The Red

by Linda Nagata

  “Not just me.”

  “Who else? Who’s behind this?”

  “I’m not issuing a roster.”

  “Is Chen part of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing the Red was never part of your plans.”

  He scowls. “The Red is the joker in the pack. There’s nothing I can do about it, except hope like hell it’s on our side.”

  “Sometimes it is,” I muse, “and sometimes it isn’t. But I think for now, our goals are the same.”

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “It’s what Lissa said about what its purpose might be—to develop an optimized world with peak consumer potential across the population. That won’t ever happen if a psychopath like Thelma Sheridan blows everything to vapor.”

  “Yeah? I hope you’re right. You won’t hear me complaining if we get a little supernatural help.”

  He flips the turn signal, and takes an off-ramp to the center of town. There’s actually traffic in the streets.

  “Where are we going?”

  My question is answered when he turns into the driveway of a luxury hotel. “The mission starts tonight, and we may not be coming back.” He pulls into a parking stall. “So I’m meeting my wife. Lissa is here too.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I reach for the door handle.

  “Hold on.” The band of his farsights has gone transparent. He studies me, one hand cocked over the steering wheel. “I want to make sure you understand, all the way down to your balls, that this mission is not a game. It’s dangerous, and not just for us. If and when it gets out who we are, there are dragons who will come after us, and they’ll come after the people we love.”

  “Oh fuck.” A cold sweat breaks out across my body. I know he’s right.

  Kendrick says, “My wife knows what to do. We’ve talked about this for a long time. We have friends. You have friends too. They’ll be looking after your father. And Lissa will be safe, because she’ll be working with Keith Chen in a secure facility. And no, I’m not going to tell you where. The less you know, the safer for everyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “So are you still with us?”

  Fuck.

  “Could I back out if I wanted to?”

  “Technically, no. Unless you plan to go straight to the FBI, you’re already a party to the conspiracy. So what’s it going to be? You going to try to save your ass as a government witness?”

  What would he do if I said yes, I wanted out? Would he try to stop me? I don’t see a weapon on him. But it’s an idle question, irrelevant in the circumstances.

  “Sir, there is no way I’m staying behind. This mission is bug-fuck crazy, that’s for sure, but it’s still the right thing to do—and it needs to be done. I want to be part of that. I want to see justice done, no matter what the consequences—”

  I stop myself, realizing what I sound like. “Ah, shit. Listen to me. I guess every fucking terrorist in the world has said pretty much the same thing.”

  “Probably.”

  “You know, this is exactly how I got in trouble in New York.”

  “Taking a stand?”

  “Yeah. Fuck me.”

  “No thanks. Not my job. Now get out of here. We meet back at the car at midnight.”

  I grab my bag and we head for the hotel.

  • • • •

  There’s a propane fireplace at the foot of the bed. Lissa and I live that night by its flickering light. We don’t talk about anything that matters, not at first. It’s all fun and games, sex and room service—a limited selection, post-Coma, but still not bad. I’m not drinking and neither is she, but we’re both as giddy and wild as if we’ve just knocked off a bottle of wine.

  I don’t want to waste time sleeping, but I do anyway. When I wake up, she’s watching me with a smile on her beautiful face. We shower together, and then we get back in bed. I don’t need to hide my prosthetics under the sheet. We’ve gotten past that.

  We kiss for a while. Then she pulls back, propping her head up on her hand. From her expression I know it’s about to get serious.

  “Keith told me you’ve got a new mission and that you’ll be away for a while.”

  “Keith?” I ask with honest confusion.

  She arches an eyebrow. “That’s Major Chen to you, soldier.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She stares at me, her gaze demanding additional information.

  “You know I can’t tell you what we’re doing.”

  She waits, watching me with the patience of the sphinx. I don’t want to piss her off, so I tell her just enough to hopefully give her some comfort. “This is just temporary duty. It’s a specific task, and then we should be back home again.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few days. If it’s longer, I’ll get word to you. I swear.”

