The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

I think Jaynie and I will have to settle a few issues, preferably in a session of hand-to-hand combat.

I take the pen.

Across the table, Flynn is biting her lip as she concentrates to make her signature—she probably hasn’t signed anything since the day she was inducted.

Everyone else is done. They’re all watching me.

I sign my name.

My career in the US Army is over.

INTERIM

FALLOUT

“L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE
P
RESIDENT
of the United States.”

The voice issues from the monitor mounted on the wall of Judge Monteiro’s sitting area.

I’m a civilian now, with no charges pending against me, so I don’t need to ask permission. I just get up and, before the applause dies out, I’m standing in front of the monitor. The squad follows my example and gathers behind me, except for Harvey, who decides it’s okay to sit in one of the upholstered chairs.

He’s a young president, but he still manages to look stern and fatherly behind the podium, framed by the bright red, white, and blue of two American flags. His dark gaze quiets the crowd.

“A guilty verdict has been returned in the case of the Apocalypse Squad—”

There is a gasp from the press audience, a rush of murmuring. The president keeps speaking in his bold voice:

“—but it is the privilege of the president to offer pardons and today I have granted a pardon to all seven members of the Apocalypse Squad, in consideration of their exemplary service
at Black Cross, and in acknowledgment of their patriotism. I do not—I cannot—condone the so-called First Light mission, but in extraordinary times, extraordinary measures must sometimes be taken, and that is what I have done today.”

He turns and walks out. The startled press pool jumps to their feet, shouting questions at his retreating back. He does not return.

Out on the Mall, cheering erupts, a thunderous sound carried in vibration through the thick glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Someone must have grabbed the remote control, because the blinds go up and we get to look at a scene of joy—fists pumping the air, and people hugging, many of them masked.

It’s supposed to be about us, but we’re just a symbol. It goes deeper. It’s about the will of the people; the will of
these
people to take back some small part of the power that is rightfully theirs, and demand change.

•   •   •   •

Major Perkins tries to hurry things along.

“You are no longer permitted to wear your uniforms,” she tells us. “Civilian clothes have been provided for you.”

She clutters the table with a collection of white dress shirts and dark slacks, a set for everyone.

“Fuck this,” Harvey says unbuttoning her uniform jacket. “I’ll walk out in my T-shirt, but I’m not wearing this shit.”

With a grim expression, Jaynie picks up the shirt tagged with her name, holding it at a distance like it’s unstable explosive ordnance.

“Leave it, Jaynie.” I turn to Perkins. “Keep this stuff. We’ve signed your contract. Now I want our possessions returned, including the clothes we were wearing when we turned ourselves in for arrest.”

Perkins looks at Monteiro, but she finds no sympathy
there. “Major Perkins, do not turn your doe eyes on me. You are legally obligated to return all personal possessions seized upon arrest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She steps away. Using her farsights, she holds a low-voiced conference with someone, and then informs us, “It will be a few minutes.”

Monteiro returns to the desk and drops into the chair. “Make yourselves at home,” she says. “This isn’t my office anyway. It belonged to a Judge Kohn, who had the misfortune to be across the river in Alexandria on Coma Day.”

She’s a colonel. That meant a lot more to me just a few minutes ago. Not anymore. I walk up to the desk and I ask her, “If we’d met back in that courtroom on Monday, you would have sentenced us to life, wouldn’t you?”

She studies me for several seconds, then acknowledges this with a nod. “I wouldn’t have had a choice, Mr. Shelley.”

“When the verdict came back, you didn’t like that it wasn’t unanimous.”

“Two members would not vote to convict, despite my instructions. They were wrong. You did not have a legal basis for what you did. They were responding with emotion, and without regard to the law. That was Ogawa’s strategy—to appeal to emotion, to raw patriotism.” She raises her voice. “Isn’t that right, Major?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he calls from where he’s standing at the window.

“And it came way too close to working.” She drums her fingers on the desktop. “People are fed up, but we need to be able to trust our officers. It should have been a unanimous conviction—and that would have given more meaning to the president’s pardon.”

“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 careful 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.”