by Linda Nagata
“When we were talking to Koi, and I asked her about other soldiers, you knew something, didn’t you?”
A rare, faint smile touches her lips. “It’s classified.”
I glance at Nolan. He’s asleep beside me. I look up front. Jaynie and Harvey are staring at the traffic ahead. Hoping road noise will cover my voice, I whisper in Delphi’s ear, “Tell me anyway.”
She leans back and sighs. “There’s not much to tell. I was interviewed several times by an investigator. He implied you weren’t the only one, but how many others there were, and how deep their involvement went, he wouldn’t say. You’re the only one whose name ever became known.”
“It might be worth trying to find out who the others are.”
“I did try. After I resigned, I spent time looking into it. I asked myself what set you apart, and the one obvious asset was your overlay. So I looked for other soldiers who used one.” She gives a little shake of her head. “I had only civilian access. I didn’t get anywhere.”
“It’s a good lead, though.” I lean back, thinking about it. If she’s right and an overlay is key, that narrows the prospects. My own overlay, my first one, was a prototype. I got in early because my cousin was on the development team; he’s part owner of the company. I decide I’ll call him when things calm down, ask him to research the question for me.
Traffic thins as we cross Pennsylvania, and connectivity becomes intermittent. For mile after mile, the interstate is flanked by office parks, distribution centers, and car dealerships—most with empty parking lots and many looking abandoned.
Nolan is awake now, gazing out the window, while Delphi has fallen asleep. For maybe the hundredth time I turn to look behind us. I have no doubt we’re being tracked. We’ve gone too far and we’re moving too fast for a microdrone to successfully follow us, but that doesn’t mean we’ve escaped surveillance. No one escapes surveillance these days. The real questions are: Who’s looking? And what are their intentions?
It’s likely a government agency is monitoring us by drone or by satellite—maybe more than one agency. That’s their job. It doesn’t mean they’re a threat. It doesn’t mean anyone human is even paying attention—the feds have a limited budget and a long list of surveillance targets more dangerous than us.
It’s possible the domestic terrorists who struck Manhattan are watching us too. If so, they are very much a threat, but I doubt they have the size or the organization to manage a sophisticated surveillance operation.
Vanda-Sheridan is surely interested—and sophisticated—but I was supposed to die in Manhattan. If Carl Vanda didn’t have a plan in place to follow me if I got out of the city, then it’s going to take him time to track me down.
The possibility of mediots tailing us doesn’t really concern me, because mediots don’t chase stories, preferring their victims exposed and helpless.
I study the scattered traffic behind us, but if there’s a suspicious vehicle back there, I can’t spot it. So I turn around, to look again at the road ahead. And I wonder: Is the organization watching us? Do they have that ability? I’d like to think they do.
I’d like to think they’re watching Carl Vanda.
I wonder if he’s gone back to his Alaskan stronghold, the Apocalypse Fortress. I wonder if that’s where he keeps his nukes. The Apocalypse Fortress extends underground, a home that doubles as a bomb shelter . . . but how mad would he have to be to keep nukes in his basement?
They won’t be there. Carl Vanda is not stupid.
Still, if you want to hide something, going underground is a good way to do it. Secrets can stay secret beneath meters of rock and soil, shielded from EM leakage that could be harvested by spies. You’d have to get a camera inside a facility like that to know what was going on. If you could keep cameras out, if you had no direct connection to the surface, your secrets might stay locked away, even from the Red.
That’s where the nukes will be: someplace where the Red can’t see them.
• • • •
That night we stop near Pennsylvania’s western border, at an old three-story hotel with two long wings skirted by a nearly empty parking lot. Business is bad all around, but at least this place has pride of ownership: The landscaping is perfect, with the hedges around the parking lot lit up by knee-high lights. It occurs to me the owner could be trading the use of a room for maintenance services.
“Let’s park away from the door,” Jaynie says over gen-com. “Leave one stall open between the vehicles, and back in.”
That way we can leave quickly if we need to.
Before I get out, I check myself in the rearview. I look like a criminal with my eye bruised and swollen, but thanks to Delphi, who insisted on a short stop at an anonymous mall, I’m wearing a new shirt. She went in by herself and bought me collared shirts, T-shirts, slacks, shorts, and a light jacket long enough to cover my chest armor. I didn’t go with her because the new CO is being a hard-ass, and I am under orders to stay out of the public eye.
Delphi has been driving for the last couple of hours. She parks and slides out from behind the wheel. I get out at the same time and catch her elbow. We’ve hardly talked since we joined up with the squad.
“What’s it going to be?” I whisper. “Do you want your own room? Or do you want to share a room with me?”
She gives me a coy look, then stands on her tiptoes and speaks in my ear, “If it’s not going to destroy unit cohesion, I wouldn’t say no to a replay of last night.”
It is bad for unit cohesion. I know that. But I haven’t signed a contract yet. I kiss the side of her mouth. “You’re on.”
On check-in we present IDs for the teenage desk clerk to scan. He watches the records come up, sees our names, but he has no idea who we are. I go last. I’m the only one who’s chipped, so instead of groping for a wallet, I press my wrist against a sensor plate. The clerk eyes my bruised face and then reconsiders the record on the screen in front of him. “You’re from Texas?” he asks in a soft, nervous voice.