  “You damn well better.”

  I feel like I just dodged a bullet. “So what are you going to be doing for ‘Keith’?”

  “A lot of statistical analysis looking at event triggers and ensuing pattern development in Cloud-based semi­autonomous systems.” She sighs and looks regretful. “Beyond that, mister, I can’t tell you.”

  I grin and grab her and we roll around laughing, but it’s getting late. The midnight deadline is slouching closer, bringing with it a sense of desolation.

  “Lissa.” We’re lying face-to-face, her eyes inches from mine. I touch the beautiful curve of her cheek. “Things have gotten kind of crazy, you know that. When you’re working with Major Chen . . . if you’re ever uncom­fortable with what he’s asking you to do, if you ever have any questions about the legality, the ethics of it, I want you to back out, okay?”

  I swear, every molecule in her body ceases to move. Time stops as she stares at me with her black-body eyes—dark marble, radiating heat—a gaze that extracts from my mind things I haven’t said. Time starts up again as she confronts me with it: “You’re planning to do something stupid, aren’t you? Just like before.”

  I can’t deny it, but I can’t confirm it either. The only thing left for me to say is, “I love you. I always have. I always will.”

  “And you’re a dickhead! Always have been. Always will be.”

  “Lissa—”

  “I love you anyway.” Her voices breaks as she says it; tears start in her eyes.

  We kiss, and we hold each other, we press our bodies against each other, skin to skin—cheek, chest, belly, crotch, and thighs—down to the boundary of my prosthetics. We can’t get any closer. It’s a moment I save in my mind. I don’t want to think. I just want to be with her, but midnight is coming fast and I’m feeling afraid. “Lissa, there’s one more thing. I need you to remember that it’s the dragons who control the mass media, especially now, and you might hear things . . .”

  I hesitate, uncertain how much I should tell her.

  “What kind of things?”

  I kiss her ear. “The kind of things you don’t want to believe. If you hear those things, know they’re not true. Promise me that you won’t believe them.”

  She doesn’t have any idea what I’m talking about, but she agrees to it with a nod of her head, saying, “I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you.”

  Subject: New assignment

  Hey, Dad. I’ve got a new mission. Overseas again. I’m supposed to let you know that because of the way things are—the Coma—I might not be able to talk to you for a while. But don’t worry. You understand? You are not to worry. I’m coming back. I promise.

  Love you,

  Jimmy

  “We’re going to die tonight,” Kendrick says.

  “What? Wait.” I know that Lissa can get the true facts from Major Chen, but . . .“My dad can’t think I’m dead. I can’t do that to him.”

  It’s 0121, a
nd I’m sitting in the front passenger seat of Kendrick’s old MH-6, outside the army hangars. Occa­sional flights are leaving from the civilian runway; I hope Elliot has found his way onto one of them.

  Kendrick is piloting. He’s finished his initial checks, and above the cabin, the blades are coming up to speed. We’re wearing flight suits and our LCS helmets, but we’re not linked into Guidance, and we’re flying without bones or armor. We don’t need them, because this is just a quiet flight up to C -FHEIT—in theory.

  “Tonight’s incident is not going to be announced to the media,” Kendrick assures me, his low voice rumbling through my helmet’s audio. We’re using gen-com on a helmet-­to-helmet basis, with a custom encryption to keep our conversation between ourselves. “The president will not let it get out that the Lion of Black Cross was assassinated by grudge-holding insurrectionists. But the people who need to know, they’ll hear about it. And when they’re trying to figure out who hit Vanda-Sheridan, our names won’t be on the initial list of suspects, because we’ll be dead.”

  “The truth is going to come out eventually.”

  “Shit, yeah. But until then, it’s an extra layer of distance to protect the people who matter to us.”

  He talks to the tower and gets clearance. “Go ahead and put your overlay into recording mode.”

  I do it, though I’m still locked down.

