The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2)

by Linda Nagata

  The interrogator waits a few seconds. When Vanda doesn’t go on, she coaxes him. “So Coma Day was Thelma’s way to hit back?”

  “Yeah. Nothin’ halfway about the Queen. I didn’ know what she was plannin’. I didn’ know she had the fuckin’ nukes. The Queen keeps her secrets, you know?”

  “Did she tell you she was responsible for Coma Day?”

  “Nah. Need to know, right? It was only after they took her that I found out.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Enhanced interrogation of her staff. ‘Any means.’ That’s what they kept saying. They were justified to use any means to bring down the Red.” He shakes his head. “They’re all fuckin’ fanatics, servants of God, fightin’ the Devil, and they’re willin’ to take out civilization if they have to, to get rid of the Red.”

  His chin lowers, and for the first time he looks fully awake and angry. “Fuck that! We’ve always lived with the Devil! So fuckin’ what? You adapt. You don’t burn your own house to the ground. My men died at Black Cross. Good men. Because the Queen went crazy.”

  He breathes in a panting rhythm, staring at nothing. When it becomes obvious his tirade is over, the interrogator pushes again. “When you interrogated Thelma’s staff, were you able to learn how she obtained the nuclear material?”

  “No.”

  “Did you learn how many devices she had?”

  “I thought she deployed them all on Coma Day. Then those kids in DC turned up another IND. Exact same design—and the fuckin’ president lost his shit.” He smiles again, bitter humor. “Yeah, he wasn’t too happy knowing he came within two hours of being blown to hell. He came after me.”

  “The president of the United States?”

  “That bastard, yeah. He said it had to be me behind it, because she was in prison. I told him he didn’t understand the Queen. She has a court of loyal knights, not just me. He told me to hunt them down. So I did it.”

  “You were operating under the president’s orders?”

  “Direct orders. That’s right. A little extraconstitutional housecleaning.”

  I wince at the use of this term, the same term Rawlings used to describe the activities of Cryptic Arrow and the Apocalypse Squad. We are the same as Carl Vanda now.

  The interrogator continues her questioning: “Did you find the individuals responsible for the IND?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it, in your own words.”

  “What’s to tell? We found ’em, interrogated ’em, and eliminated ’em.”

  “What did they hope to accomplish with the DC nuke?”

  “We’ve talked about this,” he growls.

  “For the record. What did they hope to accomplish?”

  “Blow the president to hell. Payback for letting the Queen be taken. Blow the Apocalypse Squad to hell. Same crime.”

  “Are there more INDs?”

  “Yeah, yeah, like I said before. We recovered two more devices along with the engineer who put them together, ’cause you know, it’s not easy to put together a nuke. It takes skill and special equipment and money. Lots of money.”

  “What did you do with the devices you found?”

  “Locked ’em away.”

  “Did you report their existence to the president?”

  “That’s not something he’d want to know. Plausible deniability, right? I just told him it was over. Then I went into Manhattan to deal with unfinished business and her fucking crazies almost killed me. ‘Take care of her,’ he said. I told him I already planned to do that.”

  The video ends. Silence follows it. I don’t like it that Delphi was in the basement, assisting in the interrogation. She’s been soiled by it. One of the torturers. I put my arm around her shoulder in denial of the feeling.

  Jaynie breaks the silence: “So where are the nukes?”

  • • • •

  Time is of the essence. Carl Vanda’s nukes need to be secured while our intelligence is fresh. It won’t be long until someone in his hierarchy—a senior Uther-Fen officer—decides the boss’s absence is a security threat requiring critical assets to be transferred to new facilities.

  Anne Shima stands at the front of the room, her shoulders straight, gaze unflinching. “The mission is ours. Our contacts report that the tactics of suppression and cover-up that preceded First Light are in play again. There will be no official action until we force the issue by recovering Carl Vanda’s INDs. We have designated this mission Silent Firebreak. A preliminary plan is under review and will be issued shortly. You have forty-five minutes to eat and get your gear together. Shelley!”

