by Linda Nagata
“Gen-com is locked down pending the result of an imminent inspection.”
He trots up the stairs. I follow him. We find 7-1 in the hall, rigged and ready.
“Get out of your gear!” Kanoa roars.
“Major, you cannot be accepting Bryson’s communication as a legitimate order.”
He turns to face me, inches away, as the sound of the Black Hawks becomes audible through the insulated walls. Kanoa isn’t any taller than me, but he’s a bigger man all the same, and he’s furious. “We don’t have a choice, Captain. Mr. Helms has relayed a full report on our existence and activities. I just got off the phone with the colonel in charge of the oncoming forces. They are US Army. Legitimate army. If we engage, we will be fighting our own. We will be fighting against overwhelming forces in a battle we cannot win.”
He turns again to the soldiers of 7-1 as the Black Hawks’ muted thunder trembles in the walls. “Stand down, all of you. Leave your rig and your weapons in your quarters. Form up downstairs in uniform only, no armor. Move!”
The hallway empties as my soldiers duck back into their apartments. Kanoa cuts past me, shoves open the door of his own room, and disappears inside. It’s only me and one rigged soldier left in the hall.
“Let’s move, Fadul. You heard the major.”
She lifts off her helmet and looks at me. Not exactly with panic. Call it a desperate suspicion. “What the fuck?” she asks. “Did the Red just cut us loose?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” For damn sure, we’ve been betrayed—by Cory, Bryson, Delphi, or the Red—who knows? “Get out of your rig. Get ready.”
I return to my room and rack my HITR. I get on a jacket and a cap. I don’t think about wearing boots until Kanoa sticks his head in the door. “Footgear!” he shouts.
A minute later we are all downstairs. The TOC is unmanned. Kanoa has gathered the regular army personnel along with 7-1. No one is to stay behind in the building.
“We will report as a unit,” Kanoa informs us. “In good marching order.” He eyes me. “We will obey all orders issued by our superior officers.” He opens the door and leads the way as we exit into the roar of the approaching Black Hawks.
Their lights are on, three blinding white beams focused on the parade ground. I half expect to be gunned down there on the sidewalk, but it doesn’t happen. We march to the flagpole in front of the Cyber Center, where we form up, facing the quad and the oncoming gunships, with 7-1 in the first row and the support personnel behind us.
We brace against the buffeting of the gale-force winds generated by the Black Hawks as they settle to the concrete. Troops pour out. None of them are rigged in dead sisters, but they’re wearing helmets and visors, and they’re armed with HITRS. They spread out in an arc, facing us. I count twenty-four, everyone with their weapon trained on our formation.
It’s impossible to hear orders over the roar of the engines, so gen-com gets switched on again—a one-way link that allows a gruff male voice to speak directly in my ears. “You were to present yourselves unarmed.”
Of course they’re using standard threat detection to scan for hidden weapons.
Kanoa is on my left. He turns to look at me, but I’m not the one who’s armed. Fadul is standing on my right, staring at the massed troops in front of us. The Black Hawks’ blinding white searchlights are reflected in her eyes and in the sheen of sweat on her cheeks. Her lips are trembling.
I raise my hands slowly, palms out, the gesture of surrender, of no resistance. Then I lean over, put my lips close to her ear so she can hear me. “Give it up.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes wide, the only soldier in 7-1 more fucked up than me. “Why is this happening?” she shouts over the noise. “Why are we going along with it?”
“Give it up or we’re dead.”
“Maybe that’s better.” She starts to reach inside her jacket.
“No!” It’s like I can feel the pressure of twenty-four fingers tightening on triggers. “Remember where you are. This is not the Sahel.” I know what she went through. I’ve felt her hidden scars, thick under my fingers. There are scars in her mind too that no skullnet will ever heal. But tonight we are not facing a mob of untrained teenage irregulars jacked up on speed and hate. “You don’t have a reason to kill any of these soldiers.”
“It’s over for us, Shelley.”
“Only if you’re stupid.”
