The Red: First Light

by Linda Nagata

  “Fuck!” I stomp over to the desk to review and acknowledge the order. “I hate defense contractors. They’re fucking parasites. And Vanda-Sheridan’s a fucking beast. When I was in Bolivia, I swear to God their local agent was selling satellite data to the enemy. Vanda-Sheridan is a prime example, Sergeant, of a defense contractor happy to play both sides to prolong a conflict. And now here they are in Africa! Looking after the bottom line.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jaynie says. “Fifteen minutes left before we have to be on the road, sir.”

  I duck back into my quarters, get my boots and jacket on, and then head for the kitchen, where energy drinks are waiting on the table. Ransom and Dubey are already through their first round. Yafiah must be in the stall. I grab a carton, tip my head back, and empty it in a few swallows.

  “Jaynie!” I shout down the hall. “Anybody sniffing around outside during your watch?”

  “Just a few goats! I’m shutting down the TOC, sir!”

  “Do it!”

  I finish my second carton, toss Yafiah out of the stall, deal efficiently with the bodily functions, and then get my armor on.

  Delphi starts talking to me through my overlay. “ATVs today, Shelley. We’ve got no intelligence on insurgents in the neighborhood, but you get to do a ground check anyway.”

  “As always.”

  I stomp into the bunkroom, get my dead sister off the power rack, and strap in. Even though we’re taking the ATVs, you never know when you’re going to have to chase somebody down. Ransom checks my rig. Leaving him to clear the two privates, I get my weapon and helmet off the racks, grab my pack, and head outside.

  Jaynie’s already in the yard, pushing back the accordion canopy of the shed where we keep the ATVs. I help her check batteries, lubricant levels, joint cuffs, and tire wear. “No issues,” she says, sounding surprised.

  The informality of my LCS tends to confuse the fresh meat. We may not click heels and salute here, but if it matters, we do it and we do it right. “I only win this game if we all get out alive,” I remind her.

  “Truth.”

  The ATVs are low-slung, two-passenger vehicles, with the gunner’s post elevated behind the driver, and seats specially designed to fit soldiers rigged in bones. They’re not the fastest things around, but then there’s not a lot of racing competition where we patrol. They’re quiet, with four hours of runtime before the battery gives out, rechargeable with PV mats, and the four-wheel independent suspension makes them agile and stable.

  The kids tend to fight over who gets to drive.

  “Dibs!” Yafiah yells as she races into the yard carrying her weapon and helmet. “I’m driving. Ransom, you’re my gunner.”

  He comes out behind her, looking confused. “Shit. How come you always—”

  Dubey pushes past him. “I want to drive one.”

  I’m mildly stunned to hear Dubey speak up for himself and I want to encourage him. “Good. You’re on. Grab two dogs and put ’em in your gunner’s seat. I’ll sit behind the sarge. Helmets on!”

