The Red

by Linda Nagata

  I don’t remember ever telling her about the feedback slider, but I avoid her gaze as I adjust it to something more reasonable. “You think a strategy like that exists?”

  It’s like I’m caught in some circle-of-life bullshit: I first got in trouble in defense of a principle. I went into the army to avoid prison. I strove to learn a new life, and after I made it my own, I gave it all up in defense of another principle, sacrificing Lissa in the process. Now I’m heading right back to where I started.

  “Innovation,” Jaynie says. “Coordination. Inspiration. That’s the motto of the linked combat squads.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “So don’t assume there’s no solution.”

  It’s been only a day since we were locked up on the C-17. I know for sure that sometimes there is no solution, but I don’t say that, opting to tell her what she wants to hear. “I’m going to testify that we did what needed doing, and that we did it because the people who should have stepped up refused to do so—but don’t count on that truth keeping us out of prison.”

  Her fine eyebrows pull together in a scowl. “I’m counting on you, Shelley. You’re the Lion of Black Cross, you’re goddamn King David—”

  “I’m not King David! That’s the bullshit that killed Ransom.”

  “You’re our CO anyway, and you need to fight for us, from the moment we step out on the tarmac at Dulles. I know you got slammed again, and I’m sorry for what happened to Lissa, but nailing yourself to a cross isn’t going to change it.”

  “I’ll do what I can! When’s the last time you saw me sit out a fight, anyway?”

  “Don’t make this the first time. Just saying we did the right thing isn’t going to count for much. You need to believe it. You need to make other people believe it, or we lose.”

  Another battle? Maybe that’s what I need. My mood levels up in anticipation. I eye the skullnet icon, wondering if the Red is riding me, but the icon isn’t glowing. So maybe it’s all me, just wanting to hit back. There really is a lot left to do.

  “We only slammed one dragon,” I muse. “Lot more out there.”

  Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “God whispering plans into your head again?”

  “Nothing obvious. Can’t really know for sure, though.”

  “And you’re okay with that? You’re okay with the Red squatting in your head?”

  “It’s inside you too, Jaynie, and you know it. You hate it, not knowing if a choice is your own or if it’s been put in your head just to continue the story.”

  She turns away, a fiery glare fixed on the forward bulkhead as she runs both hands over the smooth surface of her skullcap. For a moment I think she’s going to take the cap off, but she’s an emo junkie. We all are.

  “Jaynie, if it makes you feel better, I think it’s only now and then that the Red steps in. It’s a marketing program, remember? Out to optimize the world and everyone in it. Lissa thought so, anyway. Doesn’t mean everybody gets a good deal—”

  “That’s God’s truth.”

  “But maybe the odds go up.” I turn to look out the window. It’s still night out there, but I think I see a blush of dawn behind us.

  “You serious about slamming more dragons?” she asks.

  “Hell yes. And it starts with the court-martial.”

  We talk it over with the squad and we agree that our strategy will be to make no deals. We want to force the court to follow the evidence, to name the name of every official involved in protecting Thelma Sheridan, and then with luck—or with the judicious influence of the Red—additional investigations and indictments will follow, in a chain reaction that will burn a lot of powerful people.

  Alone over the Atlantic, it’s easy to believe we have a chance. But later, when we pick up an escort of navy fighters two hundred miles off the coast, I get a new sense of the scale of the mission we’ve taken on. The fighters are with us for protection, here to ensure our safe passage to Dulles. We have enemies now.

  As we head inland, I search the sky, but though it’s a clear day, I spot no other planes. These flight corridors that used to be crowded with civilian traffic are eerily empty—a sure sign that the Coma has not loosened its grip.

  The fighters peel away as we touch down at Dulles. We turn off the runway and almost immediately, we come to a stop. I peer through the window at a cordon of military police vehicles, their warning lights flashing. Shielded behind the bulk of the vehicles, MPs rigged in armor and bones survey the surrounding fields, HITRs in hand.