That earns me an angry glare.
But then she turns her gaze back to the array of weapons directed against us, and she raises her hands into the air.
I feel like I can breathe again.
“Facedown on the concrete,” the voice on gen-com says.
We do it, and then gen-com gets shut down again.
• • • •
Lying prone, my cheek pressed against the concrete, I don’t have a good perspective on the activities around me. I can see a soldier—rank of specialist—a few feet away, with a HITR trained on Fadul. I assume there’s another watching over me with similar focus.
I see other soldiers cautiously entering the barracks, using the muzzle cams on their HITRs to survey the interior before they advance inside. It pisses me off, knowing my room will be searched, my clothes pulled out, my gear, my weapons, and my rig inspected. But there’s bitter satisfaction too, because that’s all they’ll find. There’s nothing personal to me in the barracks. The stuff that defines me is all in the Cloud—videos, photos, music, books, messages—all stored in encrypted files where they can’t get to it.
After a few minutes, the Black Hawks shut down. My guess? The ongoing inspection has turned up no immediate threats, so the ability to make a quick getaway is no longer a priority.
In the relative quiet that follows, we are issued orders by direct voice. “You will not move until your name is called. When your name is called, you will stand up slowly. You will remove your jacket and let it fall to the ground. You will place your hands on your head and await further instruction.”
They call my name first. “James Shelley.”
I do as instructed. I stand up. I look to my left for Kanoa, but he’s not there anymore. I get my jacket off, but when I start to put my hands on my head, two MPs step in with new instructions—“Hands behind your back.” Quickly, efficiently, they use padded cuffs to lock my elbows and wrists together. Leg shackles go on next. “About-face.”
I turn, to find that the support personnel have already been taken away. Kanoa is there instead, with his hands behind his back. Maybe he’s cuffed, I can’t tell, but he’s not wearing shackles. He’s standing beside a colonel. Automatic facial recognition identifies him as Colonel Jason L. Abajian, United States Army.
Like his troops, Colonel Abajian wears a desert-brown combat uniform bulked up with chest armor. But his helmet is old-style—no visor, no electronics. He’s wearing farsights, though, with clear lenses. His gaze is fixed on me, his expression an odd mix of annoyance and greed.
If he’s running standard facial recognition, he won’t find my name or the names of anyone else in ETM 7-1. We’ve all been scrubbed from the usual databases. But a custom query that compares my face to a known image of James Shelley will confirm who I am. It takes him a few seconds, but he gets there. “My God, it’s true.” He turns a fierce look on Kanoa. “What did I just step in?”
“You didn’t step in it,” Kanoa says. “You waded in. You’re up to your hips in it.”
The colonel raises a bushy eyebrow above the glittering lens of his farsights. “No, it’s worse than that. Whatever the fuck this operation is that you’re running here, it is swimming in bullshit. This is beyond black ops. This is alternate-dimension, voodoo ops. This base is supposed to be closed. Will, you are supposed to be dead. I went to your funeral.
“And now here you are, claiming to be in command of ETM Strike Squad 7-1, which does not exist. You do not belong to anybody. No one has stepped up to claim this operation. There is no chain of command. And I am told by those who profess to underst
and these things that there is no explanation for your budget.” He lifts his chin. “Or maybe you funnel that in from another dimension too?”
“I’m not in finance,” Kanoa says. “I just operate on the budget I’m given.” His hands are still behind his back, so he probably is cuffed, but that hasn’t intimidated him. The way he addresses the colonel, it’s obvious they’ve known each other for years. “Damn it, Jason, my people did not have to cooperate with this boondoggle. We did so only out of professional courtesy and regard for the lives of your soldiers. I respectfully request the same courtesy be shown to us in turn. Take the shackles off, and we can talk.”
“We can talk,” Abajian says. He signals the officer in charge of the MPs. “Captain, move the prisoners inside.”