  I confirm my links; I confirm the links of my squad. Then I stand by the gate, holding back the three dogs that aren’t going with us while the ATVs roll out. Once I have the dogs safely locked up, I take my seat and we’re on our way.

  ~~~

  The road runs south for a few kilometers before it reaches the village, and then at the village center another road takes off west. The maps say if you follow that road far enough you’ll come to a city. We like to joke about taking off one day to find that city, but it’s just a game. The ATVs couldn’t get us even a quarter of the way before nightfall, so we’ll stay here until the army decrees that we should go somewhere else.

  Today we need to cover only the first hundred kilometers or so of the western road. By that time we should find Vanda-Sheridan’s convoy. After that, we’ll just shadow the trucks until they’re out of our district and no longer our concern.

  We’re running at thirty miles per hour south toward the village, zigzagging to avoid the potholes and the worst of the gullied roadbed. At least it isn’t dusty like it would be in the dry season. Each driver keeps the required interval of one hundred yards between vehicles. Yafiah and Ransom are in front, me and Jaynie follow them, while Dubey, with the two dogs in his gunner’s seat, trails behind. IEDs are rare here, but you never know.

  I prefer not to drive, in part because I don’t really know how. I grew up in Manhattan where there was no reason to drive, and I only got my license in Texas because the army required it. But mostly I don’t drive because I want to spend my road-time looking through the angel’s eyes.

  I send it ahead to patrol our route, instructing it to follow a wide quartering pattern that surveys terrain on both sides of the road. It’s already gone beyond the village. Soon, it’ll reach the limit of its range—it’s not supposed to ever wander more than ten kilometers from my position—but we’ll catch up with it when we get to the other side of the village.

  Up ahead, Yafiah slows her ATV to a crawl as she comes up on the edge of the village.

  “Visors go transparent,” I say over gen-com. Helmets are required-wear at all times outside the fort. Normally we keep the visors black to limit the enemy’s ability to identify us as individuals and to secure a very effective intimidation factor. But the people of the village are not our enemies, and my soldiers are not faceless demons.

  The first few buildings are pre-fab sheds, but those tend to fall down when the Harmattan wind comes blasting out of the Sahara, so most of the houses are still beautiful red mud brick, with walled courtyards shaded by the spreading branches and feathery leaves of neem trees, or by darker, denser canopies of mango. A cell phone tower stands on the village periphery and dish antennas dot the roofs.

  Goats are everywhere, along with chickens and guinea fowl, but only a few people are in sight, mostly grandparents gossiping beside the courtyard walls. Then we pass the school. There’s an excited shout, and around twenty kids, ranging in age from six to sixteen, charge out of the school’s courtyard, all of them dressed in colorful clothes, laughing and shouting because they don’t get to see us very often and they think our ATVs are cool. “Hello soldiers. Good to see you. Where you going today? Can we come?”

  “No way!” Yafiah tells them. “You have to go back to school!”

  They run alongside anyway. “Shelley from Manhattan!” they call to me. “Yafiah from California. Dubey from Wash-ing-ton. Matthew from Geor-gi-a!”

  Then they realize Jaynie is someone they’ve never seen before. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  “That’s Sergeant Jaynie,” I tell them.

  “Where are you from, Sergeant Jaynie? Where are you from?”

  I can’t see her face, but I can hear the grin in her voice. “Detroit,” she says. “Kansas City, Chicago, Philadelphia, and too many other places for me to remember.” And then softly, so the kids won’t hear her, though her helmet mic picks it up, “This place is paradise compared to the shitholes I used to live in.”

  The kids keep chattering until we reach the western road, then we wave goodbye. I have my doubts that they’ll head back to class, but it’s not my concern.

  The western road is paved. As soon as we’re clear of the village, Yafiah picks up speed. Jaynie waits for the proper interval and then she accelerates too. As we blast past the village cemetery, I spot the new graves at the back. Jalal does his job well and earns the money we pay him.

  After that we pass more sorghum fields, the stalks already six feet high, with tassles of grain forming at the top. Then the flat red land is taken over by scattered trees and brush. It’s been a good rainy season so far. Everything is green and the trees are skirted with tall grass that will disappear altogether when the rain goes away. For now, though, there’s abundant food for small herds of cattle. The angel notes every animal and marks its position on the map. It also marks the position of two tall, thin, teenage boys out tending the cattle. As we speed past they wave their long switches
at us and grin.

  From where I’m sitting in the back of the ATV, the vegetation looks lush, but as I gaze down on it with angel sight its true sparseness is revealed. Not much can hide here, which makes me happy. If the ground had been disturbed by anything more sinister than wandering cattle, the angel would see it. But nothing’s amiss.

  Why, then, am I starting to get a bad feeling about this whole venture?

  ~~~

  We’re fifty-two kilometers out from the village, the angel is ten klicks ahead of us, when it finally spots an approaching vehicle—just one—so it’s not the contractor’s caravan. A minute later the angel IDs it: a small white pickup truck well-known to us. I laugh.

  “Heads up!” I call out on gen-com. “Bibata’s coming into town with our dog food.”

  “Who’s Bibata?” Jaynie asks suspiciously.