  I stand up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I do not want to see your bare feet on this mission. You will wear boots to protect your identity.”

  “Come on, Anne. Boots can’t hide what I am. First Light proved that.” I was wearing boots in the snow of the Apocalypse Forest, but Carl Vanda identified me by the temperature difference of my machine parts.

  “Boots will protect you from casual identification.”

  “And take away the versatility of the feet.”

  “Make do.”

  So I’m already in a bad mood when the newly minted Captain Vasquez intercepts me at the media room door. “Stay a minute,” she says while everyone else files out.

  Delphi catches my eye. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  When we’re alone, Jaynie closes the door. I try to cut off the lecture that’s coming by speaking first. “This isn’t about you and me, Captain. It’s about the mission. I intend to do my part, and see that we succeed.”

  She ignores this. “I don’t want the Red deciding the course of this mission. If it starts playing puppeteer in your head, I want to know immediately. And if I order you to stand down, you will do so.”

  “No, ma’am, that is not going to work. If I get a feeling my head is about to be blown off I am not going to take time out to report it before I react. Given that the Red has always been on our side, supporting our missions, I advise you to consider it as a battle asset.”

  “You would say that.”

  “Even Kendrick—”

  “I am not Kendrick.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know you’re not.”

  “I want to know what’s going on in your head, Shelley. You will report to me any suspected infiltrations. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will do my best.”

  Assuming it doesn’t jeopardize the mission.

  • • • •

  I say good-bye to Delphi in the room where I’ve been sleeping. She’ll stay behind with Rawlings, and maybe she’ll be safe.

  I kiss her face, regretting everything. I hold her against me, silently berating myself for hooking up with her. It was a stupid, self-indulgent mistake. I knew that at the start and I did it anyway because I’m impulsive.

  But she wanted it too.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” I tell her.

  She pulls back in my arms, gives me a dark look. “Don’t patronize me, Shelley. I’m a handler. I worked three years in Guidance. I knew what I was getting into.” She puts her palm against my cheek and pins me with her beautiful blue eyes. “Your pretty face is not the only reason I’m here.”

  I pull her close again, thinking of the last time I left on a mission, when I said my good-byes to Lissa.

  I pray: If one of us has to die this time, let it be me.

  Let it be me.

  • • • •

  The preliminary plan for mission Silent Firebreak arrives by e-mail as we leave the safe house, but Jaynie assigns me to drive one of the SUVs, so I can’t read it—and that irritates the fuck out of me. But it’s only thirty minutes to a private airfield. We leave the vehicles in a hangar, take seats aboard a waiting commuter jet, and within fifteen minutes we’re in the
air, bound for Georgia. Shima is our pilot.

  I open the mission plan in my overlay and read.

  The two nuclear devices have been designated Blue Devil and Gold Devil, named for the colors of the cargo vans they occupy. The vans are stored in the basement of a remote research campus belonging to a biotech firm known as Reyvik Biosystems—one of Thelma Sheridan’s hobby companies. It’s a sparkling, black-glass facility surrounded by a young, replanted forest. Only one story is above the ground, with two office floors below and then the basement. Communications within the building are limited to a private network, isolated from the Cloud. External communications are allowed only from a soundproof room at ground level, outside the perimeter of the secure area. Upon arrival, all employees are required to turn in phones, tablets, farsights, and any other personal computing devices, and everyone is scanned for implants before being admitted.

  We will launch our assault at 0400 when we expect only a few employees to be present—those few researchers who are following their experiments overnight.

  We are under strict orders to avoid casualties among both the civilians and the security personnel. I have a feeling the latter will be a challenge.

  Outside the building, there are heat and motion sensors, patrolling seekers, and a staff of three Uther-Fen security guards who meet and interview all visitors. There are no guards inside. The interior security at Reyvik Biosystems is entirely automated and relies primarily on the identification of trusted personnel and the use of biometrically coded locks.

  It should be easy enough to get to the front door. We’ll just come in through the main driveway as if we have an appointment.

