Author's Note: Hello, everyone! The next update might be a while, because I'm working on other projects, but I do believe I might finish this. I love 1984 and this is something of a passion project of mine. Enjoy!

January 20, 1991:

Anders is sitting at the main table in the officers' mess, thirty kilometers north of Tabriz. He is not a happy man. His new XO, one Lieutenant Flynn from Airstrip One, stands beside him, rattling off Third Platoon's latest after-action report—earlier in the day, Third Platoon unsuccessfully attempted to seize a well-defended enemy position, losing sixteen men in the process. It was an embarrassing defeat that never should have happened. The Oceanian Army, overconfident after six hundred miles of swift Eurasian retreat, has suddenly found itself confronted by a line of fortifications near the base of the Caucasus, and Anders personally received a number of orders he viewed as suicidal. Nevertheless, orders are orders. The attacks happen daily and casualties mount.

"I believe we could have achieved better results with greater armor support, sir," Flynn says, leaning against the table. It's made of steel, heavily corroded after years of use, not to mention difficult to cart around every time the command post moves. Anders hates the thing, though according to regulations he has to use it. "Another Victory-class tank would've made all the difference. Or even a Purity-class, fragile as those things are."

"Of course it would have." Anders pokes a cube of over-chewy meat or meat substitute with a plastic fork. This is his lunch, technically, never mind the fact that it's probably past 15:30. Around him, the mess tent is all but empty, his only company Flynn and the telescreen watching from the far end. "But we don't have that many tanks, not with all the ones we've lost to breakdowns."

"We got reinforced a week and a half ago, didn't we? So we should be plusgood."

News doesn't trickle down much in the Army. Anders only knows about the tank shortage because he heard a man from Armor Company A complaining about it at the back of one of the senior officers' meetings. He also knows—though he's not supposed to—that when the company was officially "reinforced," what the brass actually did was withdraw five tanks, change their registry numbers, and then send them back as brand new. Everybody just went along and believed it, because that's what they were trained to do.

"Well, yes, we were reinforced, but the total number of tanks at our disposal has not increased. It's still eleven."

This situation requires doublethink. On the one hand, the battalion was "reinforced"; on the other hand the equipment logs show eleven tanks, the same number as before. Now, it is merely a coincidence and an oversight that the logs agree with the actual, physical quantity of tanks available to the Second Battalion, inasmuch as actual, physical quantities still exist, and that may not last long. All it takes is for Colonel Brandis or the Ingsoc Officer to open the ledger and change the numbers to anything they want, and the truth will change accordingly.
"I see, sir."

Anders searches Flynn's face. There is no trace of confusion or conflict—he will survive a long time, perhaps longer than the captain.

"Would you say your platoon is in fighting shape?"

"No, sir, I wouldn't. We're at about half strength."

Since Franco's death Flynn has done double duty as a platoon commander and as an executive officer. Anders doesn't really think he's up for the job, especially not with his attention so divided, and has been asking around for a replacement.

"I'll probably merge your platoon with Second. They've sustained losses just as grievous, and their lieutenant's dead."

"Yes, I heard what happened to him. Tank shell through the stomach, right?"

It was a grisly scene. "Right. Didn't even detonate, just plowed clear through and nearly cut him in half."

Somebody lifts up the tent flap, and for a moment warm desert sunlight streams in. Anders turns to face the visitor.

"Peterson," he says, putting down his fork. He was expecting this man. "Plusgood that you're here, comrade."

"Plusgood truthwise," Peterson says, nodding. He takes a swig from his canteen. He is a tall, barrel-chested man, wearing a black uniform much like Anders' but with an Ingsoc armband and a peaked cap in lieu of a helmet. "Uncold day, today. Mesopotamian weather is uncold like an oven."

Anders makes a mental note to brush up on his Newspeak. All Oceanian society is charging forwards toward the new language, and people like Peterson are at the vanguard, though even he does not use it fully. Transitioning to such a restricted mode of speech and thought has proven more difficult than anticipated. "No thoughtcrime to upsub today, hopewise?"

Peterson makes a dismissive sweep of his hand. "Plusunimportant thoughtcrime. You command a goodthinkful unit, Captain Anders. But there are other important matters to talk with you."

"I see. Flynn, wait outside."

Flynn nods and leaves, leaving Anders and Peterson alone in the tent. At the end of the table, the telescreen plays a snippet from some film or other, showing Eurasian atrocities against a village in central Africa. Like the rusted steel table, it is a terribly bulky object which must be moved and reinstalled every time the company command post advances.

Anders doesn't think a telescreen is really necessary, anyway. The Party already has people like Peterson—the battalion's Ingsoc Officer, or Offingsoc—to act as walking, breathing telescreens, surveilling and spouting propaganda all at the same time.

"Now, what brings you here?" Anders asks, as Peterson takes a seat at the table beside him. The plastic chair creaks beneath his weight. "Plusnew developments in goodthink? A new film to show the troops, possiblewise?"

"No." Peterson glances at both entrances to the tent, one behind him and one by the telescreen. Nobody is coming. "There's an Inner Party member, Kenneth Mueller, on his way here from New York Minipax. He's Euras stratdirec."