  “The L. T.’s girlfriend,” Yafiah says.

  I feel like I’m in grade school. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Only because you want to stay out of jail.”

  “Jail?” Jaynie asks, incredulous. “You’re not here on a prison deferment?”

  Yafiah again: “Oh yes he is.”

  “You’re an officer,” Jaynie protests, as if this is something none of us has realized before.

  “It was a crime of honor,” I assure her.

  “He won’t tell us what he did,” Dubey adds, surprising me again by joining the conversation.

  “Was it worth it?” Jaynie asks.

  That’s not a question I want to consider, and anyway, Bibata’s white pickup is coming fast. Jaynie steers us to the side of the road. I lean out and wave my arm up and down, hoping she’ll stop. At first I don’t think she’s going to, but then she steps hard on the brakes, bringing the truck to a stop beside me. I jump down from the gunner’s seat. Ransom does too and walks back along the road to meet me. We converge on Bibata’s truck from opposite sides, both of us casting surreptitious glances at the cargo, stacked higher than the cab roof and hidden under a taut blue tarp. Anything could be under there.

  I whisper to Dubey to bring the dogs. Then I make my visor go transparent and I saunter up to the driver’s window with my assault rifle cradled in my arms. The glass rolls down. I feel the holy, sacred chill of air-conditioning through the thin fabric of my gloves. But better than that, Bibata gives me a coy smile. She is definitely not my sibling.

  “Ah, Shelley, my man. Were you coming to visit me? And was this the best rendezvous you could manage? I expected better from you!”

  I have maybe a quarter of my ancestry out of Africa, mixed with European lines and the original people of Mexico. Bibata makes me think of pure and ancient bloodlines. Her skin is dark black, darker than Yafiah, and her face is strong and beautiful, with a high forehead, flirtatious dark eyes, and lips that slip easily between a teasing smile and a threat. There’s nothing between us except that I admire her, and she enjoys it—but today I get the feeling she doesn’t really want to play the game. There’s anxiety behind her smile, maybe even anger. Dubey has released the dogs. She glances at them as they run toward the truck.

  “You okay, love?” I ask her.

  I see a handgun shoved into the cushioned space between the driver and passenger seats, but it doesn’t concern me because she always keeps it there. Ransom scans the cab from the other side while she answers me impatiently. “Of course I’m okay! I am always okay. I have been okay since the beginning of the world.” Her voice drops to a feigned, flirty tone. “Though I might be better still if you come ride with me in my truck some evening. Do you think so, Shelley? Should I come and pick you up tonight?”

  I flash her a smile. “Oh God yes, love. I’m getting stiff, just thinking about seeing you with the night wrapped around your beautiful face. But Mama’s watching. She won’t let me go.”

  Bibata pouts. The dogs have circled around to the back of the truck. They’re sniffing at the tires. “Oh you poor thing. You need to get liberated, and not be a slave to Mama’s ugly old customs anymore.”

  “Someday,” I promise her.

  She turns away, to stare at her perfectly manicured hands as they grip the steering wheel. Softly, she says, “I will come tomorrow, and bring your dog food.”

  By her quiet tone I know that something is very wrong. I imagine insurgents under the tarp, but the dogs would have given some sign if anyone was there. So I bend down, almost leaning in the window. “Tell me what’s going on, Bibata.”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. Not yet. But the war’s getting closer, isn’t it? It’s not just a few stupid little boys from the north, come here to make trouble.”

  “No, that’s all it is. Ahab Matugo is not going to come here.”

  “Ahab Matugo is a modern man. Maybe it would not be so bad if he did!”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She nods without looking at me. “I’ll come tomorrow.” Then she puts the truck in gear, waves at me, and drives away, the window sliding closed as she goes. I’m left facing the black mask of Ransom’s visor.

  “I think she just had groceries,” he says.

  The angel switches my visor back to black as I turn to stare west down the road—the direction Bibata came from, the direction of the distant city. Then I look through the angel’s eyes, but there’s nothing out in that flat, hot, worn-out land except trees, and brush, and cattle.