  This is a mission that should have belonged to the president’s forces, but Cryptic Arrow’s intelligence team believes that notice of the suspected INDs never reached his office.

  So it’s ours.

  We’re not ready for it.

  We haven’t trained together in months, we’re not in shape, and none of us knows how our new command structure is supposed to work. I’m surprised Shima didn’t give this mission to Cryptic Arrow’s Squad Two. The only conclusion I can draw is that she trusts us more.

  • • • •

  We rig up on a cool, Georgia spring night and then, with our helmets under our arms and our HITRs on our shoulders, we assemble for some final words.

  We’re inside an aircraft hangar lit only by the faint red glow of emergency lights. The bifold door is not quite closed. From outside comes the sound of a light rain pattering on the tarmac. Behind us are two cargo vans of the same make, model, and colors as the vans carrying Blue Devil and Gold Devil. There are no windows in their cargo areas, but there are sliding doors on both right and left.

  We’ll drive the vans to the remote campus of Reyvik Biosystems and, if all goes as planned, we will exchange them for the ones rigged with INDs, hoping it will look to any watching satellites as if we are leaving in the same vehicles.

  Shima stands before us, her shoulders straight, her hands clasped behind her back, a determined expression on her aging face. “Keep this in mind,” she says, speaking in an undertone, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. “What Vanda told us was the truth as he knew it about the setup at Reyvik Biosystems. But whether he told us the entire truth, or an expired truth, or a truth subject to change . . . we can’t know. As on any mission, expect surprises. And keep us apprised of your progress so we can serve our support functions in a timely manner. To this end, it’s imperative you maintain communications if at all possible. Good luck to you, and never doubt that you are serving the good.”

  There is a whispered chorus of hoo-yahs and yes, ma’ams.

  Then Jaynie murmurs, “Moon, Flynn, get your jackets on.”

  They’re assigned to drive, which means they’ll be visible to the security cameras on the way in. So they’ll both be covered up with a lightweight gray drape to hide their dead sisters. It will be about as inconspicuous as football players on the sidelines covered up in capes on a cold day—but we only need to fool the guards for a few seconds.

  “Everyone else, helmets on. Take your positions. Let’s get this done.”

  We’re heading into combat conditions, so my helmet’s full-face visor is tuned to appear opaque black from the outside, but when I pull it on, the interior display lights up. Translucent icons assemble on the periphery, confirming links to my skullnet, my M-CL1a HITR assault rifle, and to each soldier in the squad.

  Night vision kicks in as I follow Harvey into the windowless cargo area of the lead van. I kneel, facing the right-hand cargo door as it slides shut on its electric motor. I’ve got my HITR across my thighs, with rubber bullets replacing the regular ammo and flash-bangs substituting for fragmentation grenades. We’re all carrying serious ammo too, if it comes to that, but our goal is not to kill anybody.

  Harvey kneels next to me, and then Flynn covers us with an IR-blocking tent. I hear a seat creak as she settles in behind the wheel. “Team one ready,” she announces over gen-com.

  Moon speaks next: “Team two ready.”

  Then Jaynie: “Initiate operation.”

  It’s 0416. I switch on the record function in my overlay. As the van leaves the hangar, there comes the sound of a soft rain drumming on the roof.

  The angel has already been launched. To avoid setting off any alarms and to allow for a quick retrieval, it will hold a stationary position between the airstrip and the perimeter of Reyvik Biosystems’ territory. So we will be operating without angel sight. But Cryptic Arrow has reactivated the secure satellite account we used during First Light. With the drone as our satellite relay, we’ll have communications—at least until we enter the building. Delphi is our mission handler. She’ll be following our progress from her location at the farmhouse, but Jaynie is the CO and will be her primary client.

  Not wanting to attract any notice, Flynn drives at a leisurely, legal pace. Seventeen minutes after leaving the hangar, we turn into the Reyvik Biosystems driveway and roll to a stop. I’m sweating under the IR tent. So is Harvey.

