The Red: First Light

by Linda Nagata

  “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 goodbye. “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. People 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, explaining that questions aren’t allowed.

  It makes things easier.

  But the MPs won’t let me leave the hospital grounds. 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. 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. “One gram,” he yells at me. “Each leg. You’re complaining about a difference of one gram? 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.

  ~~~

  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 shoe inserts 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 voicemail.

  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 wrote 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.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Shelley, I want to thank you for what you did that night... you and the rest of the squad.” He holds out his hand. I take it by reflex—a brief, formal handshake—but I’m puzzled, unwilling to accept that Elliot approves of our brutal, violent mission.

  He adds, “It doesn’t change my opinion of manufactured wars.”

  I smile, more comfortable on familiar ground. “So how did you finally make your escape from C-FHEIT?”

  “Kendrick. He offered me a ride. Did you know that guy flies helicopters?”

  Suspicion bites down hard. Why would Kendrick bring Elliot down here, today of all days?

  “Shelley? What’d I say?”

  Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe this really was the first chance to evacuate Elliot from C-FHEIT, and Kendrick was just taking care of loose ends before our next operation.

  But it hits me that this is my loyalty test, a measure of my commitment to a mission on which there will be no room for divided loyalties, or for doubt... but this is not Dassari. This is the real thing. I won’t be talking shit on this mission. There is no conflict in my mind. Bringing justice to Thelma Sheridan is the right thing to do. I think even Elliot would approve. Before today, I never heard him say a word in support of military action—but when the story is set up right, even the cynics are persuaded.

  I smile an apology and grab my duffel. “Your timing is the worst. I have to go.”

  He catches my arm. “Hey. I know you’re the big war hero now, but give me just a minute, for old time’s sake.”

  That catches me by surprise, and not in a pleasant way. I drop into my stonewall expression. “You want to lay guilt on me?”

  “I want you to listen. I want you to think about who you are, and where you are, because you’re trapped here”—he makes a sweeping gesture—“inside this military fantasy land, where everybody thinks like you do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Information flow. I was doing some digging before the Coma. A group in Austin showed me a preliminary report, along with the 3-D model they produced from their data. And you know what? There wasn’t a whole lot of flow. Not while the Cloud was still whole—”

  “Look, I really don’t have time for a science lesson.”

  “Hear me out, Shelley. This is important, and it’s about you. In theory, publicly available information should be able to flow freely in the Cloud, but it doesn’t work that way because people filter what they hear. So the Cloud gets divided into millions of bubbles”—he presses his fists together—“and information has a hard time moving between them. Filters let some ideas through, but block others—”

  “So? No one’s got time to listen to it all.”

  “—and every one of us winds up trapped in our own little realities. Shelley, when you look at how many filters there are, it’s kind of amazing that most Americans can even tell you who the president is—but some people don’t even know that, and it’s not a language barrier—”

  I try to cut him off. “It’s where you live and who you know.”

  “And who we choose to know.”

  “We pick the friends who share our beliefs and interests. That’s been going on forever.”

  “More so now—or before the Coma, anyway. Traditionally, it was hard for people to move between groups. Now it’s easy. Move to the big city. Move south, move north. Search the Cloud until you find the people who understand you. Fit in better by adopting new beliefs and abandoning old ones.”

  Maybe he’s talking about me, I don’t know, but this is not a conversation I need to have. “I’ve got to go downstairs.”

  He puts out an arm, as if to block me from the door. “Step back and look at yourself, Shelley. Don’t you see how hard you’re trying not to hear what I’m telling you? It’s like you’re afraid of what I might say.”

  Am I?

  Elliot takes my hesitation as an invitation to continue. “It’s not a static situation. The filters are getting stronger. People are dividing into smaller and smaller groups, while the number of widely shared memes—ideas or facts known to just about everyone in a large, related group, like the population of the US—is in steep decline, or it was, until the Coma. It sounds strange, but I think there’s more shared information in America now, than when the Cloud was whole.”

