Going Dark

by Linda Nagata

  Logan says, “I’m coming in.”

  I relay this information to Captain Thurman. “My lieutenant’s joining us. Don’t shoot him.”

  “Agreed.”

  We both turn at a crackle of dead wood to see Logan approaching through the trees.

  She taps her farsights as her gaze returns to me. “Orders are to remain at large until they can pull us out. That might be two to three days. There are a lot of hurt feelings out there in International-land. Under no circumstances are we to turn ourselves in to the Pakistani military.”

  “If it happens, it won’t be voluntary. I promise that.”

  She nods to Logan as he joins us, taking in his dirt-smeared face, his smoke-stained coat. “There are supposed to be four of you.”

  “One of my soldiers is injured. He’s with our local asset. And we’ve acquired a civilian.”

  She looks at me. “Identity?”

  “I’m going to hold back on that information.”

  She’s not in a position to argue, so she shifts the topic. “I’m supposed to hook you into my satellite relay. Command picked up your attempted communication, but they won’t respond on a wild network. They’ll only use a network they can control.”

  I look at Logan, who rolls his eyes. That is not how we operate. We use the facilities available to us, and in any case, the EXALT network is a trusted resource. Kanoa must be on a tight leash if he’s following some other protocol.

  Thurman dictates the address of her relay, and then a passcode. Gen-com listens for it, transcribes the data, and relays it between me, Logan, and Tran. Twenty-one seconds later, Kanoa links in. “Mission status?”

  I’m so relieved to hear him, I almost let him know, but I catch myself in time to preserve my reputation. “Mission accomplished, and then some.”

  “Shelley? Is that you? What’s wrong with your voice?”

  “Smoke inhalation.”

  “Damn. All right. You got a summary for me?”

  “Captain Thurman is present,” I say, eyeing her. “I don’t think she’s cleared for this discussion.” Thurman crosses her arms over her chest and glares. She does not step away. “Tran can fill you in, but I’ve got some data for you. You want me to upload?”

  “Do it.”

  I get the farsights out. Thurman has a cable, so I use that to link to the relay, and let Kanoa handle the download.

  “Your vitals look like shit,” he informs me after the data begins to flow. “Tran too.”

  I don’t like the reminder, especially with my eyes watering as I resist another coughing fit. “You need to get us out of here.”

  “We’re working on that. The political situation—”

  The cough I’ve been fighting escapes. Harsh, but it doesn’t last for more than a few wracking spasms. Logan takes over as I gasp and wipe my face on my sleeve. “We have to get out, Kanoa,” he says. “Tran needs to be in a hospital. Shelley too. He’s not going to be on his feet much longer.”

  I back up Logan’s argument by saying, “You know this place is going to be crawling with enemy in a matter of hours.”

  “We are working on a deal,” Kanoa insists. “But until that deal is concluded, you need to stay out of sight. The president’s reputation is on the line. So, elude the enemy, resist if you have to. Do not give yourselves up.”

  “Major,” Logan asks, “do you think you could at least send us an angel?”

  “Not in time to do you any good. I’m going to talk to Tran while the download finishes.”

  He links out.

  “This is bullshit,” Logan says. “We need to get you and Tran to a hospital.”

  “Fuck it. Fuck all of them. We’ll get out of here on our own. I mean, we’ve got Papa. A fucking wizard of the dark arts.” I stop my tirade to breathe, hearing a wet gurgle in my throat. “He will conjure a helicopter, and when he does, I’m getting on it. I don’t give a fuck where it’s going.”

  My rant ends in another coughing fit, which does not improve my temper. By the time it’s over, Captain Thurman has unplugged the farsights. She hands them back to me. “Your data transfer has finished.”

  I stuff them back into my coat pocket. “Much more of this shit and I’m … I’m going to …” I finish in a whisper. “… hunt down a Pakistani patrol and let them put me out of my misery.” Thurman looks like she’s entertaining second thoughts about the virtue of our company. “Welcome to Existential Threat Management,” I rasp.

