“Huh.” I don’t want to sound happy, but I am.
“Did you have something to do with that?”
“How could I? I’m not sure the president even knows I’m alive.”
“She knows.”
I sit up straighter, alarmed at what those words imply. “How do
you
know that?”
But she’s distracted. “Shelley, are those security feeds you’re watching?”
I close the video feed of Delphi to look at the TV. There
are at least six civilians in the lobby, but they’re the sort of civilians with straight spines, stern expressions, and military haircuts, all wearing long black coats good for hiding weapons. They aren’t doing anything except milling around, eyeing the under-street tunnel, the door to the public lobby, but mostly the elevator.
The feed from inside the elevator shows Papa, riding up alone.
“Delphi, do you know Leonid Sergun?”
“I know of him. I know you had a mission with him. That’s him, isn’t it?”
“He’s got a small army downstairs. I don’t know where this is going.”
Leonid steps off the elevator onto the thirty-second floor. I hear the programmed alert go off in the front room. Over gen-com, Logan says, “Papa’s here.”
“Roger that.” I get up. Grab my HITR. “I’ve got to go, Delphi.”
“Call me again. If you can.”
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
I
GO TO THE FRONT DOOR
and open it, keeping my HITR out of sight. “Papa.”
He’s dressed in a black sweater, black slacks, black boots, and a tailored black coat. He walks with his back straight and shoulders squared, but his heavy, wrinkled face is haggard. FaceValue confirms an emotional strain. I’ve never seen him so transparent before.
Suspicion kicks in. Something critical has changed. I need to know whose side he’s on now. “Papa, who are your friends downstairs?”
This earns me a glare and then a shrug. “At least you are learning caution.” He waves me back. “Let me come in. I am not here to kill you.”
I step back, opening the door wider and then closing it behind him. He sits on the couch, eyeing the monitor, though this one shows only the empty hallway.
I sling my HITR over my shoulder and pick up the remote, bringing up the other two feeds: one of the elevator, one of the lobby and the men waiting there. “You came in with them, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Though they are more your friends, than mine.”
He leans back, eyeing Logan who is frowning at the monitor, and then Tran, who is standing near the front door with his M4. “They are American,” Leonid says. “They had hoped to meet you before you left the hospital, but it seems you departed earlier than expected.”
“You heard what happened to Issam?”
“Yes.”
“Are they here to arrest us?”
“They would like to take you into custody. Not as an arrest, but for your protection. The three of you, and myself.”
“Abajian sent them?”
He shrugs, an expansive, rolling gesture than encompasses his whole upper body and is tinged, somehow, with a pessimism that feels generations old. “I cannot say. This network of relations—who works for who, where loyalty is owed, or favors—it does not seem so important to me now. It seems my niece, my sister’s child, Yana Semakova, has suffered the same fate as our friend Issam.”
“What?”
I don’t want to believe what he’s telling me. I sit down in the chair facing him, wanting to know more.
“I am told that in both cases it was a sudden, severe allergic reaction.”
“That’s bullshit,” Tran says.
Leonid nods.
“She was my niece. That was dangerous enough, but she was no compliant woman. She had enemies of her own. She spoke against the Arctic War, named names, shamed those who would not or could not stop the conflict. I want to know who proposed to the ‘circus of murderers’ that the first orbital habitat to be targeted should be hers. Did the wish trickle down from the Russian government? From the Canadians? From the Chinese? Or did the Shahin Council decide on their own?” He
leans over abruptly, as if crushed by an unbearable weight, held up only by his elbows resting on his knees. His hands tremble, his jaw works, his muscles go taut. And I realize he does not know how to grieve.
Shit.
Neither do I. My skullnet never allowed it. Grief just gets overwritten.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
Logan and Tran mutter their own condolences.
“No,” Leonid says. “No sympathy.” He purses his lips, sits up again, heaves a huge sigh. “I deserve none. I have caused grief enough in the world. I will say only that I loved my Yana, and of all my mad family, she at least might find her way to God.”
If Semakova was a target, is there a danger for Delphi too? And Jaynie? They were all business partners. I get up and pace on my creaking legs, whispering a text message to Delphi.
Semakova is dead. Be careful.
When I turn back, Papa is watching me as if he knows what I am doing. He says, “Our American friends have asked me to let you know there is another mission under consideration. They would like to discuss it with you.”
“Here?”
“No. They will escort you to a secure base in Germany.”
“When?”
“Now.” He waves a hand at the monitor. “They are waiting.”
