by Linda Nagata
“Yeah, that’s what he told me too.”
“After that I’ll go to Austin. I think this research is my new path in life.”
• • • •
That night, we go down to the cafeteria, where we can watch the news-propaganda stations while we eat—or anyway, Lissa watches. I just listen. The MPs are with us—a new shift. Lissa whispers in my ear that they act like secret service agents, their eyes constantly assessing the staff and visitors crowding the tables. The volume on the televisions is turned up loud so it can be heard over the low, continuous buzz of conversation.
The mediots spend a lot of time interviewing refugees and politicians. They talk about the different blast sites. And then they cut to a video of the White House press secretary, reading an official statement. “In the early hours of this morning, in South Texas, an army unit stormed an underground bunker known as ‘Black Cross,’ believed to have been the headquarters of the Texas Independence Army. Blaise, aka ‘Blue,’ Parker, alleged leader of the TIA, was found at the facility and taken into federal custody.”
Lissa takes my hand, gives it a worried squeeze. Major Chen would have told her that I can’t talk about where we were or what we did. That doesn’t mean she can’t figure it out.
The press secretary doesn’t take questions, saying only, “Additional, detailed information will be released very shortly, as soon as it is confirmed.” The disarmament codes are not mentioned, and neither are the unexploded nukes. The president is holding back on that news, which is understandable: There’s a real risk of igniting a fresh panic.
The mediots move on in their coverage. They talk about the radiation, the upcoming trials, the congressional investigations, the displaced families, the death toll. They try to sound sincerely concerned, but now and then the mask slips. Behind their sympathetic tone, I hear a giddy excitement. They love this new world in which they get to control the flow of information throughout the country. So long as the Cloud is down, they rule America via satellite; they get to tell us what the facts are, and they get to hide the facts they don’t like. They get to write history. And the history they’re writing says that Blue Parker was the mastermind behind the Texas Independence Army. There’s not a whisper of Thelma Sheridan’s involvement, not a mention of her company. I assume the mediots don’t know about her. The government is probably keeping her involvement quiet while they pursue an arrest.
Then I hear her speaking—Thelma Sheridan. She’s on the television. Not hiding at all, not evading arrest. A mediot is interviewing her, asking her opinion: “Vanda-Sheridan specializes in surveillance and security. Do you have any insight on what went wrong? How these nuclear weapons fell into private hands?”
“None of us will know for sure until the investigation is complete,” Sheridan says. “But security issues almost always resolve to one cause—a lack of sufficient funds to support the security infrastructure. With Congress continuously calling for cuts in the defense industry, it’s likely we’ll see even more heinous acts of terrorism by unbalanced people, until our leadership takes responsibility for fully protecting this country, as they are obligated to do.”
I think of those two fighter pilots, who gave up their lives to stop a rocket from reaching San Antonio. I’m glad, suddenly, that I went outside to witness it. Somebody needed to. “Shelley?” Lissa says. “Shelley, are you okay?”
Lissa doesn’t know about Sheridan’s involvement.
What if Thelma Sheridan has bought her innocence? What if she’s paid off enough government officials and congressional zombies to ensure that she will never be arrested, that any investigation will be only a façade?
Major Chen promised it wasn’t going to be a whitewash, but maybe that’s just what he was told.
“Lissa? I need to go back to the room.”
I hold her arm and she guides me there. The MPs take up posts outside the door, while I get out the phone Chen gave me and ask it to call Colonel Kendrick. It works like a charm, ringing three times before he picks it up with a groggy, “What the hell—? Shelley? Why aren’t you asleep? Like I was until a few seconds ago?”
“Has she bought clean hands?” I ask him.
“Shit. You know my problem with you, Shelley? You don’t know when to sit tight and shut up.”
“That’s how it came to this, sir. Too many people decided to sit tight and shut up, even when they knew shit was going down around them. And if one person, one organization”—I turn my back on Lissa, cup my hand over my mouth, and whisper—“has enough concentrated wealth to buy a domestic war, nuke seven cities, bring down the Cloud, and get away with it, then how long can it possibly be until some asshole who’s even crazier blows us all to vapor?”
“She will not get away with it,” Kendrick says, biting off each word. “And if you want to be part of it, you will shut the fuck up right now.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there a few seconds, before lowering the phone from my ear.
“Shelley?” Lissa asks. By the sound of her voice, she’s retreated to the door.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I turn to her and hold out my arms. She comes to me. We hold each other and I’m shaking, because I’m thinking how close I came to losing her. If she’d been closer to ground zero in San Diego, she’d be dead now. So many people are dead, because for decades citizens like me and my dad, my uncle, and Lissa’s parents—good people—quietly financed war after war because it’s easier to pay our taxes than to risk our livelihoods by trying to change the system. Our silence let wealth accumulate in the hands of people like Thelma Sheridan, people who came to believe they could buy absolutely anything, even innocence.
But not this time.
