by Linda Nagata
Kendrick said the same thing, and when I asked if there was no way to get rid of it, he told me, There’s always a way, son, if we’re willing to pay the price.
And me, pushing him: Well? Are we?
“What’s the price of getting rid of the Red?” I ask Lissa. “What would we have to do?”
“I think we’d have to break the substrate it lives on . . . bring down the Cloud. That’s what I told the army—and I’m afraid they might decide to do it.”
Kendrick said the question was in committee.
“No one can bring down the Cloud,” I object. “It’s everywhere, a redundant system.”
“We like to think so.” Her voice is soft, frightened. “It’s not true. Geek interlude, baby. All nonlocal data traffic goes through a limited number of physical locations known as exchanges. Take out a handful of those—”
Her explanation cuts out in midsentence. The call has dropped—but my network icon is still green. So I call Lissa back—but the call doesn’t go through.
Seconds later, someone activates the post’s defensive alarm.
Rumbling thunder fills the barracks as everyone scrambles for armor and bones.
It takes me two minutes to dress and rig up. I pull my helmet on and watch the icons come up on my visor. I’m linked to my skullnet, my HITR, a growing number of my soldiers, and to the C -FHEIT network—but my link to Guidance is grayed out. Delphi’s voice doesn’t greet me. No one talks to me at all.
I visualize a link to Colonel Kendrick. “What’s going on?”
“We’re under attack. See to it that your soldiers are rigged and ready.”
The helmet’s tiny fans blow welcome cool air across my fiery cheeks. I grab my weapon and throw the door open.
Elliot’s at the top of the stairs, dressed in boxer shorts like he just rolled out of bed. He whips around to look at me, face taut with shock, fear, his eyes squinting as he tries to convince himself that the man behind the anonymous black visor is me. “Shelley?”
Between us, the door to Major Chen’s room opens and the major steps out, wearing armor but no bones. I slip past him to the top of the stairs. There’s no time to talk to Elliot, but I pause anyway, touching his shoulder with my gloved hand. “Elliot, I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s serious. Stay out of the way, and be ready for anything.”
I jump down the stairs, all the way to the landing, letting the dead sister’s leg shocks absorb the impact. One more jump and I’m in the lobby. It’s empty, except for a private whose name I don’t know, looking frightened as he maintains his station behind the desk.
The doors to the enlisted quarters are open, men on one side, women on the other. It’s chaos in the hallways as soldiers scramble out of their individual rooms, still trying to finish strapping into their dead sisters while staggering toward the lobby. Some have their helmets in their hands instead of on their heads.
On the women’s side, I see Jaynie, fully rigged and helmeted, step out into the fray. “Thirty seconds!” she screams offline. “You have thirty seconds to get yourselves fully rigged and assembled in the lobby or I will kick your asses!”
Sergeant Nolan tackles the men’s side with similar encouragement, so I turn to the private serving desk duty. “Report.”
He’s a skinny kid with wide, frightened eyes. He passes me a paper printout—something I’ve rarely seen since I’ve been in the army. “General message from Fort Hood, sir.”
Subject: ALERT STAGE RED:
NUCLEAR EXPLOSION DETECTED VICINITY OF DALLAS.
Body: An explosion in Dallas County has been identified with a high degree of certainty as originating from a low-yield nuclear device. All personnel are to return immediately to their duty station. If that is not possible, personnel should report to the nearest military facility.
Details to follow.
“Form up!” I scream as soldiers pour into the lobby. The sergeants push them into lines and chaos transforms to order: four neat rows of five. My sixteen LCS soldiers are in armor and bones, their helmets on. At the end of each row is a single soldier dressed like Major Chen, in combat uniform and armor, but no dead sister, no helmet, just an audio loop. They are support personnel. There are five altogether, counting the private still manning the watch. Theirs are the only faces I can see, and all of them look scared.
I’m scared.
I want to know if only one bomb went off . . . or were there others, in other cities? Was there a bomb in San Diego? Is Lissa still alive, or did I hear her last words just now on the phone? Why the fuck were we talking about how to bring down the Cloud? I didn’t even tell her I love her, and she was afraid. She was already afraid.
And my dad? Is he still alive?
And these soldiers in front of me . . . how long will they survive in the war that must surely come?
Everyone looks up as Colonel Kendrick comes down from the second floor, rigged in armor and bones, his helmet on. He walks down the stairs—a delicate operation given that the dead sister’s footplates are too big to fit on each step, but he pulls it off with grace.
Major Chen follows behind him. No visor hides his stern expression. I don’t doubt that he’s received notice of the stage red, so I slip the printout into my pocket and snap to attention along with everyone else.
Kendrick halts his descent four steps from the bottom. The anonymous face of his visor surveys the troops. He speaks over gen-com: “Our country is under attack. Improvised nuclear devices have been detonated in the vicinity of Dallas, Miami, Alexandria—”
Discipline breaks, and sighs, gasps, and groans follow the naming of each city.