I study Leonid, letting FaceValue work, asking myself: Could he have saved our lives, brought us here, paid for our treatment, only to set us up for assassination? Maybe. Maybe it’s a complex deal.
FaceValue flags no lies, just a complex of unreadable emotions.
Leonid raises a heavy gray eyebrow. “Shelley, what was it you told that fighter pilot about me?”
I stand up on creaking legs, wondering at my own suspicion. “I told her I trust you.”
He stands too. “And do you?”
Nonlinear war: no real allies, no fixed enemies, no certain battlefields. “Are you involved in this mission?” I ask him.
“A planning and support role. I have operated in the region before, so I have access to intelligence and local assets unavailable to our allies.”
“Why involve yourself?”
His chin comes up, his eyes narrow. “You ask that only now?”
“Tell me.”
“A simple, foolish reason. Some time ago, I had a dream that my brother-in-law, Eduard, had bought his way into Heaven, only to have an archangel, full of vengeance, cast him out. I chose to believe this dream was a message, a warning, that success in this life buys nothing in the next . . . but I could still serve God as this archangel does.”
I turn away, having nothing to say to this. I step to the narrow window and peer at the city outside, where a new day has begun. I have done unforgivable things. How can there be redemption for that?
Tran has a more basic worldview. “So now you’re all about rooting out evil?”
“Also vengeance,” Papa says.
Logan asks, “Is this mission vengeance for Yana’s murder?”
“It may be.”
My lieutenant is not satisfied. “We need to know more.”
“Then you will need to come to Germany. Come in any case. Accept this offer of protection. You are not safe here.”
I step away from the window. “You know that? You’ve
heard something?” More than ever, I want to know where Kanoa is.
He gestures at the air-conditioning vent. “The enemy has engaged a new weapon, a targeted, airborne poison.”
“That’s what killed Issam? And Yana?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to Germany?”
“
Da
. Yes. Didn’t I say so? I want to go on living. A proper revenge takes time.”
I look at Logan.
Yes?
He nods agreement.
“Pack your gear,” I order. “Tran, did you put in your weapons order?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cancel it. We’re moving out.”
My decision is confirmed by a text from Delphi that arrives as we vacate the room:
Confirming Semakova’s status. Suspected airborne bioactive. Multiple victims in dispersed locations. All key figures. This is the first stage of a war, Shelley. Take shelter now.
• • • •
With Leonid accompanying us, we are rushed aboard a US Air Force business jet, which is granted an immediate takeoff. I text Delphi to let her know we’re okay. She responds, saying not to worry, but for security, she’s going dark.
An hour and a half later, the jet touches down on a concrete runway at a US Army garrison in southern Germany. It’s a former garrison according to the history I can find. I pull up a satellite image that shows an intact fence around the perimeter. There’s clear ground for ten meters inside the fence, and then a belt of evergreen trees looking thick enough to screen the facilities from outside observation.
The facilities include a runway flanked by two hangars, a small housing area, a cluster of larger buildings—probably administrative—and a lot of concrete pads where other buildings used to be. I count only a few vehicles.
Looking out the jet’s window, I see the belt of trees from the photo. They are a tall dark-green hedge fronted by a narrow field, white with a light blanket of snow. As the plane makes its turn at the end of the runway, the hangars come into sight. We taxi to the farthest one. On the way, I try Kanoa again. Still nothing. The engines shut down. A two-person ground crew works to get us towed inside, and then the copilot appears from the cockpit. “You may disembark now,” she says. “Take all your gear with you.”
We shoulder our packs. Then, with our weapons in hand, we file out. At the base of the stairs, an army captain waits for us—Captain Montrose, by his name tag. My overlay’s facial recognition routine confirms it.
Montrose isn’t armed, but he doesn’t need to be. Behind him, standing in a half circle, is a squad of six military police rigged in armor and bones, armed with HITRs, and made anonymous by the black visors of their helmets. Parked behind them are an army SUV and a van, both vehicles with heavily tinted windows.
Captain Montrose takes charge. “Security considerations demand that we move quickly. No personal firearms are allowed on base, so my first requirement is that all weapons and ammunition be turned over to Sergeant Remick.”
I step up beside Leonid, not liking the direction of this conversation at all. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“Shelley.” Leonid’s tone is stern. “I have worked with Captain Montrose before.”
“You trust this situation?”
He scoffs. “There is nothing certain in this world. Every day, we make bets. This is my bet.”
I turn to Montrose. “I want to know where William Kanoa is. I want to talk to him.”