• • • •
In the morning I go to my appointment with the eye surgeon who was flown in from California. As I walk into her borrowed suite, with Lissa guiding me and another shift of MPs following in our wake, I’m greeted with starstruck enthusiasm. “Lieutenant Shelley, sir. I didn’t know it’d be you I was treating until just a little while ago, when I saw your record.” She’s well spoken, with a youthful voice, and a West Coast accent. “The army told me I’d be treating a war hero, but they didn’t say it would be the Lion of Black Cross.”
“The what?”
Lissa guides me into an exam chair, and I sit down.
“That’s what they called you in the documentary—”
“What documentary?”
Lissa is puzzled too. “The only documentary we’ve seen is Dark Patrol.”
“This is a new one. It just came out last night on a premium channel. It’s called Bleeding Through, because corruption bleeding through so many levels of our government is what led to Black Cross. I . . . I couldn’t believe what you and your men had to do down there in that ancient bomb shelter. Lieutenant Shelley, I want to thank you for your service, your courage, and for stopping those bombs from going off. If you hadn’t gotten those disarmament codes . . .” There’s a catch in her voice. “One of the unexploded bombs was within half a mile of my parents’ home.”
So episode two is already out. I guess Black Cross isn’t a secret anymore.
“It’ll be on mass media tonight,” the eye surgeon adds.
What was it Ransom said? You were a demon from hell down there, sir. Ransom meant it as a compliment, but I don’t think my dad’s going to see it that way. I’d save him from that knowledge if I could.
The surgeon gets to work, propping my right eyelid open before teasing loose the ruined lens of my ocular overlay. When she lifts it away with tweezers, I can see again.
“Holy God,” I breathe, taking in the astonishing sights of inspirational posters on the walls and the surgeon’s smiling face.
She’s slight, slender, pale, and young, with black hair in a neat braid down her back, and black eyes. From the shape of her face, her lips, my guess is pure Japanese
ancestry.
“Is that better?” she asks me.
“Hell yes.”
I turn to admire Lissa, waiting by the door. She’s dressed in a white shirt and gray slacks. Her black hair is tied back, and there’s an anxious smile on her face. “You look gorgeous,” I tell her, with a wide grin.
After both lenses are off, the surgeon examines my eyes. “You’re very lucky, Lieutenant, that you had your visor down when you looked into that inferno.”
The visor is always down. It’s impossible to lift it, but I don’t tell her that.
“Your corneas are going to need a few days to heal before we replace the overlay, but it doesn’t look like there’s any permanent damage.”
Afterward, Lissa tells me that she doesn’t want me to get the overlay replaced. “If you don’t have it, then Guidance can’t be looking through your eyes, and the army can’t own you every minute of your life.”
“I have to have it—”
“Do this for me, Shelley.”
“Lissa, I can’t. I need the overlay. It lets me control the feedback from my legs—”
“You can do that with farsights.”
“I can’t wear farsights in the field!”
“Then stay out of the field! You’ve seen enough fighting already. You’ve had your turn, you’ve served your country. Let someone else play the hero’s role.”
“It’s not a role, Lissa. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Like hell you didn’t. What did you tell me this afternoon? You said you put yourself on this path. You chose it, Shelley. You had a quiet, prosperous, peaceful life lined up in front of you, and you didn’t want it, but you weren’t man enough to admit that, you weren’t man enough to tell your dad ‘No thanks’ and walk away. That’s why you posted the video. It wasn’t about civil rights. You just wanted to shake things up, change your path, wake up a dragon—and get to play the hero’s role guilt-free. And it worked. You’re the Lion of Black Cross—”
“Jesus, Lissa. We haven’t even seen the show yet. I don’t even want to see it.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ve already played that role. On to the next one. Right?”
“It’s not a role! It’s a duty.”
I get the last word, because she walks out on me.
I don’t follow.
• • • •
Later that morning, Major Chen calls from C -FHEIT, and I get to watch Layla Wade’s memorial service on the screen of my phone. Afterward I ask him if he knows about Bleeding Through.
“Can you believe how fast that was put together? Command hosted a showing early this morning, but you should be able to watch it tonight. It’s really well done, Shelley. Something to be proud of. Something the country can rally behind.”
“But, Major . . . the Lion of Black Cross? Really?”
“What can you do?” he says. “You just have to accept it. The country needs a hero.”
• • • •
Lissa comes back just after lunch. I’m half-asleep, but when the door swings open, I sit up. The blinds are drawn. The lights are off. I can’t really see her face in the shadows, so I can’t tell if she’s come to stay or if she’s come to say good-bye. “Lissa . . . ?”
Softly, she says, “I stand by what I said.”
“So do I. I need the overlay, and I will be going back in the field.”
“Shelley. I get angry because I want you to be safe. But it’s stupid. There isn’t time enough to be angry, and there isn’t any way to keep you safe. We have six days. Will you forgive me?”
I smile. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“Dickhead.”
We try, very quietly, to forgive each other. At least for now—until I get a new overlay—no one’s watching.
• • • •
Bleeding Through plays that night, and Major Chen is right—it is well done. Our assault is mission critical. We get the disarmament codes. We save five cities. We’re heroes . . . and there’s not a mention of the Red or any whisper of Thelma Sheridan’s name.