• • • •
We are taken into the Cyber Center, where we’re sorted into separate rooms. Most of the office space has never been occupied or even furnished, so there is no lack of little bare windowless cells. A chair is brought in for me and I’m told to sit, but the cuffs and shackles remain on. Two MPs stay in the room with me, flanking the closed door. They are silent and anonymous behind their black visors, but they’re not rigged—I haven’t seen any soldiers in Colonel Abajian’s operation wearing dead sisters. And perhaps as a gesture of fraternity or professional courtesy or some bullshit like that, they left their HITRs outside and are armed only with service pistols.
I check gen-com, but it’s still shut down, and my overlay still shows a red X with no menu options.
I occupy myself by looking up Colonel Abajian’s biography in my onboard encyclopedia and confirm that he and Major Kanoa share a similar background in military intelligence.
After only a few minutes, one of the MPs speaks. “Captain Shelley, we’ve received authorization to remove your restraints. If you would stand up, sir.”
I do it. No point in being an asshole—especially when I know Kanoa is trying to negotiate a deal. After the cuffs and shackles come off, I’m asked to sit down again. I do that too. Twenty-one minutes go by.
“If you’ll come with us, sir.”
They escort me to the conference room we use for debriefings. It’s furnished with a rectangular table and ten chairs. Abajian is at the head of the table. He’s removed his helmet, but he’s still wearing his farsights. Kanoa is at his right hand; Cory Helms is at his left.
I read fear in the angle of Cory’s hunched shoulders, guilt in the tentative glance he throws in my direction. Cory was supposed to be on our team, but he went outside the circle. He gave us up. That’s not something I can easily forgive.
Logan is brought in behind me. He freezes when he sees Cory. “Shit,” he whispers.
Kanoa says, “Sit down.”
I take the chair at the foot of the table. Logan sits at my left hand. Cory stares down at his laced fingers, hands clenched so tightly they’re white-knuckled.
The MPs close the door, remaining outside in the hall. It’s just the five of us—but Abajian doesn’t appear at all concerned that he’s outnumbered. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Gentlemen, Mr. Helms ignited some concern yesterday afternoon with his report—a full report, I should add—on the existence of a rogue militia openly occupying C-FHEIT, which records show to be a mothballed base.” His gaze fixes on me. “Is this a treasonous organization, Shelley?”
“Not so far, sir.”
Kanoa gives me a dark look, but Abajian nods. “Points for honesty. I’ve reviewed the missions you’ve conducted and I’ll agree they have not been directly treasonous. The fact remains that you are unaffiliated with the United States Army and are operating independently of the chain of command.”
“The official chain of command,” Kanoa says.
“That’s the only one I know about.”
I trade a look with Kanoa. I want to confer with him over gen-com, ask him what he’s already discussed with Abajian, but despite the lack of restraints, we are still prisoners and a private conference is not an option. Kanoa senses my question anyway and answers it aloud, “Colonel Abajian has already been fully informed of our operations.” I can’t help it. I look at Cory. But Kanoa ignores him. “Consider this a debriefing. Speak freely.”
That’s when I decide that I am here to help recruit Abajian, to bring him into our network, because only with Abajian’s cooperation can we reestablish the appearance of legitimacy that has let us operate this long.
Returning my attention to the colonel, I speak as directly as I can. “We do not operate under the chain of command, sir. Our orders are issued by the Red.”
Cory snatches his hands off the table. Kanoa leans back in his chair, looking resigned. Logan exhales in a soft hiss, while I continue. “You’ve heard of the Red, sir. Maybe you’re one of those who prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist, but you are aware of it.” I look at Cory. “And I’m sure Helms has informed you that we believe we are not the only ETM unit in operation. It’s likely there are other squads in other sectors around the world.”
“But you have no direct knowledge of these units?”
“No, sir.”
“And assuming these additional units do in fact exist, do you have any concerns about the threat they may represent?”
I consider his question. My instinct is to answer with a cynical Yes, sir! But the truth is otherwise. “The Red, by its nature, limits the threat any ETM unit represents. You’ve already seen our armaments. There’s nothing unusual here, and there are only a few of us.” I pause, wondering if Julian has been arrested too, but I don’t want to give him up, so I don’t ask. “You have a hell of a lot more to worry about in this world than us, Colonel.”
