Going Dark (8 page)

Several times I pause to listen. My helmet audio filters the sound of the wind and quiets the crunch of our footsteps. I hear no other sound. But my helmet does detect EM signatures—a lot of them, just like at any human outpost.

Kanoa annotates the scene with labels projected in my visor, expanding on the information with a voice report. “The round tent is the hangar. The other two are shared-use—living and research space. You can enter through the airlock on the central tent.”

No reason for all of us to go inside; we’re not planning to be here long.

“Escamilla, I want you to take a walk around the outside of the facility. Look for anything interesting.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Tran, take up a post outside the hangar door. Assuming there really is a helicopter in there, make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got a feeling, Shelley?” Kanoa asks.

I look for the skullnet icon. If it were aglow, that would indicate interference, input into my emotional state, but it’s invisible, so I’m not getting warnings from on high. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You’re reading a little tense.”

Not really a surprise. Everything on this mission has been a fuck-up, and now we’re about to steal a helicopter.

As we near the tents, Escamilla and Tran split off to cover their assignments. The rest of us walk with Parris up to a door of insulated aluminum that opens as we approach. Bright artificial light spills out, blinding me for a full second before my visor compensates and drops out of night vision.

When I can see again, I notice that color has returned to the world—and that without even thinking about it, I’ve turned the muzzle of my HITR to cover a stocky figure in a bright orange parka who is standing in the doorway. He glares at me from a flat, brown, wizened face framed by an orange hood. My encyclopedia runs an automatic facial recognition routine and tags him with a name: John Parker. I let the muzzle of my HITR drop until it’s pointing at the ground. I suspect John Parker is already regretting this encounter, not that he really had a choice.

In a low voice with a soft inflection that suggests a native Arctic heritage, he says, “I have to ask you to take off your exoskeletons and helmets.”

Kanoa cuts in right away. “Negative. Take control of the facility.”

I let the skullnet capture my response:
Roger that
.

One of the most impressive aspects of human psychology is our proficiency with bullshit. Specifically, the way we use it to reduce violence in the world. I don’t want to kick my way inside the facility, and I don’t want to directly challenge John, but I need him to know who’s making the rules. So I play the concerned and cautious commanding officer. “That’s fine, Mr. Parker, but we’ll need to check things out first. I’ll send my lieutenant in to look around. Logan, take Roman with you.”

John’s lips press together. He isn’t happy, but he’s too
smart to argue. He retreats into a vestibule. Logan and Roman follow, closing the door behind them.

It’s just me and the civilian left waiting on the threshold. I turn to Parris. The sooner she’s off my hands, the better. “Let’s get you out of that rig.”

She’s exhausted and only half-conscious. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t help either as I pull the cinches.

Escamilla checks in. “Shelley.”

“Here.”

“Found a cache of supplies outside the hangar. Can’t tell what they are.”

“Leave it.”

As I free Parris from my exoskeleton she starts to slump. I catch her, walk her into the vestibule, and help her sit down on a bench. The inner door is closed, but the vestibule is still warmer than outside in the wind.

Logan begins to relay his report. “Large room just inside. Six personnel present. No weapons. No overt signs of hostility.”

Kanoa watches through Logan’s helmet cams to ensure nothing is missed. “Confirmed,” he says. “All six personnel cross-check with known records.”

Logan directs Roman to stay in the central area while he moves through the tunnel to the second tent. “Looks like a dormitory.”

“Clear the rooms,” I tell him.

“Roger that.”

I leave Parris to the goodwill of Tuvalu’s staff, and go outside again. The dialog between Logan and Kanoa continues as I strip out of the dead merc’s rig and get back into my own.

“Room one, clear,” Logan reports.

“Confirmed.”

“Room two, clear.”

I walk toward the hangar, where I meet Escamilla and Tran. “Have we got a way out of here, sir?” Tran asks me.

“Still waiting on that.”

A door in the side of the hangar opens. I turn fast, but this time I manage to keep my HITR across my chest instead of targeting the civilian framed in the doorway. Artificial light from inside illuminates a blue parka and hood, half-raised hands, gloved palms turned out, no obvious weapons. My gaze shifts from the hands to the face. She’s standing a step back from the door so the light falls at an angle across the bare skin of her face. Black skin, dark-brown eyes, elegant eyebrows drawn down in a fierce scowl, her lip curled in contempt. “You got anything human left under that helmet, Shelley?” she asks me.

