The Red: First Light

by Linda Nagata

  I put my helmet on, willing the visor to go transparent. We’re required to be fully rigged every time we step outside. That’s the rule and we lose leave days if we violate it, because the army does not want to pay out on our life insurance policies.

  I visualize the gate opening. My skullcap detects my intention and the gate slides aside just far enough that I can pass.

  ~~~

  I stand on the side, waiting, as Bibata backs her pickup truck up to the closed gate. The truck’s bed is almost empty: just ten cases of canned dog food and a basket of fresh fruit, mostly mangos and papayas, purchased in the village. I circle the truck, swiping the barrel of my HITR underneath it so the onboard camera can scan for bombs because you never know.

  By the time I come around the front, Bibata has gotten out. She gives me a coy smile as she stands beside the cab, arms akimbo, dressed in rust-red and gray camo pants and a pink tube top that shows off her gorgeous breasts. “I didn’t bring any bombs this time, Shelley.” She pats herself down: shoulders, breasts, belly, hips. “And no guns, either, except the little one in the cab.”

  And just like that I’ve got a hard-on. She knows it too. “You ready to say bye-bye to mama, Shelley, and go for a ride?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  But just then the gate opens behind me. I glance back. Dubey, rigged in armor and bones, is bringing out the first of the empty water barrels.

  “But Mama’s still watching,” I add in resignation.

  I extend the arm hooks of my dead sister and use them to grab the cases of dog food. I haul them inside the fort, and then I help Dubey load the barrels into the truck bed. The dead sisters are useful in moving supplies, but slinging cargo is not their primary role. The models we use are built for speed and agility. Their load-bearing capacity is limited to about 350 pounds, including the soldier’s body weight. The ironic result is that when we have to distribute loads, the lightest soldiers get the heaviest burdens. Life is just not fair like that.

  Dubey and I tie the barrels down. Then I hand Bibata a personal cash card, which she swipes on her phone, withdrawing payment. Technically, the army is supposed to supply us, but Bibata is a lot more reliable, so I cover the cost of water, fresh fruit, and dog food out of my pay. It’s not like I have anything else to do with the money.

  She turns to gaze at the water barrels, letting me admire her in profile. “These I bring back in the afternoon, Shelley.” She cocks her head to look at me. “You look tired, love. You going to sleep now, yes? Make sure you dream of me.”

  I think that’s guaranteed.

  ~~~

  I stand in the shower for a long time, hot water running over me, probably the same water, over and over again as it passes through the filtration system. Eventually I work up the nerve to take my skullcap off. Moving with mad speed, I clean my scalp and duck under the water to rinse, managing to slip the skullcap back on just as the dark feelings begin to intrude.

  But the soothing complacency I expect doesn’t come. I press the cap all over. It’s seated correctly, but I’m not getting anything out of it. It’s like it’s gone dead.

  I shut the water off and grab a towel. My heart booms, but I’m too confused to panic. That’s when an icon lights up in my overlay. Guidance is calling.

  Everyone gives up autonomy when they go into the military. For me, part of that was control of my overlay. It’s mine and not the army’s, but to keep it I had to yield root control, meaning Guidance can override anything I do and intrude whenever they want to. Usually they have the good manners not to, but sometimes they forget to be subtle.

  With no acknowledgement from me, a voice starts speaking in my ears, and it’s not Delphi or Pagan. It’s some guy I’ve never heard before. “Lieutenant Shelley—”

  I cut him off. “Delphi’s my handler.” I don’t like it that he’s in my head. Try walking naked out of the shower and finding a stranger sitting on your bed. That’s what it’s like. “If Delphi’s not around, it’s Pagan. No one else gets inside my head.”

  “I’m not in your head,” the stranger says, an edge to his voice as if he’s dealt with too many unstable idiots just like me. “I’m inside your overlay. And I follow orders just like you do. My name’s Denario. I was told to contact you at this address. I work on technical issues. Your skullcap is scheduled for diagnostic testing, so it won’t be usable for the next few hours. Thought you’d like to know.”