  Jaynie leans over to get a look at the defenses. “They’re expecting trouble.”

  “But not trouble from us.” They know we’re unarmed. Our surrender is arranged. “They’re worried some dragon is planning to hit us. So they’re putting on a display of force, like with the navy fighters—discourage premature action—and that means we have more to worry about than just the outcome of our trial.”

  Dragons rule from the shadows. They’ve got everything to lose and nothing to gain from what’s coming, so they’ll try to silence us. They’ll try to stop our court-martial proceedings if they can. They have to, or there’s a risk we’ll take them down.

  The fight that’s coming won’t be limited to the courtroom.

  It should be interesting.

  THE TEASER TRAILER TO THE NEXT ADVENTURE OF LT. JAMES SHELLEY AND HIS TEAM

  THE SEQUEL TO

  THE RED: FIRST LIGHT

  THE TRIALS

  AGAINST THE BEAST

  * * *

  EPISODE 1:

  THE TRIALS

  “WE ARE BEING ASKED TO crucify Colonel Kendrick.”

  Five pairs of eyes glare at me from stony faces: my soldiers—the Apocalypse Squad. That’s the name the mediots have given us and it works for me. We’re seated around a cheap oval table occupying the center of an other­wise bare, white-walled conference room in the federal courthouse in Washington, DC. It’s the first time in the five months since we stepped off the plane at Dulles that we’ve been allowed to discuss our case all together, with no lawyers present.

  I’m James Shelley. I presently hold the rank of lieutenant in the United States Army, but that will change at the conclusion of our court-martial.

  “Our attorneys have decided that since Kendrick is dead, he’s not going to scream and he’s not going to argue when we hammer the nails in. So they want us to testify that the colonel used undue influence to get us to participate in a conspiracy. They want us to claim we were not mentally responsible at the time and therefore it is not our fault.”

  Our return to the United States was voluntary and we’re widely regarded as heroes. It’s a status I’ve leveraged to get us the privilege of this ten-minute session to confer on our defense strategy. Not a private session—camera buttons are watching from the corners of the room and the ocular overlay I wear like contact lenses in my eyes is always recording—­but we’re used to that. We’re LCS soldiers, and in a linked combat squad you expect to be observed.

  “In just a few minutes, each one of you will meet individually with counsel, where you will be advised to pursue an affirmative defense, claiming a lack of mental responsi­bility.”

  It’s been over five months since Coma Day, when seven improvised nuclear devices were used to destroy data exchanges across the country, shattering the Cloud and collapsing the economy. Travel and communication have been a challenge ever since, so an agreement was reached to hold our court-martial in the centrally convenient District of Columbia Federal Courthouse. We are using the facility but not the staff. The army is conducting our court-martial, with a court composed of army personnel and presided over by a military judge.

  Our court-martial hasn’t started, and we will not be in court today, so we’re all wearing the informal brown camo of combat uniforms. Everyone but me is also wearing their linked combat squad skullcap. The caps look like ath
letic skullcaps, but they’re precisely fitted to ensure that the mesh of fine wires embedded in the silky brown fabric is held close to the wearer’s hairless scalp.

  I don’t wear a skullcap anymore because I have something more advanced: a mesh of sensor threads implanted against the surface of my skull. It’s called a skullnet, and it monitors and influences the activity in my brain. It could be my get-out-of-jail-free card, if I want to try to use it for that.

  I tap my head, where my black hair is trimmed to a short buzz cut. “The attorneys want me to say Kendrick controlled my thoughts, my emotions, my decision-­making processes, through my skullnet. They want each one of you to say he hacked your heads through your skullcaps. They want us to argue we were not in our right minds and that we didn’t understand what we were doing.”

  Specialist Vanessa Harvey speaks up first: “Fuck that, LT.”

  She crosses her arms, fixing me with a glare that could stop bullets . . . almost did, at Black Cross, where she was shot in the face. Her visor took the impact of the slug, and she got away with only a broken nose—but no sign of that injury remains in her sharp-featured, ­bronze-complexioned face.