  “Because the only information we get is from the mediots.” I maneuver past him to the door; hit the button to open it. “I really do have to go.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  The MPs look relieved. “Sir,” one says, “we have orders to escort you downstairs.”

  “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  The frantic pace of nurses and CNAs moving through the hallway hasn’t slowed, but the presence of the MPs tends to clear the way. I don’t want to announce that I’m leaving, so I just nod and smile at the faces I know. Elliot’s wrapped up in his explanation, and ignores everyone. “It’s about perspective. It’s not that what we know is necessarily wrong or incomplete. It’s that what we know and what we believe to be apparent to everyone, isn’t.”

  Two young female CNAs are waiting for the elevator. One I’ve met. She smiles and whispers underneath Elliot’s monologue, “Hi, Lieutenant Shelley,” while the other looks at me with star-struck eyes. One of the MPs looks them over with a bored expression, while Elliot has forgotten that other people can hear him. “Think about the Texas Independence Army,” he tells me. “They were convinced the people of Texas shared their beliefs—”

  “No one shared their beliefs!” the first CNA says with real passion. “And Lieutenant Shelley made sure they got what they deserved.”

  Her anger rattles the MPs. They move between me and the women, while Elliot just looks puzzled. The elevator arrives. “Lieutenant,” one of the MPs says, gesturing for me to board. They tell the women to wait for the next car.

  “The Lion of Black Cross,” Elliot says again, as we descend. “I guess fame has its privileges.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  The doors open again. A week after Coma Day, the refugees in the lobby have all been moved out. Unlike the upper floors, it’s quiet, with just a few people around. I check the time on my overlay. Three minutes until Kendrick gets here, and I haven’t seen Lissa yet.

  Elliot sounds dejected as we cross the lobby. “I haven’t gotten through to you at all.”

  “Sure you have. You’ve given me plenty to think about.” I drop my duffel in a chair near the glass doors, and turn to the MPs. “I hope your next duty is a little more interesting.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “It’s been an honor, sir.”

  Elliot says, “If you’re waiting for Kendrick, he’s driving a silver sedan with government plates.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Damn it, Shelley!” His angry tone puts the MPs on alert again, but his filters are up and he doesn’t notice. “You’re scaring me. People cutting themselves off from everyone but their tribe—that scares me. We all know where that goes. But it’s worse, because the filters that go up around us aren’t necessarily our choice. It’s like an external agent is working to engineer the distribution of information, and divide us from each other.”

  I look at him in surprise. “An external agent?”

  “This is going to sound crazy—well, maybe not to you—maybe you’ve already heard of it? A digital entity in the Cloud? An autonomous program, controlling information flow to tailor our perceptions of the world?”

  I have never mentioned the Red to Elliot and there was no reference to it in episode two. He’s worked it out
on his own. I’m thinking a lot of people have.

  I turn away from him and look again through the glass. I don’t say anything, but silence can be an affirmation.

  “The rumors are true then,” he concludes. “You have been hacked. That’s the explanation for King David.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A lot of people are asking questions, Shelley. This report I’ve been telling you about? It was commissioned by Ahab Matugo.”

  Ahab Matugo... who sent fighter jets that he wasn’t supposed to have, to slam the border forts and upset the status quo of the war in the Sahel, forcing a ceasefire and new peace negotiations. I should hate him, but I don’t, and it’s not the skullnet that gives me my halo. It’s knowing that I would have done the same damn thing in his place.

  A silver sedan comes in past the perimeter guards.

  “That’s Kendrick,” Elliot confirms.

  “Okay. I hope you can get back to New York without too much trouble.”

  The doors slide open; the MPs salute. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Elliot pleads.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  I still haven’t seen Lissa, but I tell myself I’ll see her later. I toss my bag in the back seat, and get in the car.

  ~~~

  Kendrick is wearing civilian clothes. His farsights, usually so clear they’re nearly invisible, have darkened to a band of smoky glass to shade his eyes. He’s got a couple of days’ growth of gray hair on his head. He’s not wearing a skullcap. “Cut it,” he says in his deep voice as the car slides forward. He’s not talking to me.

  An icon flares in my overlay, then fades.

  “You’re on leave,” Kendrick informs me as he guides the car past the perimeter guards. “Not an easy thing to achieve in a time of crisis, when the nation requires the service of every soldier in the US Army. But you’re on leave, your overlay is no longer recording, and Guidance is not looking through your eyes.”