  I want to believe I haven’t heard him right, but I’m not good at denial. My temper’s frayed and the skullcap is not working to keep me calm, so I lay into him. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. There’s no such thing as a field diagnostic. That doesn’t happen.”

  Denario doesn’t answer. He gives me quite a few seconds to think about things... like the black kernel of panic that’s starting to unfurl deep inside my head, and the complete lack of any counteracting response from my skullcap. “You’ve taken it offline... haven’t you?”

  “It’s been switched off,” Denario confirms, no doubt relieved that I’m finally catching on. “You’ll need to locate the diagnostic rack in the TOC. Put the cap on it. Then go take a nap. You’ll have it back by the time you wake up.”

  I peel the lifeless skullcap off and stare at it, but there’s no on-switch, no way for me to activate it. I didn’t even know it could be turned off. “What the hell is going on? Who ordered this? Why?”

  “The why is, I was told to run a diagnostic, and I’m going to do it. I can’t do it until the cap is on the rack, so the sooner you let me get started, the sooner you can have your emo-drip back online again.”

  “Fuck.”

  “And don’t try taking it off the rack early, or the test will have to be restarted.”

  I don’t bother to dry off. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I stomp into the tactical operations center, where Dubey has taken over the watch. From beneath the comforting coverage of his skullcap, he glances at me with worried eyes and looks away—so I know he knows.

  And since he’s the only one there, I yell at him: “What’s a diagnostic rack?”

  “I looked it up,” he says meekly. “And then I found it for you.”

  He gets up and moves to the little utility table set at right angles to the desk. “It’s here. It’s a kit. I can set it up for you, but you have to give me your skullcap.”

  Dubey doesn’t want to touch my skullcap and I don’t want him to touch it either. Some things are too personal. “I’ll do it myself.” I’m sure the equipment is simple enough for the lowest common denominator to manage.

  He retreats to the desk. I open the kit—and discover that it unfolds into a wireframe skull without a face. I lay the skullcap over it and the frame blazes with red light.

  Denario is back in my head. “Good job, Lieutenant. Now go to sleep. Things will be all better by morning.”

  “It is morning, asshole.”

  “Not where I live.”

  Dubey doesn’t say anything else and neither do I.

  Back in the shower room I trade my towel for a pair of shorts, then I retreat to my room, close the door, and lie down in my bunk. The black kernel in my head is blooming. It was never part of my life plan to be an emo-junkie. What the fuck happened to me? I gave up my life for one stupid, defiant act when I was nineteen and I fucking don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about Lissa. I don’t.

  But the memories are chasing around inside my head in a whirlwind of resentment until I’m left pressing my hands against my forehead as if I can squeeze them out.

  There’s a knock on the silly little panel that counts as a door. Before I can muster the energy to curse whoever it is, the door opens and Jaynie comes in with peace in her right hand. I turn my head as she holds it out to me: one small blue pill nestled in her dark palm. She says, “I talked to Guidance. You’re authorized for a single dose of don’t-give-a-shit. Take it, Lieutenant. It’ll let you sleep.”

  “Thanks.” I take it out of her h
and, but I don’t pop it right away. She gives me that questioning look again. “I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  “I know.”

  She retreats, closing the door behind her. I hold the pill in my palm so long that its blue coating starts to dissolve against the heat of my skin. I’ve run three missions in less than forty hours. Nothing was wrong with my performance on any of them. Nothing was fucked up. Command wasn’t happy about the Vanda-Sheridan contractors, but we did put the bad guys out of circulation, we saved the girls, the equipment is safe just outside the fort, and new engineers are on their way. And I finished another fucking patrol after that. They have to know there’s nothing wrong with my equipment.

  And then it hits me. They’re just checking my skullcap before they pull me in for a diagnostic.

  Why?

  Why, when I’ve performed above and beyond?

  And then I know.

  I’m standing on the edge of an abyss and I know, I know, I know.

  It’s the King David thing.

  I should kick Ransom’s ass for coming up with that tag, but I know that’s what they’re worried about and suddenly I’m wondering too—how the fuck do I know things? How do I know when we’re about to get slammed? And why haven’t I ever wondered about it before?