“—Chicago, Seattle, San Jose, and—”
I steel myself. I know somehow that the last city to be named will be San Diego. I desperately wish to be wrong, but he speaks the name and makes it real. Heat flushes from all my pores and the skullnet icon glows. I tell myself, Lissa is still alive, and I force myself to listen as Kendrick continues to speak.
“The INDs are suspected to have been vehicular bombs in the ten-kiloton range, producing major building damage within a half-mile radius of ground zero and significant burns and radiation injuries within a mile. Who the enemy is or what the goal of his attack might be, we do not currently know. But the widespread nature of this attack and the number of fully functional nuclear devices indicates he is well organized, well armed, and very likely well placed within our own security structure. Which means this is an inside job, one that has placed our country, our system, our very way of life, at risk.
“Our communications systems are overburdened. We will proceed without the expectation of one-on-one oversight from Guidance, but helmet-to-helmet communication must be active at all times.
“Your orders are to man your assigned defensive stations, and if any unauthorized vehicle or individual enters our air- or ground space—
“Hell! If any suspect wildlife shows its nose around here, blow it to glory. Move out!”
• • • •
My civilian network icon is still green, assuring me I’m linked to the post’s network, but my calls and queries—to Lissa and to my dad—don’t go through. Maybe our civilian network is just cut off from the Cloud. Maybe the Cloud’s overloaded. Or maybe it’s gone.
Kendrick and Chen are linked into the military satellite system through the angel that keeps watch above us, but the rest of us remain cut off, with our links to Guidance grayed out. It’s a decision made by Command. There’s a real fear that excessive traffic could overwhelm and paralyze what’s left of our communications system, so only high-level traffic is being allowed through.
So with my two sergeants, I take over the chores usually assigned to Guidance, patrolling the defensive posts to make sure weapons are kept ready and that no one has fallen asleep. The morning drifts past with no sign of enemy incursion. It would be almost a relief if
we were attacked. At least there would be something to do besides brood over the fate of the people we love.
Just past noon Kendrick opens a solo link to me. His low voice rumbles in my helmet audio: “Shelley. Command meeting. Five minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
I have never been so happy to be included in a meeting.
• • • •
I remove my helmet as I step into the conference room. It’s the same room where we had our predawn meeting—an event that took place in some other age, some other world. Colonel Kendrick is there with Major Chen, but there are no virtual officers. Though the tablets are still set up on the table, they’re empty, their displays switched off.
On the wall, a monitor plays what must be a satellite feed from one of the mass-media propaganda networks. The volume is muted, but the caption tells me I’m seeing a massive, gridlocked traffic jam as people flee Alexandria.
Chen looks up at me from his seat at the conference table, his face a stern mask. “The mediots have dubbed it ‘the Coma.’ Seven of the country’s primary data exchanges were knocked out in the blasts. All of them were built to withstand Category Five hurricanes, but not close-proximity nukes. Ground-based telecommunications have been sliced up into regional modules, most of which collapsed under the resulting load within a few minutes of time zero. Satellites have been unaffected, leaving the mediots in charge of peddling whatever propaganda they see fit, but their privileged position is under threat. Power grids are on their way down, because load balancing is tracked through the Cloud, and within the United States, the Cloud is gone.”
Lissa said that to get rid of the Red, we’d have to break the substrate it lives on.
I don’t want to believe the army had a part in that.
“Death toll?” I ask, still standing, rigged in my dead sister with my helmet under my arm.
Chen’s eyes narrow; he shakes his head. “Numbers at this stage are fictitious. Collateral damage is presumed extensive. It’s logical to assume the target wasn’t just the buildings. Hundreds of technicians—highly trained to run and repair these facilities—must have been killed in the attack. God knows how long it will take to get back online without them.”
“I talked to my girlfriend this morning,” I confess. “Lissa Dalgaard. Right before the bombs went off. She’s been consulting with the army, sharing her research on the Red. She said this was it—this was the price to bring it down. She was afraid the army would do it.” My gaze shifts to Kendrick. I have to know the truth. “Did we?”
Kendrick is still wearing his armor, but his dead sister has been folded up and stashed behind his chair. Like me, he’s been up all night. Fatigue lines show in his face. So does his temper. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers me . . . as he considers whether or not to pull his sidearm and shoot me, that’s my guess. One way or another, I know I’m going down.
His fist hits the table. “When were we discussing the price, Lieutenant Shelley?”
I draw myself up. “This morning, sir.”
He pushes his chair back and stands up. His palm is resting on the flap that secures his sidearm. “And in your estimation, is the US Army capable of setting up a continent-wide coordinated nuclear assault on American soil—in violation of the Constitution of the United States—inside of one hour?”
I’m too stupid to be cowed. “You said the question was in committee, sir.”
“In committee ! Do you know the primary fact about committees, Lieutenant? They are slow! Or did your fancy Man-hattan private school fail to teach you any real-world knowledge at all?”
“They don’t seem to have done an especially good job, sir.”
“That’s the fucking truth! You were assigned to C -FHEIT because you are supposed to have functional brain matter inside your skull, but if you give me another reason to think there’s nothing in there but spoiled cum I will revoke your contract and hand you back to the state prison authorities who sold you to us in the first place!”