“Just my driver’s license. I’m from New York.”
He looks relieved.
The great majority of Texans had nothing to do with the insurrection, but that can be hard to remember, and since Coma Day, a lot of people have been carrying a grudge against the Lone Star State.
We get adjacent rooms on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot. Jaynie sets up a watch rotation so that someone will be patrolling the area around the SUVs at all times. Tuttle gets the first shift, while the rest of us crowd onto the elevator. “No one goes out tonight,” Jaynie warns. She taps her ear. “And everyone wears their earpiece. We stay linked in to gen-com at all times. Harvey, Moon, figure out something to order for dinner.”
“How is all this shit being paid for?” I ask as the elevator door opens onto an empty corridor.
“The organization sent a cash card. Delivered by courier on Sunday afternoon.”
I wish I knew more about the organization. I know they have deep pockets and the competence to pull off a complex operation. Rawlings said they were fully funded by donations from individuals who believed in a government by the people, for the people—not for the dragons. I hope it’s true.
The room is simple but clean. There’s a bed, a set of drawers, a desk, and a monitor. As soon as the door closes, I’ve got my arms around Delphi.
“Let’s take a shower,” I murmur in her ear.
Goose bumps rise across her skin as she says, “Yes.”
• • • •
Forty minutes later, Moon links on gen-com, letting me know the food has arrived. I get dressed and go out into the hall. It’s barbecue. Smells good. Nolan hands me a pistol—a 9 mm SIG Sauer in a nylon holster—along with a box of ammo to go with dinner. “Just in case.”
When I get back inside the room, Delphi is wearing a tank top and panties as she kneels on the bed, puzzling over t
he remote control. “Don’t turn the cable on,” I plead.
She gives me an annoyed look. “Koi Reisman said the new show launches tonight, remember? Against the Beast. I want to know what time.”
“So check the Cloud.”
“My network connection is comatose. How’s yours?”
“Slow,” I admit.
She turns the TV on.
The show is scheduled for later in the evening, so Delphi watches the national news-propaganda channels instead. We sit on the floor, eat our barbecue, and listen to their pseudojournalism. Every time the coverage moves to celebrity babies or sex scandals, Delphi shifts to a different brand.
“I can’t believe there’s a regular audience for this shit,” I grouse as I head into the bathroom to wash up.
When I come back out, two so-called legal analysts are discussing how the case against Thelma Sheridan relies on the preliminary FBI report, which should be inadmissible because it is classified, and that Colonel Kendrick committed an act of treason when he turned it over to Ahab Matugo.
Impulsively, I want to strangle both of them.
“Delphi, can you fucking turn it off, please.”
“No. We need to know what the enemy is saying. If you don’t want to hear it, then listen to some music with the volume turned up.”
The skullnet icon is flickering, and I know I should take her advice, but I don’t. Instead I sit on the bed and watch, waiting to see how much worse it will get.
The pair of pseudo-intellectuals continue to coach the audience in outrage for another minute and a half, and then we get to hear the mediot again. “The acts of violence that have plagued the country continued today with a spree of car bombs in Manhattan. Five bombs were detonated within twenty-two minutes, causing widespread damage to transportation and communication infrastructure, as well as to property. The victims are still being counted, but estimates range upward of four hundred dead and twelve hundred wounded in an attack most analysts are attributing to supporters of the Texas Independence Army, the same organization believed responsible for the Coma Day atrocities.”
“Fucking liars,” I mutter. “The TIA is dead.”
“The dragons need a bad guy who is not one of their own.”
“If the president wants to be the good guy, he needs to stop these lies.”
“Hush, listen.”
Because now the mediot is talking about me. “. . . destroying the residence of former army lieutenant James Shelley, popularly known as the Lion of Black Cross. It’s not yet clear if Mr. Shelley survived the bombing. Authorities will say only that his present whereabouts are unknown.”
“Liars again—but maybe I’m better off if people think I’m dead.”
“No, that just means it’ll be easier to make you disappear.”
I think about that while the mediot reads her lines: “That the timing of this latest terrorist act coincides with the start of the Sheridan trial is very likely no coincidence. Analysts regard it as a protest against the federal government’s yielding United States sovereignty by allowing the Sheridan trial to go forward.” She sounds like she’s starting to get bored by the whole thing. “Street surveillance cameras were able to capture and upload images of two of the bombers seconds before the blasts took place.”
I’m looking at my street again: video preceding the blast. The van I saw in real time pulls up to the curb. The driver jumps out. Under his floppy hat he’s got a mask like the one Carl Vanda wore, but a mask isn’t going to save him. The video contains his full-body biometrics and a nice kinetic sample of the way he moves. The sequence ends abruptly at the moment of the blast.
“There’s more than enough in that clip to identify him,” I say. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“If he didn’t die in the blast.”
Well, yeah. There’s that. “I wonder if street surveillance caught my brawl with Vanda?”
Delphi’s shoulders roll in a shrug. “The cameras were probably intact, but whether the network was up—who knows?”