  There’s a blue stain in my palm when I finally put the pill under my tongue. God must have forgotten to whisper a warning to me that Satan was about to drag me to the edge of the black abyss. I don’t want to look down there and see the faces of all the people I’ve killed. So I go to sleep instead.

  ~~~

  A soft knock on the door: tap-tap, tap. The rhythm repeats several times. I hear it, but it’s not quite enough to wake me up. Ransom’s bellowing does the trick though: “Jesus, Yafiah, just tell him.”

  I’m halfway to my feet when the door opens and Ransom leans in. “The rack is green.”

  The don’t-give-a-shit has left me confused. “Then the test is done?”

  “It’s done,” Ransom confirms. “Message from Guidance says your skullcap is cleared for use.”

  I’m relieved, oh yes. But then I indulge in a brief moment of machismo, toying with the idea of not picking the skullcap up right away, of not putting it on... of proving to myself and to Guidance that I can live without it... but I’m only thinking about it because the don’t-give-a-shit hasn’t really worn off yet.

  I get up. Ransom opens the door wider like he expects me to bolt into the hall. It’s tempting, but I make myself put on pants first, and a T-shirt. I skip the boots, but I walk out of the room. Yafiah’s standing in the hall behind Ransom, watching me with wary eyes. I wonder how many men she’s seen go berserk when they can’t get their fix? Not that I’d ever ask.

  It’s two paces to the TOC, two more to the utility table. The rack is green just like Ransom reported. My skullcap is there, but I don’t touch it. I look over my shoulder instead, wanting to be sure.

  “You got a message?” I ask Ransom. “It’s cleared for use?”

  I have to be sure, because I do not want to start the testing over again.

  “Here. You can look at it.”

  Ransom comes in, touches the main screen. Text appears, confirming what he told me. I sigh and pick up the skullcap, worried that it will still be offline—but that worry evaporates as soon as I slip it on.

  Like every other LCS soldier, my brain is randomly peppered with a myriad of tiny organic implants called “neuromodulating microbeads.” The position and function of each bead is known to the skullcap. Some are chemical sensors that signal deviations from a baseline, while others can be directed by the skullcap to stimulate neurochemical production.

  My brain has deviated a long way from the baseline. The skullcap registers that and reacts. A sense of calm sweeps over me so quickly I wonder if I’ve psyched myself into it—just expecting to feel better so I do. But in that moment I don’t really care.

  ~~~

  It’s only midafternoon, so I go back to sleep. But just before 1700 I’m awake, feeling shot full of adrenaline for no reason at all. Did someone shout out an alarm? I can’t remember it, but why else am I awake?

  I’m on my feet and dressed, boots on, within a minute. I throw the door open and stomp over to the tactical operations center. “What’s going on?”

  Ransom is on watch. “Nothin’, L. T. Everything’s quiet. Everyone’s asleep.”

  I stand behind him and scan the screens. I check the messages. But he’s right—nothing’s going on.

  I feel like somebody’s pointing a gun at my head.

  In the kitchen, I heat up a meal. I’m halfway through it when I suddenly remember what I’ve forgotten.

  The chair legs scrape the floor as I stand up. “Ransom!”

  “Sir?”

  He’s at the door of the TOC when I step out of the kitchen. “What happened to Bibata? She was supposed to bring the water.”

  “She did, sir, while you were asleep. The sarge logged it.”

  I glare at him for several seconds, as if it’s his fault everything went as it should have. Then I return to my dinner, but I can’t eat, so I pitch it into the composter and I go outside.

  The temperature’s up around a hundred—not too bad for this time of year. The dogs are sprawled in the shade of their canopy. Tails thump, but it’s too hot for them to get up and greet me—just like any other afternoon. Nothing is wrong, nothing is going on, but my anxiety is getting worse.

  I wonder if Denario fucked up my skullcap.

  Or maybe this is just the hangover that follows a dose of don’t-give-a-shit.

  Something’s wrong.