Escamilla and Tran both turn their weapons in her direction. Kanoa checks in with a monosyllabic observation:
“Shit.”

And me? Shock hits me so hard it blows every thought out of my brain but one—one that’s so strong, so focused, my fucking skullnet picks it up, translates it to audio, and in a calm tone that in no way represents how I feel, I hear my artificial voice say over gen-com,
“Jaynie.”

It’s an impossible coincidence to run into Jayne Vasquez here, at the ice-end of nowhere—but then, I don’t believe in coincidence. I know better than that.

“Shelley, take it easy,” Kanoa warns—as if I would ever hurt her.

Jaynie can’t see my face, but she recognized me anyway. We’ve been on enough missions together. She knows what I look like when I’m rigged. She knows how I move.

I shoulder my HITR and then I reach with two hands for my helmet.

Kanoa protests, “What are you doing?”

I ignore him and take the helmet off. I peel back my thermal hood. The cold hits like fire, but I don’t care, because I need to show Jaynie that I am not more or less than what I used to be.

She takes a long look at me. Then she steps aside to let me into the shelter of the hangar.

•  •  •  •

Inside the hangar, the air is heated to five degrees American—bearable compared to the outside. The round walls surround a small Bell helicopter painted rescue yellow; the span of its blades is only a couple of meters less than the hangar’s diameter.

Escamilla follows me in. Roman comes in through the tunnel that leads to the living area. I ignore them both. So does Jaynie.

She pushes back the hood of her parka, letting me see that she is not wearing a skullcap. Her scalp is covered in tightly curled black hair trimmed short in a military cut. I want to ask if she got wired, if she had a skullnet put in, but I know better. “You gave it up, didn’t you? No skullcap. No skullnet. You’re not an emo-junkie anymore.”

That’s not what she wants to talk about. “You are supposed to be dead.” She watches me with a stonewall expression. “The fucking United States Navy shot you out of the sky. Or was that faked?”

“It wasn’t faked.” The navy fired the missile that brought down our little spaceplane,
Lotus
. It wasn’t a direct hit, but the shockwave and the debris were enough to break us apart. “Kurnakova is dead.”

“And you’re still here. Still God’s favorite.”

God’s favorite toy, maybe.

Since I’m not wearing my helmet anymore, Kanoa has switched gen-com to my overlay. “This is not what you’re
here for, Shelley. The only thing you need to worry about is getting your squad safely extracted.”

“I don’t agree, sir.” Dread and anticipation wage war in my head as I look past Jaynie to the tunnel entrance, imagining Delphi appearing there. I kept track of her for a while. I was glad when she partnered with Jaynie. When they set up a company together, I was sure she’d be okay. So I left it at that. I stopped looking back. But now? “There
is
a reason for this,” I insist.

“There may be a reason, but it’s not one you need to understand. Get that helicopter fired up and get the hell out of there. That is an order.”

Kanoa is at least partly right. We need to be gone, and soon, before a call gets through to the Canadian military. So I gesture at Escamilla. “Check for the key, and then get things started.”

“You stealing my helicopter?” Jaynie asks, glaring at Escamilla as he opens the pilot-side door and leans inside.

“This your operation?” I don’t want to believe it. “Come on, Jaynie. You’re not going to Mars.”

“Key’s here!” Escamilla calls out. He looks in the back. “Seats have been pulled. Cargo configuration, but we can work with that.”

“Do it.”

Jaynie drops her chin like a fighter. “Mars is the goal we’re working on.”

“That’s fucking crazy.”

Escamilla peels off his pack and his helmet. He starts popping cinches on his dead sister because his rig has to come off before he can fit in the pilot’s seat.

Jaynie looks at him, looks at me. “I’m not the one walking around with wires in my head, Shelley.”

No, she’s just the one thinking about going to Mars. And it scares me because it’s possible. A one-way, privately
funded expedition is under development. A lot of dragons are behind it. It wasn’t long ago that I heard chatter in the barracks about the pending launch of an advance robotic mission intended to deliver supplies ahead of a crewed expedition.

“Did you buy in, Jaynie?”

She nods. “I did.”

Dragon-scale money was in play on our last mission together. I did my part to see that Jaynie and Delphi wound up with it, because I wanted Jaynie to have the freedom to build a sanctuary somewhere beyond the influence of the Red. Mars fits that description, but Mars is a mistake.