  “I’ve reached the gate,” Flynn says. “Trying the card lock now.”

  I hear the window slide open and then the unfiltered drip, dribble, and patter of rain falling through trees. The card lock doesn’t work, but it’s close enough to legitimate that a human voice—male, young, and slightly annoyed—acknowledges Flynn. “Stand by.”

  I count the passing seconds. We need to get through the gate without raising an alarm. Beyond the gate we have to navigate another half mile of winding driveway before we reach the facility. If we’re forced to, we’ll blast the gate open, or go on foot and blow the gate on our way out, but either option gives the Uther-Fen guards a chance to prepare.

  After twenty-two seconds, the male voice speaks again. “I’ll buzz you through. Vendor codes were reset at two a.m. Your card should update sooner or later.”

  I hear the gate hum and unlatch. Then we’re rolling.

  “Both teams inside,” Jaynie says.

  “Hey,” Harvey whispers to me off-com. “It’s been a while. You ready for some fun?”

  “Cut the chatter. Let’s just get this fucking tent off.”

  On gen-com, Flynn says, “I see the building. Two enemy soldiers waiting out front. Both armed with assault rifles, wearing chest armor. They’ve got the glass front doors standing open.”

  It all seems kind of easy.

  A new link opens in my visor. It’s a solo link from Captain Vasquez. “Set?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your call.”

  “Roger that.” I shift to gen-com. “Flynn, I need locations. How far apart are the two guards you can see?”

  “Meter and a half.”

  “Stop the van so you put me between them. Any sign of the third guard?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Harvey, when these two go
down, you hit the guardhouse.”

  “Happy to, sir.”

  “Tuttle, you back her up.”

  “Got it, LT.”

  The van stops. I shoulder my weapon as Flynn triggers the door. As soon as I see the figure on the left, I shoot three fast rounds, then I turn and fire to the right. Harvey was delayed by the extra half second it took the door to clear her position, so we both shoot at the same time. Nonlethals pound into the chest armor of a lean kid, knocking him over so that his answering shot goes through the building’s portico. He goes down, the back of his head bouncing on concrete.

  Flynn rolls out of the driver’s seat, stripping off her cloak, while Harvey launches herself out of the van and sprints toward the guardhouse. The second van roars up behind us, its side door already open. Jaynie, Nolan, and Tuttle are out before it slams to a stop. Tuttle darts past us on his way to assist Harvey, while Flynn helps me secure one of the guards. He struggles a little, but a punch to the ribs convinces him to cooperate while we zip-tie his hands behind his back and bind his ankles together. Nolan and Moon secure the second guard. Jaynie strides inside, carrying a breaching shotgun in a sling on her back while holding her HITR in two hands, ready to lay out anyone who might object to her entrance.

  “Lobby is empty,” she reports over gen-com.

  I flinch as shots go off by the guardhouse. Harvey says, “He’s holed up, LT.”

  “Blow the door. Nolan, help them out.”

  Nolan takes off, leaving Moon on his own.

  Jaynie says, “External-communications room is empty.”

  I search my prisoner, recovering a knife, a handgun, and farsights. “Toss everything in the van,” I tell Flynn.

  “Door to the building’s secure area is locked,” Jaynie notes. “Preparing to breach. Shelley, Flynn, with me now. You’re the breaching team.”

  “On my way, ma’am.”

  Using the arm hook of my dead sister, I grip my prisoner’s vest and drag him into the building, abandoning him in the middle of the floor.

  I glance around. It’s an expansive lobby, ten meters square, with a spectacular glass skylight, expensive flooring, art, and well-tended plants: a display designed to assure visiting investors that there is money to be made here. The lights are minimal, probably to enforce a nocturnal cycle rather than to save money. Against the right-hand wall is a long reception desk like the registration desk at a hotel. On the left, double doors stand open to a room with lockers, desks, and monitors: the external-communications room already cleared by Jaynie. According to our intelligence, it’s the only place in the building with outside links.