  “Mission first,” Logan adds. He flips a finger at the sky, on the excellent chance a drone is watching us.

  But Thurman takes away the sweetness of defiance. “The Pakistanis took out our drones. We took out theirs. Which means we’ve got a window of opportunity. Until they get new equipment up here, we can move where we like, with no one watching.”

  That probably gives us at least an hour, maybe more. Plenty of time for Leonid to work magic. I check my squad map, get my bearings. “Let’s hook up with the others.”

  • • • •

  On the way, Thurman relays what she knows. “This is a SARS-K region. Permanent habitations abandoned. So there’s not an immediate danger. On my overflight, the only human presence I picked up was a small party at the head of the valley. I assume that was you.”

  “Yeah, that would be us.”

  “What were your orders?” Logan asks.

  She doesn’t answer. We walk on in silence for twenty or thirty meters before she speaks again. “Stop me if you’ve heard this. Right before we got the order to scramble, news came in. The White House announced two illicit BXL21 road-mobile missile launchers were found and destroyed. That’s the weapon used to attack objects in orbit.”

  “Yeah, we’re familiar,” Logan says.

  “I thought so. These were found in Bolivia, and in Sudan. That’s what you’re working on, isn’t it? You went after another one here?”

  “I think that’s going to remain dark,” I say.

  This is confirmation enough. She nods. “We were scrambled early. Then we burned fuel for forty minutes, waiting, until orders came through to move in and protect friendlies. The Pakistanis didn’t like it. Three of them, two of us … things got complicated fast.”

  “They would have gunned us down if you hadn’t shown up. So thanks for that.”

  “No problem. It only cost my career and a sixty-­million-dollar plane—but at least my wingman got away.”

  • • • •

  Thurman and Leonid study each other warily. I know she’s used her farsights to work out his identity when she turns to me and asks, “You’re sure about this?”

  “Absolutely. Papa’s our local asset. Been essential to the success of our mission.”

  “You call this success?” he asks, his heavy brows drawn low.

  “We’re not dead yet,” I remind him.

  He grunts, unimpressed. “Not dead. Just abandoned by your command.”

  “We will be extracted as soon as practical,” Thurman insists.

  “No one will come! How can they, when all civilian aircraft are grounded by military order?”

  Okay, so we aren’t going to be able to fly out.

  A feeling of exhaustion settles over me. I can’t pretend anymore that I am going to be okay. I hoped my lungs would clear up in clean air, but it hasn’t happened. And Tran is no better off. “It’s going to be a farmer’s truck, then,” I conclude, contemplating dismal hours spent bumping on a frozen road to God knows where.

  Captain Thurman dissents, for different reasons. “The closer we are to the highway, the more likely we are to be picked up.”

  “The closer we are to the highway,” Leonid lectures her, “the more difficult it will be to distinguish us from civilians. And no, Shelley, I am not riding on a truck. Not after no sleep, a gun battle I did not anticipate, shock waves, toxic fumes, more running about than I have done since I was forty, and a local garrison that is criminally underpaid.”

  “Papa hired a military helicopter,” Tran ex
plains in a raspy, whispery voice. His eyes are watering, the whites turning yellow. I wonder if I look as bad, but I don’t really want to know. “He negotiated the deal with the district commander.”

  At this news, Thurman’s eyes get big. She shakes her head. “No. This is not going to happen. We will follow orders, remain in the field until—”

  “Stay if you like,” Leonid interrupts. “Perhaps you will live.” He turns to me. “Your link to your bosses. Are you able to shut it off?”

  “Why?”

  “Need-to-know. And they do not need to know the ­specifics of our movements. I have contacts to protect.”

  I am still angry with Abajian and Kanoa. Leonid is the only one trying to get us out of here, so it isn’t hard to agree to his request. “Roger that. Let’s go closed-network, point to point only.”

  “Kanoa’s going to be pissed,” Logan warns.

  “Not for the first time.”

  “We do what we need to do,” Tran rasps. “And what we need to do is get the fuck out of here.”

  So we lock down, allowing connections only to one another.