• • • •
While Delphi watches more propaganda, I sit on the carpet and empty my pack for the first time since Niamey. There’s the first-aid kit, my arctic camo, sealed rations, a gun-cleaning kit, the armored vest I used for First Light. . . .
The vest smells musty and there’s a slug embedded in it, but I put it on anyway over one of the civilian T-shirts Delphi got for me. I rig the holster of my new pistol so it’s centered on my chest. My newly purchased jacket goes over it.
Delphi eyes my bulk. “Amazing how fast soldiers put on weight once they’re out of the ranks.”
“You can help me work it off later.”
“Deal.”
I head downstairs to relieve Tuttle and take my turn on watch. I’ve been thinking a lot about Carl Vanda and the assets he has at his disposal. Vanda-Sheridan specializes in satellite surveillance. Most of their equipment is under government contract, but part of their contractual obligation is processing and analysis, which would allow Vanda to run searches on the data his satellites collect.
Lights in the lobby are low and no one’s at the desk. The doors slide open as I approach. Outside, the night is cool and quiet, and though the interstate is just a hundred meters from the hotel, the only traffic I hear is the distant static of tire noise from a single electric car. I glance up at a sky that holds a good collection of stars, though their light is dulled by humidity in the atmosphere. It’s not an ideal night for seeing, but conditions don’t have to be ideal for a sophisticated satellite to pick out faces on the ground.
Knee-high lights illuminate the handful of cars in the parking lot. I have to bite down on an urge to chew out Tuttle when I see him leaning with his ass against the front grille of the brown SUV, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, soldier? Stand up straight!
He’s wearing farsights, giving him enhanced vision, so as I cross the parking lot to meet him, it’s easy for him to read me, despite the dark. “Take it easy,” he whispers. “I’m slacking on purpose. Vasquez says we’re supposed to look like civilians.”
“You’re doing a damn good job. Anything I need to know about?”
He nods toward the interstate. “You hear how quiet it is? It’s not always like this. Every now and then you’ll hear a convoy of trucks. Twenty or more together—I guess they have problems with hijackers—but it sounds like a fucking invasion force when they roll through.”
He leaves me a set of keys before he goes. First thing I do is unlock the gunmetal-gray SUV, the one with my equipment in it. I rearrange the load so my helmet and dead sister are within easy reach in case I need them. Then I open the brown SUV, get out the angel, and unfold its three-foot-long crescent wing.
I still have the software that was loaded into my overlay at the start of the First Light mission. It lets me send a signal to the angel, waking it up. Normally, the angel collects enough solar energy to enable it to fly around the clock, but it’s been locked up in storage for months, so I’m worried it will be unusable, the battery drained to wisps—but I underestimate my squad. Someone took the initiative to prep the angel and it’s fully charged.
I launch it from the parking lot, sending it in a spiral around the hotel and then up, high above the interstate, and for the first time since we were in the Apocalypse Forest, I have an angel’s view of the terrain around me. It’s electrifying, like having a lost sense returned to me, a handicap overcome.
But the angel’s AI is jumpy. It was trained for the Apocalypse Forest, where any motion at all is a likely threat, so it red-alerts at a lone car on the interstate, and again as a police cruiser moves slowly along a frontage road. I check the default settings, find a template for North American terrain, and start reeducating it on what can be accepted as normal.
If “normal” can be defined anymore.
The angel red-alerts again, highlighting an object low in the sky to the west. It looks more like a reflection than anything real: seven tiny, faintly glowing pearls arranged in a vertical line with no visible link between them. Seen through the humid air, the lights are elusive—twinkling, shimmering, fading from sight only to reappear again. I have no idea what they are and no way to judge their scale or their elevation—they could be high in the sky and far away or much lower and only a few miles down the interstate. All I know for sure is that they’re too low for me to see directly from my position on the ground.
I capture an image on my overlay and run a search on it in my encyclopedia. In just a few seconds the encyclopedia launches into a verbal explanation: “The object identifies as a node in the experimental EXALT communications system, a federal stimulus project launched in January of this year. ‘EXALT’ is an acronym for ‘Expandable Aerial Labyrinth Traffic,’ and is intended as a robust, distributed communications system that will use aerial relays to bypass—”
I cut it off, and instruct the angel to ignore any more sightings of EXALT aerial nodes. It’s good to know the feds are working on a new communications infrastructure, but judging by my connectivity it’s not working yet.
Impressive though, that a new project has been funded and launched in the five chaotic months since Coma Day. The US economy crashed after the bombs knocked out critical components of the communications system. Jobs were lost as food and fuel prices soared, and recovery won’t come soon, but we’d all be worse off without the tireless efforts of people both in and out of government to build on what’s left. They are the anonymous heroes of an ongoing story, but there are villains too.
How did Vanda-Sheridan get their nukes?
I think about it, imagining a hypothetical individual: a faceless, nameless link in a nuclear security chain, in this country or another, someone who gave away the ability to immolate thousands in return for a fat payoff.
Hell was made for people like that.
Hell was made at ground zero in San Diego, in Chicago, in Alexandria.