I like Kendrick. I admire his straightforward manner, but I decide it’s the wrong time to say so, and for once I keep my mouth shut, standing at attention, my stony gaze fixed on the gray spot of a mosquito’s corpse crushed against the wall.
Maybe that’s good enough for him. He turns away, pacing the width of the room. He stops somewhere behind me. “Who is our enemy, Lieutenant? Given what you know?”
I consider it. The Cloud has gone down. It can’t be coincidence. It has to be a strike against the Red. And who knows about the Red? Who is in a position to conduct a massive strike against it . . . and is deep-dark crazy enough to do it?
“Vanda-Sheridan, sir, seems the likely candidate.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He’s still standing behind me. For all I know he has his sidearm aimed at the back of my skull, but I hazard a question anyway. “Is there evidence?”
“Not my department. Intelligence likes Thelma Sheridan for this one, but she’s using a front of Bible-jerking jack-offs here in the local neighborhood who are calling themselves the Texas Independence Army. They have claimed responsibility for the attack and declared their intention to take the state of Texas out of the Union. And while I’m sure many of our fellow American citizens would be thrilled at this news and cheerfully wave good-bye to the Lone Star State, the president has decided otherwise.”
He walks back to his chair so that I can see him again, and see that his pistol is still in its holster. He turns around, but he doesn’t sit down. “The president has declared a state of emergency authorizing the army to respond to this act of insurrection, but there is a complication.”
I let my gaze wander from the dead mosquito to his eyes. They are cold. As cold as anything I’ve seen . . . and I know suddenly what the complication is because it’s what I would do if I were intent on slicing up the Union. “They didn’t blow all of their nukes, did they, sir?”
“No, Lieutenant Shelley, they did not. There are booby-trapped vehicles parked in five metropolitan areas containing additional improvised nuclear devices. If any public announcement is made of that fact, or if evacuations are attempted, we are assured that some or all of the INDs will be detonated. If the vehicles lose contact with a continuous satellite signal generated by the Texas Independence Army, the weapons will be detonated.”
“A dead man’s switch.”
“Correct.”
“What cities?”
“That information is not pertinent to our mission.”
I envision one of the INDs in an innocuous SUV parked in a Manhattan garage, not far from my dad’s apartment building. Is it worse to guess? Or to know for sure?
Not that I have the option. “Sir, what is our mission?”
“In accordance with the demands of the terrorists, a plan is being implemented to evacuate military personnel from the state of Texas. You and I will not be going. We’ll be staying behind in enemy territory along with the C -FHEIT linked combat squads, awaiting instruction.
“I am assured a massive effort is under way to locate the leaders of the insurrection. It is believed that said leaders possess disarmament codes that will neutralize the nuclear devices. Our mission—and it falls to us because we are here, on the ground in the suspected neighborhood, trained and ready—is to find and take possession of those codes without interrupting the dead man’s switch and without allowing the purposeful detonation of any weapon.”
By clamping my teeth together—hard—I manage not to say what I’m thinking.
Evidently, Kendrick hears it anyway. “What must be done will be done, Lieutenant. Whether it’s possible or not is not our concern.”
I glance at Chen . . . hoping, maybe, to see some hint that this is staged, that none of this is real. But behind the composed mask of his expression I sense despair.
A new video is
playing on the monitor, showing a line of men dressed in civilian clothes and carrying automatic weapons. Most look to be in their thirties, and most look out of shape and overweight. They have armbands, blue like the blue of the Texas flag, each with a big white star. They stand with stonewall gazes in a line outside a chain-link fence with small signs wired to each section. Each sign is crudely defaced with blue spray paint not dense enough to hide the words Property of the Federal Government.
I can’t tell if the fence is protecting a weather station or a weapons depot, but lying dead in the street in front of the men is a young Hispanic woman, legs bent back, blood seeping from her chest, blank eyes staring at the sky. A gunshot-riddled protest sign lies beside her. I can make out only the first word written on it: Loyal.
So the resistance has already begun. Martyrs are already dying.
“I don’t get it,” I say to no one in particular. “There are more guns in Texas than citizens. Vanda-Sheridan can’t believe that people are just going to sit on their hands while a DC takes over the state—”
“No?” Kendrick asks. “Not when the only news comes through satellite feeds Vanda-Sheridan controls? Not when the military is abandoning them without offering a reason? There’s a big advantage to controlling communications—and to owning the governor and most of the big-city mayors.”
“Sir, Lissa was in San Diego when . . . when the device went off. She knows about the Red. She’s been working on an army contract. She’s valuable. If there’s any way—”
“I already put her on the recovery list, son. There’s nothing more either of us can do, except to slam Thelma Sheridan as hard as she slammed us.”
“Queen-of-the-world syndrome,” Chen says bitterly. “It’s the doom of our species that psychopaths always want to be in charge.”
• • • •
Vanda-Sheridan specializes in surveillance satellites, so our first challenge is to leave C -FHEIT without being noticed. That means no helicopters and no SUVs. We’ll go on foot. Satellites might still log our presence, but on the first night of the war, the TIA will have larger concerns than a few scattered refugees in the rangelands.