by Linda Nagata
“Ma’am?” I ask, sure I’ve misunderstood. “I thought you hated the idea of this pardon.”
“Negative, Mr. Shelley. What you did gave hope to a people in shock. We are all revolutionaries at heart, or we’d like to be. It’s our cultural mythology, that a few individuals can make a difference. The Apocalypse Squad has made a difference. I don’t know if it will be a lasting difference. I hope so. But there are many forces at play. The president is no innocent, but I do believe he has the best interests of the country at heart. And I believe he was correct to pardon you for reason of your past service and in consideration of your motives—though not to avoid a mob scene on the Mall.”
There is no mob scene. Outside the window, crowds of people—half of them wearing masks—are walking up Third Street, heading for the metro maybe, or for a bus stop. Everyone is being civil, patient. There are only a few cars around and it’s weirdly peaceful.
Suspicion stirs.
It feels almost . . . orchestrated.
Then again, after a week of demonstrations, maybe people are just happy to be going home with a victory.
“When did this fashion for masks start?” I ask no one in particular.
“A couple of months after the Coma,” Ogawa says with a sly smile, as if the question amuses him. “Security’s been . . . well, a little heavy handed. So a few patriots started wearing masks—a symbolic protest against street surveillance and tracking through facial recognition. The idea went viral, and homemade masks became a thing, at least here in DC. New York too. A few other big cities. Homeland Security doesn’t like it, of course. It slows down their recognition system, so they’re trying to make it illegal to cover the face in public. But I’ll show you what’s really got them complaining.”
He gets his satchel and pulls out what looks like coarse, iridescent fabric. Rainbows slide across its surface. “The latest fashion. Made in Germany.” He toggles a switch at the cloth’s edge and it’s not cloth anymore. It takes on a solid shape in the form of a face. Everyone gathers around as Ogawa hands the mask to me. I run my fingers over the surface. It’s made of tiny scales, with clouds of color floating across them.
“Wait a second . . . are the scales moving?”
I swear I can feel their edges slowly pinching against my fingertips.
“Can I see it?” Jaynie asks.
I pass the mask to her as Ogawa says, “The scales are constantly moving, reshaping the face, shifting the colors. It blurs IR recognition too.”
Jaynie holds up the mask, gazing at it suspiciously. “In the Sahel, we didn’t need to see a face to make a positive ID. Kinetic data and full-body biometrics are just as good.”
She passes the mask to Harvey, who points out, “Body biometrics only work if you have the data. You think cops keep those kinds of records?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cops don’t,” Ogawa says. “Or they’re not supposed to. Homeland Security does have a biometric database, but it’s limited by law. So facial recognition is still important.”
Harvey puts on the mask and it’s as if she has put on a veil, with eyes looking through the slot where farsights would go. “I think you should get one of these, Shelley. I mean, the Lion of Black Cross isn’t going to be able to walk down the street without getting mobbed.”
Shit, she’s probably right.
I don’t have time to worry over it, though. The door opens and I jump—PTSD—but it’s just Chudhuri, coming in with Phelps, Omer, and Vitali behind her. They’re bringing our gear—and not just our uniforms. Nolan chuckles when he sees what they’re carrying. Flynn gives a little whoop of victory.
We left our weapons in Niamey, but we brought our packs back with us, along with the dead sisters and the helmets we used on the First Light mission—all of it equipment provided to us privately, by the organization, and not by the army. So the MPs are following Monteiro’s instruction and giving it all back—the helmets in their padded sacks, and the dead sisters folded into compact bundles so they’re easy to carry.
“The exoskeletons are illegal to use within the Capitol district,” Major Perkins informs us. “Any attempt to use them will have severe repercussions.”
“I’m hoping we won’t need them,” I answer back.
We are required to inventory everything, but at the end of it we’re wearing the anonymous gray summer-weight combat uniforms we had in Niamey, with no insignia of rank or affiliation anywhere on them.
• • • •
The debrief is a prolonged affair that details the obvious. We are not allowed to discuss any classified information. Specifically, we are not allowed to discuss the contents of the classified report that Colonel Kendrick had in his possession, the one none of us has ever seen. We are not allowed to discuss the action at Black Cross until a public report is officially issued and then any comments we make must be limited to information included in the report. We are not allowed to discuss any electronic security breaches we may have experienced or suspected during our service.
That’s it.
“What about the Red?” Jaynie asks Major Perkins. “Not classified? Shelley says it’s public knowledge.”
“You will not discuss any incidents involving a breach of electronic security,” Perkins repeats. “The army does not designate popular mythologies with a classified status.”
Jaynie turns to me with a questioning look, unconcerned with Perkins’s condescending tone. “So the army has opted for denial, and we’re free to talk about it—or go after it.”
I shrug. This is not the time to discuss her vendetta against the Red.
“Understand,” Major Perkins adds, “that while your pardon forgives all past transgressions, you can certainly be prosecuted for any new violations of the law. Questions?”
I don’t have any questions for her, but I do have a demand. “I want my overlay turned back to my control, with full Cloud access.”