  I climb up to the catwalk and gaze through the peepholes. The trucks are where they’re supposed to be, waiting for new engineers. The road is empty. A light wind rustles the nearest sorghum field. A stick fence keeps the goats out. I see them in the distance, browsing in the shade of a grove of neem trees.

  I patrol the catwalk, but there’s nothing to see in any direction, and there’s no sound except the rustling of leaves, the bleating of goats, and the buzz of insects. I wipe away the sweat on my face. My T-shirt is wet with sweat. And my anxiety is getting worse. I don’t want to be here, inside these walls. I don’t want my soldiers to be here. I want to get out.

  But that’s crazy. We’re safe here.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I flinch, as a green question mark flashes in my overlay. Unknown caller? I’m not cleared for phone calls. I wonder if I should answer, and then I do, but no one’s there.

  “Guidance is fucking with me,” I mutter.

  I go back inside, intending to call in, to ask Delphi or Pagan or whoever’s on duty what the fuck they think they’re doing, but I don’t make it to the TOC. I’m barely in the door when a sense of urgency slams through my brain. It’s now, God whispers. Whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.

  I know I’ve lost it. I know I’ve cracked, but I don’t care. I start screaming. “Everybody, up! Now! Something’s coming. I can feel it. A slam’s coming. Get on your armor and bones. Now!”

  Ransom pops out of the TOC, wild-eyed. “King David?”

  “Do it! Armor and bones!”

  “Yes sir!” He launches himself down the hall to the bunkroom. “Dubey, up!” he shouts. “Yafiah! King David says armor and bones!”

  The door to Jaynie’s room pops open. She’s got on her T-shirt, pants, and boots. “Status, sir?”

  “I don’t fucking know! We just need to get out of here.”

  Delphi is talking to me via my overlay. She can call me on it, but I can’t call her. “Shelley, take it easy—”

  I cut her off, as Jaynie pushes past me into the TOC. “Armor and bones, Sergeant!” I shout after her and then I duck into the bunkroom.

  Ransom, Dubey, and Yafiah are all getting their armor on. I join them. Jaynie reappears, looking at me like I’ve gone nuts. “Sir, there are no orders.”

  “You have my order, sergeant. Get your rig on now.”


  I see Yafiah cast a doubtful look Jaynie’s way, while Delphi tries to talk me down. Dubey’s looking scared—of his crazy commanding officer? Ransom’s excited. He’s already strapping on his dead sister while I finish securing my armor.

  Delphi gives up on me and goes away. No one else speaks as they strap in. It takes maybe three minutes for everyone to get rigged. I pass out the weapons. “Get your packs and helmets and get out!”

  I pull my own helmet on, wait for them to clear out, and then follow them to the door. The fort’s gate is sliding open; the dogs are racing out. Guidance comes in over gen-com—not Delphi. This is the voice of someone older: a woman I’ve never heard before, and she’s speaking to the entire LCS.

  “Dassari LCS, warning: two fighter jets are coming out of the east. Flying low—”

  “Our fighters?” I interrupt.

  “No. Ours are on intercept, but—”

  “Get out!” I scream at my people. The two trucks outside are going to be a target, but so will the fort—and it can’t protect us. It wasn’t made for an air war. “Get out! Get as far away as you can! Get out of sight!”

  Dubey and Yafiah break first. Our training is to separate, and they do. Dubey cuts east; Yafiah takes off north. Jaynie and Ransom exit behind them. I’m the last to go. My dead sister propels me out of the yard in two strides.

  I can already hear the distant thunder of jet engines. I feel like we’ve been betrayed. This is not supposed to be an air war. Small-arms only. Since when can Ahab Matugo afford jets?

  “Find cover!” I scream as we race to put distance between ourselves and the finest trio of targets in the district. “Don’t get caught in the open!”

  I cut northwest, cross the road, and bound through tall grass between the scattered trees. Ransom is ahead of me, running for all he’s worth, looking like he could leap the trees in a single bound. Jaynie’s angling northeast toward a neem grove. Yafiah has stopped. Her readout is showing two loose cinches on her right leg. “Yafiah!”