  “Dubey, get the dogs!”

  He whistles them back to his side, while Ransom and I return to our gunners’ seats. Jaynie starts to interrogate me, but I wave her off, addressing the squad instead. “Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but I’ve got a feeling. Stay alert.”

  ~~~

  Twenty minutes later, Delphi tells me the convoy is delayed. “They’re having a problem with one of the trucks. It’s going to take a couple hours to fix.”

  I feel like a demon is scratching on the inside of my skull. “What do you think is really going on?” I ask her.

  “Command would like you to answer that question. You’re to continue west until you meet the convoy, but approach with discretion. Ascertain the situation before making your presence known.”

  This presents a problem, because the ATVs are good for only four hours before the batteries run down, and we’ll need to run at least another hour to find the convoy, which will put us past the halfway point of battery life. We’ve got photovoltaic mats that we can use to recharge, but policy dictates that we have sufficient power to return to the fort at all times.

  It turns out Command is more interested in what their contractors are up to than in whether or not we get back to our fort before nightfall. “You’re cleared to continue,” Delphi says when I present my concern. “If you can get the PV mats laid out before fourteen-hundred, you should be able to acquire a partial recharge before the next rainstorm moves through.”

  So we follow the angel west.

  We’re 105 kilometers out when the angel discovers the Vanda-Sheridan trucks, parked well off the road behind a screen of brush grown tall in the rainy season.

  “You said there were two trucks, right?” I ask Delphi.

  I see four. Two are open-bed, carrying prefabricated walls, plastic cargo boxes, and sections of antenna to be used to build a new listening post. They both have the blue V-S logo on the white cab doors. Of the other two, one is an off-road truck. The other is what we would call, in the streets of Manhattan, a delivery truck, with an enclosed cargo area cooled by an air-conditioning unit mounted above the cab. Instead of a roll-up cargo door in the back, there’s a walk-in refrigerator door with a large latch.

  Delphi says, “Intelligence is scoring this at 70% likelihood of being an insurgent operation—”

  “Hijacking or treachery?”

  “You may assume a hostile situation until proven otherwise. Stealth approach, on foot. Identify those present and ascertain the situation before making your presence known.”

  Bibata might be right about Ahab Matugo; I know I m
ight be fighting on the wrong side, but it’s not really a choice—and it makes me furious that a homegrown, American company like Vanda-Sheridan, a company that specializes in surveillance, could fail to detect corruption in their own employees. Or worse, that they might condone it. “Has Ahab Matugo started buying out our suppliers?”

  And if he has, how much longer can this war last?

  “Just do your job, Shelley,” Delphi says.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  ~~~

  We stick to the road, until we’re only fifteen hundred meters from the trucks, and then we cut into the brush, continuing on for another half klick. After that we tie up the dogs, lock down the ATVs, and roll out the PV mats so the batteries can start recharging.

  We advance on foot.

  The angel is floating high in the sky, invisible in the glare of the early afternoon sun, but it’s showing me what I need to know: that there’s very little activity at the site. I watch one man get out of the cab of the off-road truck to take a leak. He has an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Most travelers carry guns here, but taking a gun just to piss a few steps away from the truck seems a bit much.

  I watch him return to the cab, sliding into the passenger seat. There’s a second man with him, behind the steering wheel. I know because the angel can see his elbow sticking out of the open window. That elbow hasn’t moved for several minutes. Given that the afternoon temperature is up over a hundred, with the air so muggy it feels deprived of oxygen, I decide there’s an excellent chance the driver is asleep.

  Hopefully his friend will soon join him in the Land of Nod.

  We creep to within fifty meters of the trucks, the sound of our approach disguised by the rustle of leaves. We’re spread out, at least eight meters apart. I crouch, concealed within a stand of tall grass. I swear the lush green leaves are exhaling steam. The mud under my boots smells of cow dung. The clothes under my armor are made to wick sweat away from my body, but the sweat can’t evaporate fast enough so I’m soaked anyway. I settle down to wait for the onset of some activity that will explain what’s going on.