The Red: First Light

by Linda Nagata

  Jaynie answers from the open gate. “The colonel will evac later.”

  “That makes you next, Sergeant. Call out!”

  “Vasquez.”

  “Fevella.”

  “Harvey.”

  “Moon.”

  “Nakaoka.”

  “Ransom.”

  “Tuttle.”

  “Flynn.”

  “Hoang.”

  “Johnson.”

  There’s an interval of silence, when Wade should have called out. Then I hear the rattle of another dead sister going into the overhead rack, the thump of another pack being stowed under the bench. “Can you slide over, sir?” Jaynie asks.

  I get closer to Ransom, making room for her on the end of the bench. “All the equipment’s properly stowed?” I ask her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gears whine as the back gate closes. The Chinook’s engine cranks up.

  I lean toward Jaynie. My forehead hits her helmet. “Have we got a status on Sergeant Nolan’s group?” Nolan and two privates were left behind at the traitors’ checkpoint, tasked with getting rid of the pickup trucks.

  “I haven’t been able to check in with Guidance, sir.”

  “So no status on Fernandez and Antonio?” They were sent with Troy, and the National Guard truck.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Geez!” Ransom exclaims from my other side. “I thought I only got hit twice, but there’s three bullets pancaked in my armor! And that’s just the front side. I bet there’s shrapnel in the back.” I feel him lean across me as the Chinook begins to lift. “Hey, Sarge—how many do you have?”

  “I wasn’t frontline assault,” Jaynie calls out. “I don’t have any.”

  I remember being shot once in my robot foot, and once in the chest by little Allison. I touch my chest and wince at the pain of the bruise; follow it to its center, where the tissue is swollen. The bullet hit a lot closer to my throat than I thought. If it had hit just a little higher I wouldn’t be here.

  Just bad luck, I guess.

  No. That’s not what I’m thinking. I don’t want to die. I don’t.

  I need to know that Lissa is alive. I want to see her again, and my dad, and Elliot. But my skullnet is dead, and there’s nothing to hold back the black void seeping into my chest.

  I feel Jaynie lean against me. I’m startled by the humid warmth of her breath against my ear.

  “You got your helmet off, Sergeant?”

  “I’ve got to ask you off-com, sir. Why did you go outside?”

  Everyone in the squad is wearing a helmet that can filter a whisper out of the engine noise. “We’re not off-com.”

  “Everyone has shut off audio enhancement, sir. It’s just you and me. So why did you go outside? The colonel was screaming at you to stay in.”

  Delphi was screaming at me too. I heard her voice in the white noise of the jets.

  “My audio wasn’t working right. Maybe there was interference from the jets.”

  Jaynie pushes me harder. “So why did you go outside?”

  “I just wanted to.”

  I really, really wanted to.

  Jaynie says, “Too bad God got sucker-punched. He might have warned you to stay inside.”

  A shudder runs through me. Jaynie doesn’t know the Red came back to visit me on the approach to Black Cross.

  The Red has always been on my side, whispering premonitions of danger... but when I heard those fighters coming, something in my head demanded that I go outside. Why?

  I think I know. Right up until the blast everything I saw was relayed out through the angel, saved for posterity.

  To Jaynie I say, “It made good drama, don’t you think? A kick-ass end to episode two when I witnessed those pilots get vaporized?”

  I hear an edge in her voice, “It’s not a fucking joke, sir.”

  “I’m not joking. The Red’s back, Jaynie, and it was fucking with me. It was fucking with my equipment. It walked me out that fucking door.”

  I feel her pull away. She thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am.

  But a few minutes later, I feel her breath in my ear again. “I don’t want to be a puppet. We need to take it out.”

  “The Red? This whole fucked up episode is because Thelma Sheridan tried to take down the Red. She murdered thousands of people and nuked the country—and the Red is still here! You want to get rid of it? Then you’re going to have to play a harder game than a dragon. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t want to live with it.”

  I ask her what Kendrick asked me: “What makes you think we have a choice?”