  But Thurman is still not displaying a positive attitude. “You can’t be serious, Captain Shelley. This man is a criminal, engaged in deals with other criminals, none of whom can be trusted.”

  “I trust him.” And I realize it’s true. “If Papa has bought the local garrison, I’m willing to ride out on that ticket.”

  “You have a duty, Captain Shelley.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I need you to turn over your uplink.”

  “What?”

  “Turn it over and I will turn it off.”

  She puts her hand on her holstered pistol. “That is not going to happen.”

  “Or you can stay here.”

  Leonid mutters another untranslatable curse. “There is no time for this! We must be at the rendezvous point when the helicopter arrives. And that means we go now.” He sets the example, starting again down the trail, long, swift strides, rifle in hand, and Tran’s pack on his back. He doesn’t check to see if we’re following.

  I hook a thumb at Tran. “Get going.” Then I extend a hand to Issam, who has found a seat among a tumble of snow-frosted stones at the side of the trail.

  He waves me off. “I’m doing better now. I can walk.” He gets up on his own, and then he gives me a worried frown. “Do you want me to carry your pack?”

  I guess I look like I’m dying. “Just go.”

  He follows Tran, leaving me and Logan to deal with the stubborn air force captain. “Last chance,” I tell her. “If you want a ride out, you will turn it over.”

  Logan takes a different approach. “You don’t want to be captured out here, Captain. And you aren’t going to be able to defend yourself against what’s coming with just a handgun and limited ammunition.”

  It takes a few minutes, but he persuades her to turn over the device. I guess even an air force pilot can show some adaptability.

  • • • •

  I fall behind.

  It’s fucking embarrassing.

  The altitude, the thin air, are wearing me down. It doesn’t help that my right foot is broken. And I’m so tired of listening to the metal-on-metal scraping. I’ve still got my boots in my pack. I think about putting them on to muffle the noise, but I don’t think my broken foot would fit. And anyway, there’s no time.

  I’d be okay if I was rigged.

  Logan and Thurman wait for me by a bend in the trail. I stomp up to them on my creaking, dysfunctional legs, a heavy-breathing zombie with rotting lungs.

  “Give me your pack,” Thurman says. “You can carry mine. It’s lighter.”

  Pride makes me lie. “I’m not that far gone.” I try to shoulder past them.

  Logan puts out a hand to stop me. “You’re slowing us down. Just do it.”

  We all look around as the distant drone of the helicopter is suddenly audible over the whispering of the trees.

  “Now, Shelley.”

  “Okay.” I hand over my pack, taking Thurman’s in trade.

  “And your HITR,” Logan says.

  “Don’t push it.” The weight I’m carrying has already been cut by sixty percent. We move out, and I’m able to move a lot faster. It’s like I picked up an energy boost. But it doesn’t last. My chest aches with every rasping, rattling breath and black spots swarm in my vision. The noise of the approaching helo gets steadily louder—and I worry we might have another kilometer, maybe more, to go.

  Then, as the trail descends alongside a stream, we see it: a battered, dark-green, single-rotor helicopter. I think it’s a European model. It settles into a winter-brown pasture just below the forest’s edge, maybe two hundred meters away in a straight line. Its arrival frightens a herd of white goats that had been chewing on the dead grass, sending them scattering downstream.

  Leonid is below, already at the meadow’s edge.

  “Tran,” I say, “hold up.”

  His answer comes back over gen-com. “Roger that.”

  We lope down the trail. Well, Logan and Thurman lope. I stumble. But we catch up with Tran and Issam.

  I struggle not to cough, to maintain silence, as we gaze through the trees at Leonid, who has crossed the pasture and is almost at the pilot’s door. I raise my HITR and stare down the optical sight as that door opens.

  A woman in coveralls jumps out. Leonid meets her under the turning blades. They shake hands, the fabric of their clothing rippling in the gale. She gestures like she’s shouting a question. He turns to look back, to where we are hidden in the trees. His brow knits in a scowl; he raises his index finger and mouths words that I can read clearly: One fucking minute.