  Specialist Samuel Tuttle expands on Harvey’s sentiment. “Fuck them.” The rim of his skullcap enhances his scowl as his brooding brown eyes shift from Harvey to Sergeant Aaron Nolan, who must have been his big brother in some other life.

  Nolan is six foot one, broad shouldered, with deep-brown skin. He told me once he was half Navajo, half white. Generally, he’s a congenial man, but now he drops his chin and coldly informs me, “Those shit eaters can go to hell.”

  Little Mandy Flynn, with her green eyes and fair skin, is only a private, but she’s more eloquent than anyone else. “No way are we pissing on the colonel’s grave, sir.”

  “Damn straight,” Specialist Jayden Moon agrees. Moon is tall, skinny, and dark eyed, the offspring of Asian and European bloodlines mixed in some complicated formula. He used to have a tan, but our stint in jail has bleached his skin to a pale cream. “LT, this is just bullshit.”

  I glance up at Sergeant Jaynie Vasquez, who stands somewhat loyally at my right shoulder. Jaynie is the ranking non-com in our squad. She’s got a lean build and moderate height. Her skin is smooth and black. She tends to regard the world with a reserved expression that perfectly reflects her nature: smart, controlled, determined, and not entirely trusting of my judgment. She answers my questioning look with a nod, letting me know she’ll back me up as long as I say the right things.

  I turn back to Moon. “Of course it’s bullshit, Moon. It’s the same bullshit we LCS soldiers get all the time.”

  Outside the linked combat squads we are commonly believed to be soulless automatons, emotionless killing machines controlled by our handlers in Guidance. It’s a prejudice our attorneys want to exploit.

  “But it’s a bullshit that can be used to buy you a not-guilty verdict and a medical discharge.”

  Moon looks confused. His gaze shifts to Jaynie. “I don’t get it. That’s not why we came back.”

  He’s looking at Jaynie, but I’m the one who responds. “No, it’s not why we came back. The crucifixion of Colonel Kendrick is an option we are being offered because both trial and defense counsel are under extreme pressure to limit the scope of our court-martial. They do not want to look into the chain of responsibility—”

  “Lack of responsibility,” Jaynie interrupts in a low growl.

  I concede the point with a nod. “They do not want to look into the layers of corruption that forced us to take the action we did. We are here to expose that corruption, to confront it. That’s why we came back. But this is not a game. We are facing life in prison, very possibly execution. If you want to reconsider your reasons for being here, now is the time. Just know that for the affirmative defense to work, all of you will need to agree to it. If even one of you dissents, that will cast doubt on all the others.”

  Harvey’s arms are still crossed, her brow wrinkled in suspicion. “What do you mean, we would have to agree? What about you, LT? I thought we were all in this together.”

  “That’s up to you, Harvey. There’s no fucking way I’m going along with it. But the rest of you can claim your commanding officers exploited your sense of loyalty. Let me know if you’d like me to step outside while you discuss it.”

  Jaynie, still standing at my right shoulder, speaks. “Take a pass on the drama, LT. We’ve got nothing to discuss, because I dissent. I’m not participating in a bullshit defense.”

  “I’m not either,” Harvey says.

  This sentiment is echoed around the table with nods and murmurs. Using my overlay, I launch a facial analysis program, letting it study each member of my squad. It detects no deceit in the faces of my soldiers, no real doubt. I look up at Jaynie. She frowns down at me. The program confirms the caution I see on her face, but her caution doesn’t bother me because Jaynie has always been the most thoughtful among us.

  The standard way for a story like this to unfold is for at least one, maybe even two, of my soldiers to prove treacherous, cutting a secret deal with trial counsel that will betray the rest of us while saving their own asses—but Colonel Kendrick preempted that tired plot device when he hand-selected everyone in the squad for a spectrum of personality traits including a compelling sense of justice and a group loyalty strong enough to keep us together through two harrowing missions. As I look around the table I know that everyone remains loyal to this, our current mission.