Anders raises an eyebrow. He's heard of that post once before—in Oldspeak, it translates to General Director of Military Strategy, Eurasian Sector—and knows that it is remote, immeasurably elite, far above his ken. He also knows…

He suppresses the memory immediately. It's best to keep it dormant, lest the faintest glimmer of uncertainty or trepidation should show itself to Peterson's trained eye. For now he does not know who Mueller is.

"Colonel Brandis hasn't told me about this, yet."

"Colonel Brandis doesn't know. I myself was only told two hours ago, by subcable. The Euras stratdirec, Kenneth Mueller, will visit Second Battalion as part of his inspection of the front lines."

"I'll be sure to prepare plusgoodwise for his visit."

Peterson glances at the two tent flaps, again. "You will also monitor him. Mueller is suspected of thoughtcrime."

Anders nods. This is dangerous territory, not least because Peterson is a very dangerous man. He works for the Ministry of Love, rather than the Ministry of Peace, and by informing for him, Anders will essentially become an adjunct of the Thought Police. Unpalatable, but it was bound to happen eventually. Everyone informs for the Thought Police sooner or later. Better he should report on some Inner Party functionary, however high up, than, say, a close friend. Not that friends are very common anymore.

"All right. How may I make myself useful?"

"He will be with the battalion for three hours, two days plustime. I am pulling strings to have him visit your company first and for the longest period of time; you will have access to Mueller for approxwise one hundred twenty-five minutes, and you will note everything he says and does, down to a doubleplusunbig facial tic. After he leaves you are to report back to me. If your evidence is conclusive, which I suspect it will be, we'll have him arrested by the end of the day."

"Simple enough." Anders sees no reason why he has to be involved; Peterson, as Offingsoc, already has license to follow Mueller through the entire duration of his visit, and can doubtless observe more sharply and penetratingly than Anders could ever hope to.

"You are wondering why I can't just do the job myself," says Peterson, looking him straight in the eyes. Anders shudders. Maybe the Thought Police do read minds. Could he know…? Then again, even Anders doesn't know, he has repressed the thought until the time is right.

"Yes, I am wondering that."

"There are political considerations. Mueller has many enemies, and he will suspect me, as Offingsoc, of working for them. Around me he will avoid facecrime closewise and practice duckspeak—showing no trace of thoughtcrime. Thuswise I will attend to other tasks during his visit, while you, only a company captain, shall be my eyes and ears, luring him into showing his trueful nature."

And then, when all is said and done, Anders will have to forget that Mueller ever existed. He knows how this goes.

"Very well. I'll do it."

Peterson pats him on the shoulder and rises from his seat. "Doubleplusgood, comrade. Big Brother would be proud. Next time you're up for promotion, I'll put in a good word with division HQ."

"I'm doubleplusthankful. Now, if you'll send my executive officer back in when you leave?"

"Of course." Peterson pulls up the tent flap, bids farewell with an understated wave. Anders, still seated, remembers what he has been hiding from himself—now is the time.

"Comrade Peterson. Wait."

Peterson stops and turns, puzzled. "Anything to add?"

Anders draws his sidearm and aims it straight at the Offingsoc's chest. His hand shakes; he's not comfortable doing this, pointing a gun at an officer technically superior to him, but orders are orders. "You're under arrest for crimes against Ingsoc, Big Brother, and the state of Oceania."

Peterson scoffs. "You don't have the authority."

"I have in my pocket a message from Kenneth Mueller, ordering your arrest." He'd forgotten until this moment that it was there. Such is the power of doublethink, essential in this society, even for a relatively apolitical man like Anders. "You're a thought criminal."

"On what evidence?"

Anders nods towards the telescreen, still playing clips from a war film.

"I control the telescreen," Peterson says.

"Not anymore. And our conversation, I assure you, has been recorded."

Flynn steps behind Peterson, also with a pistol drawn. He's been briefed, on a very basic level, though Anders wasn't sure he would actually follow through. He snatches the Offingsoc's sidearm out of its holster. Anders stands, and walks a few steps forward.

"My orders identify you as part of the treacherous 'Calloway-Harris Anti-Ingsoc Center.' I do not know who those people are, or what all you've done, but the Party says you're a thought criminal, and that's enough for me."

Anders knows he plays a small part in a political game far above and beyond him. If he had his way, he would just mind his own, lowly business as a soldier, but nobody ever asked his opinion, did they?

"You don't know what you're doing," Peterson says. "I'll have you vaporized for this."

"An empty threat." Or so Anders hopes. He's counting on Mueller to succeed with this little putsch, or else everyone involved will live to regret it. "Lieutenant Flynn, let's escort this man to the confinement shed."

Out here, in this camp in the middle of the Iranian desert, they don't really have a jail—just a sturdy-looking peasant shack where they put a lock on the door and a guard outside. Assuming someone comes to take the Offingsoc into custody, he won't have to stay there indefinitely.

Peterson, sneering, walks between Flynn and Anders as they lead him away.