“ETM,” Abajian muses. “Existential Threat Management.” He pronounces each word with sarcastic precision.
Kanoa says, “If the missions we undertake could be handled officially, 7-1 wouldn’t exist. But sometimes the chain of command is too slow or too cautious. That’s where we come in. We get our orders, and we go.”
“No questions asked?” Abajian wonders.
I answer him: “We ask questions. That doesn’t mean we get answers.”
“You execute anyway. Perfect, obedient soldiers.”
“Maybe not perfect.”
“That’s right. You managed to start a war in the Arctic. Was that the goal of your mission?”
“It was not,” Kanoa says.
“Just a side benefit, then?”
Logan speaks up for the first time. “We operate in the real world. There’s always a risk.”
Abajian looks at me. “You have a different assessment?”
He catches me by surprise. I didn’t think my doubt showed, but I don’t deny it. I answer him honestly. “We are not on the side of the angels, and in the right circumstances, I don’t think the Red would hesitate to start a small-scale war. But this was something else. These past months we’ve been looking for something critical. It’s felt that way. But this time when we were sent to look, it was like the Red switched sides. We went in with bad intelligence and we almost didn’t get pulled out.”
“Every mission has problems,” Kanoa says.
“Not like this.”
“The Red did not switch sides,” Kanoa insists. “It backed you. Shelley, you were operating. It was the Red that got you on scene. It was the Red that helped you disable that helicopter. It was the Red that finally cleared Oscar-1 to move north.”
“Oscar-1 was detained and there shouldn’t have been a helicopter at Sigil. I think we make a mistake when we think of the Red as a single mind, a single entity. Why should it be? Why can’t it have competing versions? Because I swear it was helping us and getting the fuck in the way, from the start of Palehorse Keep straight through to the end.”
Turns out the ravings of a madman can induce a long, awkward silence. I lean back in my chair and wait for the reprisals.
It’s Cory who steps up first. “I think the Red would reintegrate,” he says thoughtfully. “Eventually, anyway.
”
Is he agreeing with me? Or telling me I’m wrong? Either option irritates me. It doesn’t improve my mood when I notice that Abajian is watching me with a level of attention more appropriately directed at a zealot holding the trigger on a suicide vest. “Where do you draw the line, Shelley, between intentionality and random fucked-up luck?”
“I don’t, sir. That level of analysis is above my pay grade. I just work with what I’m given.”
“What is your pay grade? Do you earn a paycheck?”
It’s an insulting question; it trivializes what we’re doing. I get paid just like I would in the regular army, but that’s not why I’m here. “I’m dead, Colonel. What the fuck do I need with money?”
“It’s that easy?”
“It’s not easy. It never has been.”
“But you keep at it. Don’t you ever want to say no to a mission?”
I study him, puzzled, wondering if he gets it, if he gets what we do here. “What happens if I do say no?”
“You tell me.”
“We get a little closer to midnight.”
He trades a look with Kanoa, and I know I’ve said something wrong—but I haven’t said anything that isn’t true.
Kanoa turns to me. “Cory contacted Colonel Abajian because he was concerned that 7-1 was on the verge of going rogue, of operating on the basis of personal vendetta rather than on carefully considered orders, of overstepping our mandate, such as it is.”
This is too much for Logan. He leans in. “We’ve done more good here in the nine months I’ve been part of ETM than I saw done in my four prior years in the regular army. Cory wants to lay the blame for a freeway accident on Shelley. But Cory compromised our security and out of his own personal vendetta, he orchestrated a cyber attack.”
“That was my operation,” Abajian says. “I hoped to quietly neutralize ETM so we wouldn’t have to come in with the heavies.” He turns his hands palm-up. “But you got your security restored before we could pull that off.”
So it wasn’t Cory who attacked me. All he did was hand over the keys to the enemy.