  We head out into the night, climbing swiftly so that we pass high above the suburbs. There’s a cloud deck tonight, and after a few more minutes we pass through it. On the other side the stars are brighter and more abundant than I’ve ever seen them, even in Africa, and they’re inhabited. I count three satellites passing overhead, but only one airliner.

  Reaching behind the seat, I grab two nylon bags. Each contains a rappelling harness. I take one out, make sure it’s untangled, and hand it to Kendrick.

  I wanted to put the harnesses on while we were still on the ground, but he said no. He didn’t want anyone at the hangar asking questions. I help him slide the harness up over his legs while he continues to pilot the helicopter, and then I secure the buckle at his waist.

  “Make sure you’re not squeezing your balls,” he advises as I put mine on.

  “Yeah, I have pretty clear memories from boot.”

  I should be nervous, but I’m not, and it’s not because the skullnet is working overtime—the icon isn’t even showing—it’s more a state of disbelief. Deep down, I’m not convinced any of this is real. That’s especially easy to believe here, floating in a dimensionless interface between darkness and stars.

  “Here we go,” Kendrick says. He’s focused on the controls, concentrating on holding us stationary.

  I look around. We’re expecting to rendezvous with another helicopter, but I don’t see it.

  “Grab the cable and latch it,” he tells me.

  We’re hovering in the void, the rotors thrashing above us, and darkness below. Tentatively, I open the door. Cold air rushes in. I glance down, but beyond the skid there’s nothing to see, no sense of height. I push the door wider. The night is calm, so the only wind I have to contend with is the rotor wash. Leaning out, I look back. Even without switching my visor to night vision I see it: a black line of cable like a snake’s head. It’s moving, questing, searching for the hookup point. With one gloved hand tight on a grip, I lean out and grab it, and then shove it at the faintly luminous hookup portal. A mechanism in the cable shifts and it locks on. I yank on it, just to be sure.

  “Secure,” Kendrick confirms. “Go.”

  My gaze follows the cable back. I can see only the first few feet. I focus on the term night vision. My skullnet picks it up, translates it for my visor, and darkness washes away, revealing the stealth helicopter at the other end of the cable, and the side door standing open for me.

  Grabbing the tether dangling from my harness, I reach out and hook it onto the cable.

  The cushion of my seat dips. I glance over my shoulder to see Kendrick crouched behind me, ready to follow.

  Nothing feels real.

  I jump.

  • • • •

  I fall only a few feet before I hit the end of the tether, and then I’m sliding along the cable. Fear kicks in, but at a distance. The air is thin and cold, but sweat dumps from every pore. There’s a lurch. That has to be Kendrick, coming behind me. If it was the cable coming undone I’d be falling straight down. Instead, I slide sideways into the bay of the stealth helicopter. My robot feet click against the floor, and I run a few steps, dumping momentum. One of the flight crew, anonymous in his visored helmet, is there to unhook my tether from the cable.

  “You’re clear!”

  I stumble out of the way as Kendrick shoots in behind me.

  “Two on board!” the same voice says. “Disengaging cable.”

  I turn to look out the open bay. Our helicopter, brilliant with navigational lights, is flying itself. It drops away from us, descending toward the cloud deck and then disappearing through it. The cable is still winding back into the stealth helicopter when an explosion rips in orange fire beneath the clouds.

  • • • •

  Kendrick sends me a document. I open it in my visor. It’s titled:

  MISSION BRIEFING

  CODE NAME: FIRST LIGHT

  “First Light?” I ask him.

  We’re strapped into the helicopter’s passenger seats, our backs to the bulkhead. The crew is up front.

  “I’m told it’s a propaganda choice. This is the first overt action taken by the organization—though it is not, by any means, the first action planned by the individuals involved.”

  I scan the mission briefing. I learn that while Thelma Sheridan is a Texan, she chose the rugged, ice-bound coast of the Gulf of Alaska for the site of her Apocalypse Fortress. I admire her for that. No self-respecting survivalist should ever opt to watch the world die from the cushy shore of a tropical island.