  What the hell. We can’t stay here.

  I lower my weapon. “It looks okay, and we’ve got one minute to get down there. Let’s go.”

  • • • •

  I expect a short flight, but I’m wrong. The helicopter is in the air sixty-seven minutes. I have a headset on that lets me listen to voices speaking over the radio. As my overlay translates, it becomes clear there are other craft in the air, hunting for us—or pretending to. From what I can understand, they are hunting for us on the ground.

  I use GPS, following our location as it shifts across the map. When the helicopter finally sets down at an airfield, there’s a small, battered twin-engine turboprop waiting to meet us. Captain Thurman walks around the little plane, inspecting its condition. She doesn’t look impressed, but she boards anyway. The copilot’s seat is empty, so she gets a thumbs-up from the pilot to sit there.

  The plane’s interior is rugged, with a bare aluminum floor and well-worn, thinly padded seats. I collapse into one of the two-passenger bench seats. Across the narrow aisle are single seats.

  Once we’re in the air again, we dig out rations from the bottom of our packs, but after the first bite, I don’t want to eat anymore. It hurts going down and sits like poison in my stomach. I make myself drink water. I tell Tran to do the same.

  I lean against the wall, looking out the large window at an astonishing array of towering clouds while I listen to my breathing. It’s fast and shallow and easily audible over the turboprop’s engine noise. Every few minutes, I am wracked with coughs. Tran isn’t coughing as much as me, but I worry that’s because he’s in worse shape and his body is already shutting down.

  Turbulence buffets the plane. Nothing too dramatic, but it makes me flashback to my last minutes aboard Lotus, when the US Navy shot our little spaceplane out of the sky.

  We’ve been in the air an hour when Leonid invites himself to sit beside me. He’s a big man, a looming presence, and I’m feeling squeezed. “I have been talking to Issam,” he says. “You risked a lot to get him out. Given that, I think you should talk to him too, about this thing that haunts you. And not just you. Your men as well. He has thoughts on it.”

  “You mean the Red.”

  A lot of people are uneasy talking about the Red; they don’t like to name it, as if by naming it, they invite
the spirit in.

  “The Red.” Leonid mouths the words as if he’s trying them out for the first time. “Are you aware of it when it uses you?”

  If this was Issam questioning me, or Thurman, I would invite them to fuck off. But it’s Papa, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to owe him my life. “Sometimes. Not all the time.”

  “Why didn’t we just leave the facility as we had planned?”

  “I don’t think that was ever the plan.” From the beginning, it was in my mind to do more. Why else did I secure approval from Colonel Abajian to do all that I thought was necessary, even before we left C-FHEIT?

  Though we haven’t been speaking at any great volume, Logan picks up the thread of our conversation from his seat in front of me. He gets up, turns around, leans on the seatback, and offers his opinion. “We couldn’t just leave the facility, Papa. We had to finish the mission.”

  Leonid leans back, his weight making the plastic frame of our bench seat creak. “The mission was to locate the missile launcher.”

  “No,” I say. “That was just the mission Abajian gave us. There was more.”

  “I saw the mission plan. There was nothing more.”

  “There was more,” I insist.

  Our conversation draws Issam’s interest too. He is across the aisle from Logan, but he leaves his seat, to look on with an interested gaze. He should be interested. We risked our lives to get him out of Maksim Abaza’s hands. That was never part of any plan.

  Looking at him, I notice he’s wiped the dirt off his face, and he’s not having any trouble breathing anymore. Calm and unafraid, he appears a different man. A lucky man. Lucky that we showed up. I hope he knows it.

  I return my gaze to Leonid. “There was more to the mission. It wasn’t written, but when the time came, we knew. We all knew.” My eyes water as I struggle to suppress a cough. I talk quickly, breathing in sharp, shallow inhalations. “We needed to destroy the missiles and the UGF. Places like that, isolated from the Cloud, are dangerous. Too dangerous to exist.”

  And then I have to turn away to clear my dissolving lungs. I wish all of them would go away, leave me alone, but I don’t get my wish.