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t talk to me at all after that.

  ~~~

  Eventually, we land somewhere.

  The engine winds down; it’s getting easier to hear. Jaynie gets up; so does Ransom, but he’s left his helmet on the seat—a fact I discover when my elbow bumps against it. The overhead racks rattle as the dead sisters are pulled down. From the chatter, I deduce we’ve been delivered to San Antonio, and that permission was given to remove helmets. An announcement must have gone out on gen-com, but I’m not linked. Can’t hear the Cloud. Can’t see the world. Can’t walk. I want to punch something.

  The smooth growl of an electronic mechanism is followed by a puff of air that smells like dust and jet fuel as the ramp opens. In a clipped voice, Jaynie says, “Harvey, take care of Lieutenant Shelley.”

  Not hard to figure out that she’s still pissed at me.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Evidently it’s Vanessa Harvey standing right in front of me. “Bring it up!” she yells. Then in a softer voice, “L. T., you aren’t going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “They brought a wheelchair for you.”

  It’s an old school model—no electronics—but they’ve sent an attendant to push it.

  Dawn has come. I can tell from the purple shards of light, so dim they don’t hurt my eyes at all as I’m wheeled across the tarmac. The tramping footfalls of my soldiers following me are a comforting sound. A white artificial light appears ahead. It gets brighter, chasing back the dawn with luminous fragments so intense I duck my head. The chair’s wheels roll over a bump and the air becomes stuffy and still. I’m indoors, and the AC is not working. There are a lot of people around. Camera shutters click and flashes go off in my face. I duck my head farther, and cover my eyes with my hand.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I growl at no one in particular.

  Tuttle answers, “Photo op.” Then fear enters his voice as he whispers, “Shit! Generals!”

  Now I really want to punch something.

  People are moving all around me, talking in low voices. I’m still hiding behind my hand when my wheelchair comes to a stop.

  “Lieutenant Shelley,” a man’s voice says—one that sounds suspiciously familiar. “I want to thank you and your unit for what you did tonight. Uncounted lives have been saved by your heroism, and all of you have the thanks of a grateful nation.”

  It’s the goddamn president.

  Not that I voted for him.

  But Kendrick will kick my ass if I mouth off or fail to conduct myself with the dignity inherent to an officer in the United States Army. So I drop my hand to the armrest, sit up straight, and open my eyes to the pain of the overhead lights. There’s a gasp and a twitter around me that tells me my eyes must look pretty bad, but I ignore it. I stare in the general direction of where the president must be and I say, “Thank you, sir,” in a voice that’s still hoarse and dry.

  Someone touches my right hand. I’m so startled, I jerk back in the chair.

  Jaynie hisses in my ear, “Shake the president’s hand.”

  Fuck. But I do my job. Composing myself again, I look up. This time I have more to say. “My apologies, sir. Our LCS communicates with gen-com bulletins, but I’m not hooked in anymore. Equipment failure. And my sergeant hasn’t had a chance to brief me on our agenda.” This last I say through gritted teeth to let Jaynie know that I do
n’t care how pissed she is, I’m going to kick her ass when we’re out of here. And then I hold out my hand.

  The president grasps it. “No need at all to apologize, Lieutenant Shelley. It is an honor to meet you.”

  Next item on the agenda turns out to be get-the-crazy-cyborg-out-of-sight, which is fine with me. The attendant pushes my chair past shattered ghost shapes that I interpret as people. Behind me, cameras continue to click and flashes go off as the president moves on to greet each remaining member of our dual LCS, thanking them for their service.

  The sounds of the ceremony soon fall behind. I hear the soft hiss of wheels against floor tiles, the astonished whispers of my soldiers as they escape the photo-op, and the tramp of their boots. The attendant turns the chair to go around a corner. The air gets a little colder. My soldiers don’t follow. I hear them as they continue down the hall. It scares me to be apart from them. “What the hell is going on?”

  From in front of me a voice says, “Shelley, it’s me.”

  I think my mouth falls open—which works out all right because Lissa puts her lips against mine and, with her hands behind my head, she gives me a long, long kiss. Of all the things I could be thinking, the one that pops up first is that I’m really glad Kendrick made me take a shower.

  With my lips brushing hers, I whisper, “Lissa, I didn’t know if you were even alive. Kendrick said someone would try to get you out—”

  “They did. I’m okay. They brought me here.” She pulls back. “Major Chen’s here.”

  He reveals his presence by speaking in his level, pragmatic voice. “I want to commend you, Shelley, for doing what needed doing.”

  “Thank you, sir, but it was Colonel Kendrick’s victory.”

  In my mind, I go back to Black Cross. I hear the jets again and I want to go see them—I need to see them, so I step outside—and I watch the rocket begin to fall. “I fucked it up at the end, Major. But I want to thank you for getting Lissa out.”

  “That was Kendrick’s victory too.” He steps forward. I tense as he takes my wrist. “This is for you.” He puts something made of cloth in my hand. I explore its familiar shape: the smooth, strong fabric, the embedded microwire net. It’s a skullcap. “It’s preloaded with your profile.”

  I’m afraid to put it on. If the EMP blew out the microbeads in my brain, then a skullcap isn’t going to do me any good at all.

  “Shelley?” Lissa asks, her voice taut with worry. “Are you okay?”

  But the beads are organic, aren’t they? And organic structures are immune to EMP.

  I duck my head and slip the cap on, pressing it close to my scalp. Then I hold my breath. Two seconds, three... and I feel it working, chasing the shadows away. I run my gloved hands over the cap one more time, and then give Lissa a smile. “I’m okay, baby. I’m doing fine.”

  LINKED COMBAT SQUAD

  EPISODE 3: FIRST LIGHT

  Lissa and I huddle together in the back seat of an army SUV. Chen is upfront with the driver. We’re one vehicle in a well-armed convoy taking our C-FHEIT soldiers to Kelly Army Medical Center. Twenty-four hours have passed since the bombs went off. An enforced quiet presides in San Antonio’s streets. Lissa describes the barricades and checkpoints she sees, controlled by National Guard troops and curtailing all civilian traffic. Only military, police, fire, and ambulances are allowed to move.

  She tells me of damaged cars littering the streets, some still with mournful families waiting in them—the flotsam left behind from yesterday’s flood of traffic as a million people tried to flee the city.

  Traffic lights aren’t working, none of the stores are open, and scattered plumes of smoke stain the dawn sky. “But I don’t see any big fires,” she says. “And no looting. It was worse in San Diego. Here, except for the wrecked cars, there’s hardly any damage.”

  But there’s damage under the skin, in the city’s nervous system, in its collective cyber mind. San Antonio is deep in the grip of the Coma.