“Do you understand the restrictions I’ve explained to you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Link him up,” she says. “And yield control.”
A green circle flares in my overlay, symbol of an open network. The dot-mil account connects first and I half expect to hear Delphi greet me—but of course she’s not my handler anymore. I haven’t even talked to her since my equipment blew out at Black Cross. I promise myself that I’ll find her when this is over, thank her for being there for me, for keeping me alive more times than I can remember—though that quest would be made easier if I knew her real name.
The dot-mil download aborts, and then the account deletes itself. A log pops up, detailing the army’s other programs and files as each one is erased. When it’s done, I dive into my apps and check the recording function. It’s been switched off. I wonder if it will stay that way.
• • • •
The press conference is a mixture of astute questions and idiocy, throughout which our civilian status is conveniently ignored.
“Lieutenant Shelley, what were you feeling when Colonel Kendrick proposed the First Light mission?”
“Sergeant Vasquez, do you still feel the Red is a threat to humanity?”
“Private Flynn, on the flight to Niamey you tried to take Lieutenant Shelley’s handgun. Do you regret betraying him?”
From the look on Flynn’s face, she’d shoot her interrogator if only she had a gun. Harvey tackles the answer for her, suggesting in a casual tone, “Go fuck yourself.”
• • • •
Afterward, we gather one more time at the conference table in Judge Monteiro’s office, though she’s already gone home. Major Ogawa addresses us. “This is it for me. You’re on your own now, and Godspeed. You will each need to decide where you are going and what you will do.” He gives everyone a business card. “Expect to be inundated with requests for interviews and public appearances. Be caref
ul before signing anything, and if you need an attorney, call me, and I’ll help you find one.” He steps back, nods, and smiles. “It’s been an honor and a privilege.”
We shake hands and thank him, and then he goes. My uncle is still there but he doesn’t offer advice; he’s just waiting to take me home. I wonder where my dad is; suddenly I want to see him—but I’m not going to abandon my squad. We’ve been to Hell and back. That doesn’t mean it’s over.
“What do you want to do?” I ask them, worried for their safety, for their ability to adapt to civilian life, for what might be coming next.
They talk quietly, seriously. Harvey and Moon consider going home. So far as I know, Jaynie and Flynn don’t have homes to go to. “You going home, LT?” Nolan asks.
“For a while.”
“Then what?” Jaynie wants to know.
I look at my uncle. “You want to go find my dad? Tell him what’s going on?”
His eyes narrow. “Your dad needs you, Jimmy. He needs you at home.”
“I know and I’m coming. It’s just . . . we need a few minutes.”
As the door closes behind him, everyone is looking at me expectantly. I tap the corner of my eye. They know I mean my overlay. “I’ve been skimming my civilian e-mail. There’s a message from Anne Shima.”
“Anne Shima?” Moon asks. “Rawlings’s friend? From the organization?”
“Yes.” During my incarceration I looked up Anne Shima in my encyclopedia and found only a short bio that reported her retirement from the US Army at the rank of lieutenant colonel after twenty-five years of service. That was all. She and Colonel Rawlings are awaiting their own, civilian, trial where they will face charges of conspiracy and treason and God knows what else. Given the state of the country, it could be years before the trial convenes. In the meantime, they are both free on bond.
“Shima wants all of you to know that the organization has already deposited funds into your accounts equivalent to the back pay that the army just took away. She wants you to know that whoever the fuck the organization is, they are grateful for your service, and value your talents—so much that she would like to extend an offer of employment to all of you. So if you want to be mercs, Shima is hiring.”
“Fuck,” Jaynie says softly. I can’t tell if she’s offended or pleased.
Flynn is less complicated. “I’ll do it!”
“I want to know more,” Harvey says, “but I’m interested.”
Moon looks around uneasily. “You know, we survived a hell of a lot already. I mean, how long can our luck hold out?”
That’s the smartest question I’ve ever heard Moon ask—but no one pays any attention to him.
Tuttle, as usual, is looking to Nolan for guidance, while Nolan is staring at me. After a few seconds, he asks, “What are you going to do, LT?”
“Go home. For a while, anyway.”
“But you’re not saying no?”
“I’m probably saying no. Moon’s got it right. Think hard about this before you sign anything.” I stand up. “You’ve got five months of pay in your accounts. Get a room, get laid, get stoned, whatever. Get a phone or farsights—and call me. Call me in a few days. We’ll figure things out.”
I make sure they all know how to contact me. Then our packs go on. We take our helmets in hand. “We’ve started a process,” I warn them. “And there’s going to be all kinds of fallout. There are people who support Thelma Sheridan, who support what she did on Coma Day, because they’re that scared of the Red. Those people are your enemies. So be careful of who you’re with and where you go—and don’t be surprised if things get crazy when her trial starts on Monday.” I pick up the folded bones of my dead sister. “Let’s go.”
• • • •
I sit by the window on the evening train to New York, my dad beside me and my uncle across the aisle. I’m on edge, watching the dark reflections of the other passengers in the window. Watching the reflection of my dad as he watches me.