  “So what the fuck are we going to do?” Harvey demands, her sharp gaze focused over my shoulder because she is addressing her question to my sergeant and not to me.

  My fist hits the table with a loud bang, and I regain the attention of every set of eyes in the room.

  We don’t have many options. The charges entered against us include conspiracy, multiple counts of murder, aggravated assault, robbery in excess of $500, and kidnapping, with a general article for abusing the good order and discipline of the armed forces. I get an additional charge of destruction of military property since I was present when Colonel Kendrick deliberately destroyed an army helicopter.

  Moreover, we did in fact commit every act we are accused of during the execution of a rogue mission, code-named First Light, in which we took a United States citizen to face trial in a foreign country for crimes committed within and against the United States. Every moment of that mission, every conversation, was recorded by multiple devices, including my ocular overlay. There is no lack of evidence that can be used to convict us. There is only the question of whether or not circumstances justified what we did.

  It’s a question the court is desperate to avoid, which is the only reason we’ve been offered the I’m-not-responsible defense . . . but we’re past that.

  “Because this is a death-penalty case our plea is automatically entered as not guilty. That means the prosecution has to prove the case against us, step by step for the public record. We want that. We want the public to know who we are and what we did, but above all else we want them to know why we did it.”

  I know a hell of a lot more about the law now than I did when we started this. I present my strategy with what any competent attorney would surely regard as an amateur’s optimism. “The only valid defense we can make goes to our service oath to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. So what we are going to do is expose those enemies—our domestic enemies—shine a light on them, and examine every link in the chain of command that had a hand in sheltering Thelma Sheridan from prosecution for her part in the Coma Day insurrection. We push the judge on it at every step. We force the scope of the investigation to expand. If it ultimately takes in the president, so be it, I don’t give a damn. If it sets off a revolt against the rotten core of our country, you won’t find me weeping.”

  “Burn it all down?” Jaynie asks softly.

  I look up at her ag
ain, wondering at the suspicion in her voice. “No. That’s not what I want.”

  She studies me, like she’s trying to see beneath the surface. “Just don’t push it too far, sir. You might not like what’s on the other side.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In fall 2011 I returned to short story writing after a hiatus of more years than I care to admit. Two of the resulting stories, “Nightside on Callisto” (Lightspeed, May 2012) and “Through Your Eyes” (Asimov’s Science Fiction, April/May 2013), set up an irresistible alchemy in my head. While there is no obvious relationship between these stories, and I didn’t imagine them to be in the same story world when I wrote them, the more I thought about it, the more intrigued I was by the idea that they were related, despite their separation in time and space. The Red: First Light rapidly evolved as a way to begin exploring that relationship.

  Given the diversity and swift advance of real-world technology, writing fiction set in the near-future is a dangerous business, requiring simplification and compromise to allow a writer to get on with the story—but reality always deserves a hat-tip.

  Resource people interrogated during the writing of this book include Ronald J. Nagata Sr., Ronald J. Nagata Jr., Mike Brotherton, Paul Kaufman, and Edward A. White. I also want to acknowledge the Internet, and all those people who use it to generously share their knowledge.

  Beta readers Wil McCarthy, Dallas Nagata White, Edward A. White, and Nancy Jane Moore all provided helpful comments and excellent advice.

  The Red began as a self-published novel put out under my own imprint, Mythic Island Press LLC. The assistance of three people was intrinsic to the success of that edition. Editor Judith Tarr provided suggestions and guidance that greatly improved the story; the sharp eye of Chaz Brenchley, who served as copy editor via the writers’ cooperative Book View Café, provided coherence and consistency; and my daughter, Dallas Nagata White, made the book stand out with her striking cover art. The Saga Press edition of The Red has superseded that original release, but my gratitude to all of you has not diminished.