  ~~~

  “Oh God,” Lissa says. “The hospital’s turned into an armed encampment.”

  We’re barely moving now, rolling forward at maybe ten miles an hour.

  “There’s razor wire, and MPs with dogs... and hundreds of civilians. They’re all standing in a long line like they want to get inside.”

  “They’ll be taken care of,” I tell her, hoping it’s true. “Anyway, you’re not going to wind up out there. You’re staying with me.”

  Major Chen is on the phone with hospital security. He arranges for two MPs to meet us beside the car. An attendant is there too. She puts a monitoring sleeve on my forearm even before I get out. I’m moved into a wheelchair, and then the MPs escort us inside.

  The power is on, evidenced by air-conditioning, and overhead lights that break into bright fragments in my vision. The lobby sounds packed, people on all sides, questions being asked and answered, a groan of pain, and one high, frightened voice.

  “Are they wounded?” I ask.

  The attendant answers. “Mostly civilians with minor injuries, sir. A lot of them are still here because they don’t have any way to get home.”

  We move quickly through the lobby and onto a waiting elevator. “Lissa?”

  “I’m here.”

  The elevator doors open and we proceed, passing rooms or offices, I don’t know which, but I hear people talking, discussing patients, discussing strategy. The attendant tells me, “We’ve got you on a priority schedule, Lieutenant Shelley. Right now we’re going to do a medical assessment, and then we’ll commence with your course of treatment.” The wheelchair comes to a stop. “Ma’am, you’ll have to wait outside.”