“There is nothing on Mars for you, Jaynie. Not even air to breathe.”

“Were you sent here to tell me that?”

I hesitate. Jaynie has a paranoid fear of the Red and its influence over her life, but there is a resonance of truth in her words. “Maybe.”

I look again at the tunnel entrance. I want to be sure. “Delphi’s not here, is she?”

Jaynie follows my gaze. “She’s been looking for you. Did you know that? She never believed you were dead. I kept telling her there was no way—” She doesn’t get any further. Her control cracks; her voice climbs an octave. “God
damn
you, Shelley, why didn’t you come home?”

Roman is still standing watch, anonymous behind her visor, but I can see Escamilla’s face. He’s sitting in the pilot’s seat, hesitating over the checklist as he waits to hear what I will say. He made the same choice I did. Everyone in the squad made the choice to walk away from the lives they’d lived before. We all share that guilt—and I know better than to apologize for it.

“We are engaged in a war against Armageddon, Jaynie. No one goes home from that.”

Escamilla nods in grim approval as he returns to his task, but Jaynie’s eyes are glistening. She leans in close. Her gloved hand touches my arm; her eyes plead with me. “
Stay.
We’ll make room for you to go with us. We’ll get the wiring out of your head. You’ll be okay.”

I
don’t
believe in coincidence. I am not here by chance.

“I’m not going to Mars, Jaynie, and neither are you. It’s suicide. A mistake you can’t come back from.” She pulls away, but I catch her arm. “I need you to listen to me. I need you to understand the way things are, because there is a new standard in the world. It says that everyone has to be visible, everyone accountable. So don’t keep your secrets too close or some jackboot like me will kick in your door to find out what you’re hiding.”

She jerks her arm free of my grip and backs away. “Go to hell.”

Logan comes through the tunnel. “Load your gear,” I tell him. I shrug off my pack, but Kanoa intercedes. “You’ve still got Dr. Parris’s sample case.”

“You want me to give it back to her?”

Jaynie has retreated toward the tunnel, but she’s watching me warily.

“We’ve got no reason to keep it. It’s not biowarfare material, so hand it over.”

“Jaynie, wait.” I get the black case out of my pack. “This belongs to Dr. Parris.” I hold it out to her. “It’s biological material, microbial cultures. She says it’s not dangerous, but you should talk to her about it, use your judgment.”

Jaynie crosses her arms, raises her chin, puts on a skeptical expression. “You want me to return that to her?”

I don’t want to argue about it. “Do what you want.”

“I intend to.” Despite her defiant tone, she comes to take the case from me. Her hand is shaking. I think maybe mine is too.

Escamilla calls out, “We need to get the hangar doors open!”

Logan responds, “I’m on it!”

We are pirates, taking what we need. “Jaynie, listen. I’m sorry. About the helicopter. It’s just that we need to move fast, so we don’t really have a choice.”

She draws back. “You’re sorry about
that
? Don’t worry. It’s insured. Now get the fuck out of here.” She retreats to the tunnel. But as Logan opens the hangar doors, letting in the rush of the wind, Jaynie turns back. She projects her voice to make sure I hear her. “Hey, Shelley, maybe we’ll meet again—on Mars, after the war!” Then she’s gone.

Logan steps up to my side. His thermal mask is rolled up to expose his face. “I didn’t think that could ever happen.”

I tell him what I told Tran before this fucked-up mission started. “
Never
trust the Red.”

Never think you understand it.

•  •  •  •

The wind is in our favor, ferrying the helicopter south to
Sigil
, but it’s still strong enough to generate white-knuckle turbulence. Escamilla says nothing, all his attention focused on the controls as he works to keep us on course and steady.

Logan, Roman, and Tran are in back on the floor, crammed in with our packs, our weapons, and the folded bones of our dead sisters. I’m riding in the co-pilot’s seat. All of us have our helmets on. Mine shows me the terrain in the green glow of night vision. I’m supposed to be helping Escamilla navigate, but mostly I’m thinking about Jaynie and Delphi and how hard it must be to get to Mars, and how utterly and forever beyond my reach they would be when, inevitably, things begin to go wrong. It’s a line of thought that links to a weird, familiar panic and for just a few seconds I’m back on the First Light mission, aboard
the C-17, and Colonel Rawlings is telling me the harsh truth:
You can’t do anything for her.