“You will turn over all weapons and ammunition, Captain Shelley. This is not a matter of negotiation.”
“You have made your bet too,” Leonid reminds me, one eyebrow cocked.
The sergeant in charge of the MPs steps forward to enforce Captain Montrose’s request. “No personal firearms are allowed, sir.”
“These aren’t personal. They’re officially issued.”
“You are required to turn them over, sir, along with the ammunition.”
In my mind, I go over my options: Turn the weapons over, or get into a firefight we don’t want and can’t win. Not really a choice. I address my next thought to gen-com.
Turn over your weapons
.
Roger that,
Logan responds.
Tran’s answer is more succinct.
Shit.
But he cooperates. So do I.
I check the locks on my HITR and then hand it over, cursing Kanoa as I do it. He is supposed to be our commanding officer. He is supposed to take care of us.
I hope like hell he’s still alive.
“Thank you, Captain Shelley,” Montrose says. “Sergeant Remick will escort you to your quarters. Mr. Sergun, if you could accompany me.”
“Wait. Where are you taking Leonid?”
“Mr. Sergun has been assigned to separate quarters.”
“Papa, what the hell?”
“There are details to be worked out,” he says.
I have no idea what that means. I don’t know what his status is, or ours. I don’t know if he’s on our side anymore,
or if he’s made new friends. He looks grim as he gets into the SUV with Captain Montrose.
As they drive off, Sergeant Remick directs me, Tran, and Logan into the van. The driver is a husky youth wearing farsights and a neat army service uniform. “My orders are to check you into guest quarters,” he tells us as the doors close.
The MPs jump onto the running boards. The kid waits for a signal from Remick and then we roll, with the MPs riding on the outside of the van.
Guest quarters turns out to be a furnished, three-bedroom, seventy-year-old home in the last surviving cluster of officer housing at the old garrison. Sergeant Remick informs us that we are to stay inside with the blinds closed.
“How long are we scheduled to be here?” I ask him.
“I have no information on that, sir.”
“Under whose orders are we here?”
“I have no information on that, sir.”
“I need to be put in touch with my commanding officer, Major William Kanoa.”
“You are to remain within the premises as I have instructed, sir, where you will await further orders.”
He withdraws but leaves a guard unit of three MPs outside. Logan watches them past the edge of the blinds. “Protective custody doesn’t feel all that different from prison.”
“It’s different,” I tell him.
“It’s a fucking downgrade from that hotel Papa put us in,” Tran grumbles, slinging his pack onto the sofa. “No room service, no sex workers, no TV.” He stomps into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Drinks only.” He checks a cabinet. Over his shoulder I can see it’s full of familiar manufactured meals, crammed onto every shelf. Tran groans. “Microwave shit. Enough to feed us for weeks.” He
looks over his shoulder at me. “I’m not sure coming here was a good idea.”
I don’t like it either, but at least we’re still alive.
• • • •
I claim a bedroom by upending my pack and dumping out everything I’ve got left on the bed. There’s not a lot. T-shirts, rations, my dwindling first aid kit. Clinging to it all is a toxic, burnt smell that puts me back in the UGF with my heart racing. I give the skullnet a few seconds to smooth things over. The icon glows . . . and I remind myself that the baseline program is winding down and I’m not going to have that kind of assistance much longer.
The T-shirts get tossed toward the door—I’ll wash them later and maybe the smell will go away. Clothes are going to be a problem if we have to stay here more than a day. With that in mind, I take off my civilian shirt and hang it up in the closet. Might as well keep it fresh a little longer.
All my other gear gets neatly repacked despite the smell. I want to be ready if anything happens.
Next step: figure out what
is
happening. I settle down on the bed, pop open my encyclopedia, and start reading the newest posts harvested from the Cloud—and it’s not good news.
Lines are being redrawn in the Arctic War. Yesterday, the last day of the old year, Russia escalated the conflict by claiming sovereignty over an immense undersea ridge, using the argument that at some point in the planet’s geological history, that ridge was part of the Siberian continental shelf. Russian fighters are patrolling the newly declared border, Canadian and American fighters are rising to challenge them, while international shipping companies, backed by Chinese money, are lobbying hard for a peace treaty to be hammered out before the spring thaw.
There have been no more strikes against orbital targets, but the damage is amplifying anyway. A small observational satellite in a known debris path was moved out of the way, only to be struck by an unmapped fragment. Now its shattered parts are adding to the hazard, and more incidents are expected.