“You’ve been through a lot, Jimmy,” he says. “It’s going to take time to process. It’ll take time to find a new direction.”
“Yes, sir.”
I answer absently because I’m thinking about the squad, already second-guessing my decision to leave DC, to leave them on their own.
“Jimmy.”
I turn to look at him.
He gives me a half smile. “I never raised you to call me ‘sir,’ so don’t start now.”
I crack a smile of my own, though I’m not really feeling it. “Like you said, sir, it’ll take time to process.”
“Smartass.”
Across the aisle, my uncle nods off.
My dad tells me he’s not tired, that he’s too wired on the aftermath of adrenaline to sleep, but a few minutes later, he’s dozing too.
I stay awake and on watch. We’re in first class with just a few other passengers in our car and only the staff wandering through, so the potential risk seems minimal, but I remain alert anyway.
My dad wakes up again. He uses his tablet to answer e-mails. I watch my overlay. It’s almost time for the usual daily video upload of my life’s adventures, and I’m anxious to know what will happen now that the army’s programs are out of my head.
But nothing happens. There’s no activity—which means whatever story the Red was telling through me is over.
I should be relieved, but I’m not. I’m scared.
My dad looks up from his tablet as we pull into the station. His eyes are bright; he looks happy. “Almost there,” he assures me.
“I’m not looking forward to the crowds.”
Like I told my squad, we really do have enemies, and not just random crazies. I know Carl Vanda wants me dead and maybe the president does too, but if the Red is really gone I’ll have to handle it on my own, without the prescient warning sense that kept me alive in the past.
I never thought I’d miss the King David gig.
“You’ll be fine, Jimmy. Give it a week and it’ll feel like home again.”
I think it might take a little longer than that.
My heart races as we leave the train. The station isn’t crowded, but people are moving in so many different directions it’s hard to do a threat assessment. So I make sure we move quickly, and in just a few minutes we’re in a hired car that’s taking us through Manhattan’s midnight streets.
The city is changed. The glittering energy I remember on Saturday nights is gone. Only a few people are out and there are more bicycles than cars. “Is there a curfew?” I ask.
“No,” my dad says. “But the economy was hard hit on Coma Day.”
We say good night to my uncle, then go on to our own building, where a crowd of mediots and video stalkers waits for us at the door.
My dad sees the look on my face and shrugs. “Don’t worry too much about it. The celebrity can’t last.”
He’s right, but I still have to get past them. So I do the same thing I did in DC: pretend they’re not there. I walk through the throng with my helmet in one hand and my dead sister in the other, using the bulk of my equipment to open the way while I ignore their eager questions. I know I have to expect this. It’s going to be routine for a while to have strangers pressing around me, but I hate it. There’s no way to know if one of them has a gun or a knife, and I’m not wearing armor.
I should do something about that.
We make it into the lobby.
Overhead, a huge plastic banner greets me: Welcome home, James Shelley! You have the thanks of a grateful nation. Fortunately, no one’s around, so I don’t have to think of anything to say.
I press the button to call the elevator, but nothing happens. Apparently, my fingerprints are no longer in the system.
“We’ll get your biometrics reactivated tomorrow,” my dad says, pushing the button himself.
As we’re ri
ding up, I tell him, “I want to go into the apartment first. Alone.”
“Why?”
“Just to check on things.”
Things like bombs rigged to go off on our arrival, or waiting assassins.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jimmy.”
I know he’s wrong.
We arrive at our floor. I want to rig up in my dead sister before we go any farther.
“Look, let me show you something,” my dad says. He puts down his suitcase and takes out his tablet. On its screen are feeds from security cameras inside the apartment. There is of course no one in any of the rooms. “An AI monitors the apartment at all times. No one’s been inside.”
“What if the AI’s been subverted?”
He gives me a dark look—“You can’t live your whole life being paranoid”—and picking up his suitcase he heads down the hall. The apartment door recognizes him and opens. No bombs go off. “Come on in,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re home.”
My dad is no sentimentalist. He had my room redecorated after I left, new furniture brought in. But the bed is still the same one I shared with Lissa when she stayed over on Saturday nights. It feels like I’m trespassing on someone else’s life when I lie there in the dark, remembering how it used to be. Melancholy grows until the flickering of the skullnet icon distracts me, reminds me there is no point in brooding. Why think on the past? I can’t change any of it. Why think at all? Better to sleep. The skullnet helps me with that. I don’t wake up again until past noon.
Then I wake in a panic, sweat-soaked, heart hammering. I’m out of bed and on my titanium feet before I know where I am.
I hear my dad talking, happy and relaxed in the living room, while in my head I hear a ghost voice shouting an urgent alarm: Rig up! Armor and bones!
What the hell is wrong with me?
I cross to the window and cautiously pull aside the heavy curtain, blinking into bright sunlight, studying the building across the street, wondering if there’s a sniper out there looking for me. I think about opening the curtain all the way, because I hate being afraid, and anyway, with the proper equipment, a shooter could see through the curtain and through the tinted window glass.