That doesn’t worry me anymore.
In the days that follow, the MPs stick close to me. I’m grateful to have them. Kelly AMC is a busy place, crowded with staff, patients, visitors. People recognize me when I’m out in the halls. They stop me to shake my hand, they thank me for my service, but when they start asking questions about Black Cross, the MPs politely intervene with a rehearsed response: “Due to national security concerns the lieutenant is unable to answer questions at this time.” Then they hurry me on my way. They don’t have to deal with protesters, persistent journalists, or civilian unknowns, because Kelly AMC has been closed to all but authorized visitors. It makes the situation easier for me.
The downside is that the MPs won’t let me leave the hospital grounds. “Sir, emergency restrictions require you to remain within a secure zone—for your own safety.”
If I had something to do, I wouldn’t complain, but I don’t have any appointments. My main assignment for the week is to let my body heal.
I call Colonel Kendrick to plead my case, but he doesn’t answer. I call Major Chen. “I just want to walk around outside, see what’s going on, help out if I can.” I know that Kelly AMC is a bubble of light, power, and three meals a day. It’s different beyond the razor wire.
Major Chen won’t consider it. “You have to accept that you’re a target of TIA sympathizers and every rabid journalist who managed to get a ticket to San Antonio. Don’t fight it, Shelley. You’ve got Lissa with you. Enjoy the respite while you can.”
I do my best.
Seven days after Black Cross, the eye surgeon from California installs my new overlay. I download software and get all my accounts set up, while the audio nodes in my ears are being replaced. Late in the morning, I get a priority text from Joby’s technician telling me to come down and get my new legs.
The new prosthetics look thicker and stronger than the originals, though they install in exactly the same way. “Are these heavier?” I ask the technician as I take some test paces around her office.
She smiles at me. Then she uses her farsights to link with Joby. “The lieutenant’s complaining about the weight of the legs. I told you he’d notice.”
“I’m not complaining. I was just curious—”
She shrugs. “Joby’s coming over.”
The door bangs open. Joby’s face is flushed; his eyes are furious. “Fifteen grams,” he yells at me. “Each leg. You’re complaining about a difference of fifteen grams? You can’t even detect it! The limbs are not meaningfully heavier. They only look more robust because the processors are wrapped in an electromagnetically opaque insulator.”
“Is that right?” Suddenly I want to know just how angry Joby can get—so I go after the quality of his work. “This insulator—it’s some candy-ass material that’s going to snap the first time I put any real torque on the legs, isn’t it?”
It’s possible I’ve gone too far. He stops breathing. He stands frozen, giving me a killer’s stare. I watch his hands. I don’t think he’s armed, but I don’t want to find out the hard way. When he finally gets enough control to speak, his voice is low and husky. “Double-walled titanium. I double fucking dare you to break those legs. Go ahead and do it. Just know that your organics will be toast long before the legs give out.”
I nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He does an about-face and stomps back across the hall. The door of his lab slams shut with a concussion that makes every piece of equipment in the technician’s office vibrate, and induces someone in the morgue down the hall to open a door and look out.
The technician is rocking in her chair, her arms crossed over her wide, soft chest, and a huge grin on her face. “He’s kind of touchy about his work,” she tells me. And then she laughs.
• • • •
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br /> So that’s it. I’m repaired. I’m ready—and Kendrick knows it. He calls as I’m heading up to my room. “You have civilian clothes.” It’s not a question. I don’t doubt he knows everything about me. “Put them on. Pack up your stuff and check out. I’ll pick you up out front in thirty minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To lunch.”
“And then?”
“Still to be determined.”
My heart is hammering, because I know this is it. Kendrick promised that Thelma Sheridan would not get away with what she did, and that I could have a hand in bringing her justice. I want that. I want to be part of it.
Lissa doesn’t link when I call her, but a few seconds later she texts that she’s in a meeting with Major Chen. I text back that I need to see her. Then I call the hospital administration to let them know I’m leaving, but Kendrick got to them first: I’m already checked out. I put on the civilian clothes I picked up in the hospital shop—a collared shirt and khakis—and the shoes with their inserts that Major Chen sent down from C -FHEIT so I don’t traumatize the civilians. Then I pack my things.
There isn’t much. I’ve got a couple of army T-shirts and shorts, a hoodie, and a new combat uniform. They go easily into a small duffel, with room to spare. I try Lissa again, but the call goes to voice mail.
That’s when Elliot Weber walks in. I can hardly believe my eyes. The last time I saw him was at C -FHEIT, the day the Cloud came down.
“Elliot! Where the hell did you come from? And how did you get past my MPs?”
He stands there with a troubled smile. “Kendrick issued me a pass.”
“Kendrick did?”
“Yeah. I’ve been stuck up at C -FHEIT since the revolution. Kendrick brought the troops back, but you weren’t with them. That scared the shit out of me, but he finally told me you were still alive.”
“I took some damage.”
“I know. Kendrick let me watch TV. I saw episode two. You know what they’re calling you?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The Lion of Black Cross.”