  “No.” I sit up straight, gripped by a sudden fear that if Lissa slips away from me again, she might disappear forever. “Lissa stays with me!”

  “Take it easy, Shelley,” Major Chen warns in a stern voice. “You do not need to worry about Lissa. We didn’t pull her out of San Diego, just to lose her on the streets of San Antonio.”

  She says, “Shelley, I’ll be okay.”

  My heart is pounding in my ears, but I’m wearing a skullcap which doesn’t allow me to harbor irrational fears for very long. Lissa kisses my cheek and whispers, “Don’t worry.”

  I’m taken into a room. The door closes. I know someone is with me, though I’m not sure who, until Major Chen speaks. “Shelley, you’re going to be here at Kelly AMC for at least a week while you get put back together. During that time you will exercise extreme caution in all contacts. You will not mention the Red—you’ve never heard of it. You will not discuss the mission to Black Cross with anyone, not even Lissa. You will not mention Thelma Sheridan’s name or the name of her company, nor will you suggest knowledge of her involvement in the insurrection. So far as you’re concerned, you don’t know her, and she isn’t involved. Is that understood?”

  I think about it. I do understand the need for silence, but I’m exhausted and crippled, hunger is grinding at my belly, and every muscle I still have is aching. I don’t need to put up with doubt on top of that. So I ask, “This isn’t going to be a whitewash, is it? Colonel Kendrick said we had a confession from Blue Parker.”

  “No, it is not going to be a whitewash.”

  “Okay.” Time will prove the truth of that. For now I have another concern. “Lissa knows about the Red.”

  “I believe it’s her theory,” he says, a sardonic note in his voice.

  “She’ll want to talk about her theory. I’ll want to listen.”

  “Understood.” His tone softens. “Layla Wade will receive a posthumous promotion to specialist. C-FHEIT will hold a memorial service for her the day after tomorrow. I know you’d like to attend, but you need to be here.”

  “Major—”

  “No.”

  “I’m not even wounded.”

  “You hope you’re not wounded, but we don’t know the condition of your eyes yet. We need you put back together, ASAP, so we’re flying in an eye surgeon tonight who specializes in overlays.
She’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  He takes my hand, and puts a phone into it. “From Guidance. They say it’s voice trained. Keep it with you and answer if it rings. Service is spotty, so no guarantees, but we’ll try to hook you in during the service.”

  He leaves the door partly open when he goes out. I hear him tell Lissa, “He’s got a full schedule of appointments. It’ll be a while.” Their footsteps recede, and for the next two hours I’m weighed, measured, and analyzed. They tell me I’m not radioactive, and that I was far enough from the blast not to suffer significant biological effects, but they won’t let me eat until I take another shower.

  The skullcap fits better when my hair has been washed away.

  I still don’t get to eat, though. I dress in T-shirt and shorts, and then I’m met by Specialist Bradford—the same CNA who took care of me before. “Lieutenant Shelley, didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.”

  “Didn’t expect to be here. How have you been?”

  “Oh! You’re gonna wish you didn’t ask that,” she says, taking the handles of my wheelchair. “But let’s get you on your way. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but his royal majesty has asked you to come visit.”

  “You mean Dr. Masoud?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  We pick up the tramping footsteps of the two MPs as she whisks me into the chatter and traffic of a hallway. “Anyway, it’s been a nightmare around here. A third of the staff not coming in, patients flown down from Dallas, civilians at the emergency clinic. There’s not enough of anything—you’ve probably noticed you didn’t get the luxury model wheelchair this time around? And there’s not one empty room. We had to put three beds together to open a room for you.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, no, no. Special orders for you. Special escort too.”

  It occurs to me how it looks. “I’m not a prisoner.”

  She chuckles. “Uh-huh. All our patients like to think that way.”

  We get on an elevator. The MPs don’t let anyone else get on with us. “Please wait for the next elevator,” one of them says as the doors close. I’m not sure if they’re here to protect me from reprisals, or to make sure I keep my mouth shut. Probably both.