMCs that killed their parents. Their pay goes to support their younger siblings. There are countless child soldiers in the PMCs.”

Much like Raiden.

What happened to Raiden as a child seemed to me the worst act one human could do to another, but that was only the very beginning. He was sent to America, where he joined the army. He was put in the Patriots’ fake FOXHOUND unit and underwent endless VR training.

“Nowadays,” Big Mama said, “anyone with access to the net can get combat training. The PMCs distribute popular FPS games for free. Of course it’s all just virtual training. It’s so easy for kids to get absorbed by these war games.”

In order to recruit personnel, the PMCs had to lay the proper groundwork within the culture. They needed a culture that raised children who were ready to leap into war. By cultivating that culture, they could secure the manpower to carry the future of their industry.

“And before they know it, they’re in the PMCs holding real guns. These kids end up fighting in proxy wars that have nothing to do with their own lives. They think it’s cool to fight like this. They think that combat is life.” She gave Snake a hard look. “They don’t need a reason to fight. After all, for them, it’s only a game.”

“It’s the war economy.” Snake’s face twisted with disgust. That’s not to say that past wars weren’t about making money. When kings and lords reached past their own borders, it was always about money. What Snake abhorred was the hiding of the seas of blood and the stench of rotting meat under a sterile cover. What they called an economy was really just war—same as always.

The children had been blinded to the nauseating realities of war. The image of the battlefield became sterilized. The groundwork was being laid for a world in which all people fought in proxy wars.

Big Mama spoke with a low, forceful voice. “Zero is the cause of all this. Defeating Liquid won’t change things. Unless we stop the Patriots’ System, the cycle will continue unbroken.”

She stepped on the pedal, and the vintage bike roared to life, its engine humming and vibrating, a noise wholly unlike the creepy, unnatural roar of the Gekko. This was a real machine, rough-hewn and comforting. Big Mama beckoned Snake to sit behind her, and he did.

She took a moment, absorbed in the noise of the idling engine, then let out a sigh of ecstasy and said, “With so many wars being waged, oil and biofuel have become as precious as diamonds. It’s been a while since I went out for a ride.”

“You sure about this?”

She threw him an over-the-shoulder grin. “I only get off my bike when I fall in love … or fall dead.”

Then Snake saw it in her eyes.
Saudade
—yearning for something that is lost. Perhaps she saw Big Boss’s face in the man who was both her son and a clone.

“Call me EVA.”

She signaled the departure, and her fighters raced out the open gate.

They split into three teams—one for each van.

Motorcycle squads ran alongside each vehicle. The one led by EVA was likely the real one, with Big Boss’s body inside. If the enemies got their hands on it, everything would be over.

With the curfew in effect, the streets were empty save for PMC troops, and there was no reason for the Paradise Lost to watch their speed. But the European city, with its long history as a fortress town, was built with a complex network of twisting roads—much to the detriment of both past-day invading armies and the present-day commuters.

The city had been untouched by Allied tank battalions during World War II, even escaping Hitler’s wrath. So the streets remained perfectly preserved in all their nuisances. The narrow, winding roads held back the speed of EVA and her men.

But the same was true for the PMC forces. And they probably didn’t have motorcycles either. Hard to imagine them gaining much ground in their armored personnel carriers.

A sound cut through the air, and something flew by overhead.

“A Slider!” I yelled.

A birdlike unmanned combat aerial vehicle like the one we saw in the Middle East, gliding around with wings like a raven and coming at Snake head on.

“Snake!” EVA shouted. “Do something!”

He took out his submachine gun and fired on full auto. But head on, the Slider had a slim profile and was exceptionally hard to hit.

“Shit!” Snake said.

The Slider’s mounted gun began to shoot. The weapon was located where the bird’s head would be—unlike the wings, that part of the machine could remain steady during flight.

“Hang on!” EVA yelled. She deftly maneuvered the Triumph to the side in a movement so quick the bike didn’t seem to turn at all. The drone’s machine gun fire passed beside them. The rear van and bikes managed to evade the attack, but their riders hadn’t managed to fire back like Snake.

“I’m turning!” EVA threw her kickstand into the ground and spun the bike around in a bowel-wrenching turn.

The rest of the squad managed to follow, but Snake felt sorry for anyone having to keep up.

They came onto a thoroughfare with PMC patrols stationed here and there alongside the road. Those quick enough to notice the resistance’s motorcade fired whatever weapons they had, but the vehicles shot by too quickly. Nearly all of their shots missed their targets.

A high-pitched shriek made Snake turn to see a Slider fly out onto the road, right on their tail, firing indiscriminately after the resistance forces. Several PMC soldiers were struck down by the bullets. The Slider gave no regard to friend or foe.

“Snake,” EVA said, “in front!”

Another Slider was rapidly approaching.

“What do we do?” Snake asked.

“Push through, what else? Just pray for luck!”

“What about that side road up ahead? Can you make the turn?”

“That goes backwards! It can’t be more than a thirty degree angle!”

This was essentially a U-turn. Not even EVA, and that maneuver she pulled before, could make that turn at their speed—let alone the rest of their entourage. It was as EVA had said—all they could do was try to pass under the oncoming Slider.

Then an APC came out from the side road. Its loudspeaker cheerfully called out, “Snake! You need me?”

“Drebin!” What got Snake’s attention even more than Drebin’s sudden and surprising entrance was Little Gray, standing atop the APC, an RPG-7 in hand. The vehicle slowed to let EVA’s motorcycle catch up.

“You think we can make a deal here, Old Snake?”

“Please!”

The APC pulled right up next to the Triumph, so close they were almost touching. Little Gray stretched out his long gibbon arm and handed Snake the rocket launcher.

EVA yelled, “Snake, it’s coming!”

Snake stood on the back of the bike, lifted the RPG-7 to his shoulder and took aim at the Slider in front.

“I’m throwing this one in for free,” said Drebin.

Snake glanced at the APC. Sitting in the gunner seat was Little Gray, another RPG-7 at his shoulder. He was aiming at the Slider in back.

“I’m not sure what’s going on here,” said EVA, laughing. “But you guys are really fucking weird.”

Snake didn’t have the time to laugh, but he was bemused by the idea of a monkey and a Snake fighting together.

“Fire!” Snake said.

The monkey and the Snake simultaneously fired.

Just as they had launched together, so did both rocket-propelled grenades find their targets. Before and behind the racing squad, orange flames burst into the night sky and cast their light upon the city.

“Well, Snake,” Drebin said. “Gotta run!”

The APC turned down a side road and parted with the convoy. I wasn’t sure if he activated the OctoCamo or not, but I lost sight of him within seconds.

“What an odd man,” EVA said. “Who is he?”

“A gun launderer. For some reason, he seems to like me.”

Another howl. This wasn’t over yet.