  The fortress sits on a low ridge. It has a curved face and a sweep of windows overlooking the sea. From a passing plane or a boat offshore it looks like a modest structure, remarkable only for its isolation—but most of its structure is underground.

  The fortress is only one part of Thelma Sheridan’s wilderness holding. A road switchbacks down the ridge, descending to a private airfield with a three-thousand-foot runway scraped from the valley floor. Alongside the runway are a fuel tank, two large hangars, a garage with a fleet of snowplows, and a three-story cube built of concrete where a dozen employees are housed.

  One of those employees is described in the mission briefing as Lucius Perez, a twenty-seven-year-old engineer who oversees security around the Apocalypse Fortress. Perez is part of our conspiracy. So far as I’m concerned he’s the most important part. He’s going to help us get in, and he’s going to help us get out again.

  I go back to the beginning, and read the briefing over again. I like the plan that it details. I like it a lot better than the head-on assault we pulled off at Black Cross. Treachery isn’t exactly heroic, but it works.

  • • • •

  The organization—Kendrick won’t refer to it as anything else—demonstrates a talent for logistics as we move north. At a private airfield in West Texas we change into civilian clothes and then transfer to a twin-engine turboprop, which Kendrick flies to Albuquerque. There we’re met by a woman Kendrick introduces as Anne Shima. She’s slim, slight, and white haired, with a military bearing.

  She looks me over. The robot feet only warrant a brief glance; it’s my eyes that hold her gaze. It’s like she’s trying to see past them, to what’s inside my head. “You can’t see the Red,” I tell her. “Most of the time it isn’t there.”

  She acknowledges this with a nod. “The Red is a factor we can’t control for. That irritates me, but I supported your inclusion in this mission. I’ve watched Dark Patrol and Bleeding Through. For whatever reason,
there is a narrative around you that’s still playing out. There’s no way to know for sure, but I think your presence will benefit this mission. We’re living in strange times, Lieutenant Shelley. We need to adapt to them.” She extends her hand. “I wish you every success.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  We transfer to a tiny private jet with seats for five. Shima serves as pilot. Kendrick and I strap into the passenger seats and use the time to sleep. He pulls on his skullcap and is out before we reach the end of the runway. I wait until we’re in the air before I think, Sleep. Then I’m gone too. On the way to Juneau, we land twice to refuel. The biggest miracle of the journey: Despite the scarcities and hardships of the Coma, a fuel truck is waiting for us both times.

  • • • •

  The weather cooperates, and we’re able to fly a single-engine aircraft north from Juneau, landing in a snow-covered field that Anne Shima optimistically terms a runway. We tramp through snow to the water’s edge, where we board a small boat moored beside a floating dock in the middle of a cold nowhere. Shima takes the helm, instructing us to cast off.

  The sea is glassy and dark. This far north, this late in the year, the day retreats early. Night gathers around us as we parallel the coast. Through the torn veils of low-hanging clouds, a few faint stars gleam.

  After an hour, the boat nudges up to another dock, this one slick with ice. A figure is waiting for us, a lantern gleaming at his feet. As he leans down to catch the mooring rope that I toss to him, I recognize Sergeant Aaron Nolan, dressed like us in civilian hiking gear, but still wearing his army skullcap.

  “Evening, Lieutenant Shelley, Colonel Kendrick.”

  “Good to see you, Sergeant.”

  We grasp tight to our titles, holding on to the structure of the past here in our tenuous present.

  With the boat secured, we grab our gear. Nolan goes first with the lantern. I follow, with Kendrick behind me. Shima trails after us with a flashlight. A path has been trampled through fresh snow to a sportsmen’s lodge. It’s a modern, one-story building with dark siding and wide windows. Only a faint gleam of golden light leaks past the blinds.

  Nolan pushes the door open. We’re in a mudroom lit by an LED. As I push open the second door, a blast of oppressively warm air hits me, along with an enthusiastic chorus: “Hoo-yah! ”