Going Dark (32 page)

I go back to the living room, where I turn an armchair to face the door and then occupy it with my HITR in my lap and my pistol in a chest holster.

“Logan!”

“Sir!”

“There’s a TV out here too. Check if it can access feeds from the hallway security cameras.”

I’m not paranoid.

Well, I am.

Why shouldn’t I be? We have enemies and I don’t even know who most of them are. All I know is they’re out there. They got to Issam. They can get to us.

I fix my gaze on my encyclopedia icon and think,
Search skullnet
. A list of articles displays, but I want the manual. I hear Logan moving and then the soft electronic sigh of the monitor coming to life.

He says, “We need to make peace with Kanoa.”

“Just now, you didn’t sound like you want peace.”

“I don’t want him hunting us down.”

“We’ll work it out.”

“Confirming cameras in the hallway.
Nice
. They allow alerts. I’m setting it to go off anytime someone appears on the floor.”

I hope this isn’t a party floor.

I lean back, my creaky robot feet stretched out in front of me, and I start to read about my skullnet.

•  •  •  •

A skullnet has two discrete tasks: reading brain activity, and adjusting it. Reading is a passive function that lets it track emotions and monitor patterns of thoughts flashing across the brain’s neural synapses. It’s what lets me “talk” in a telepathic sense, converting simple thoughts into synthesized words. In contrast, adjustment is active: It signals the microbeads to affect mood, or ready state. Adjustment is what lets the Red reach into my head and play me like a puppet.

After an hour reading through the manual, I decide I don’t need to get rid of the skullnet after all. I can keep the skullnet’s passive functions. I can even keep the active functions, the ones that
I
control with my thoughts. All I need to do is stop the Red from getting inside my head, and I can do that by snipping out the skullnet’s receiver.

It’s a simple solution. Elegant. Easy. Except that right now I’m existing on a baseline level of brain stimulation overseen by the embedded AI residing in the skullnet’s hardware. It’s the AI’s task to continuously monitor and adjust my mood to keep me humming along no matter what unforgiveable acts I commit. I could just leave that function in place, but I don’t really know what the limits of the program are—and once the receiver is out, I won’t be able to adjust it. I decide it’s safer to shut the baseline function down. The idea scares the shit out of me, but what else can I do?

•  •  •  •

A well-equipped first aid kit is part of the standard gear any soldier carries. I get mine out of my pack and go through it, making sure I have everything I need. Scalpel, scissors,
gloves, sterile wipes, gauze, wound glue. After patching up Tran, I’m low on wound glue, but there’s enough left for what I need.

Tran is still in the bedroom, watching something on TV. But Logan is stretched out on the couch. He lifts his head, gives me a suspicious look. “What are you doing?”

“Enhancing security.” I gather what I need, head into the bathroom, and close the door.

My lifestyle choices aside, I’m not a fan of pain. As I contemplate what I’m about to do, my heart rate and blood pressure climb.

I take off my shirt. Put a hotel towel around my shoulders. Then I run my finger along my scalp above my right ear until I find two slight bumps just under the skin, a centimeter apart. The one in front is the skullnet’s transmitter, positioned for easy communication with my overlay. I don’t want to damage the transmitter. The other bump is the receiver. I scrub the area with a disinfecting wipe. Then I break the scalpel out of its sterile wrapping.

The mistake most people make about the Red is to think of it as something human. It’s not. It doesn’t get frustrated, angry, or vindictive. If a tactic doesn’t work, if a pawn refuses to cooperate, if a task fails to execute, the Red learns from it and moves on. If the Red was human, I’d probably get dropped from ETM for what I’m about to do. But my guess is the Red will just recalculate my specs as a useful tool in its inventory.

I lean close to the mirror.

Deep breath.

I get the scalpel into position to cut, but the angle is bad and working in the mirror is disorienting. So I straighten up again and, working as fast as I can, I make two shallow incisions by feel, slicing loose a flap of skin above the receiver. Blood wells out, oozing in bright red streams that
drain past my ear, down my neck, and drip onto the towel.
Hurts
. I try not to think about it, but
shit
. So many nerve endings in the skin. Pain is relative, for sure. I’ve felt pain a lot worse than this, but I’m not going to deny this
sucks
.

I stick a fingertip under the flap and probe for the receiver. It’s smaller than a rice grain. I try to get my finger under it, but it’s embedded in the meat. I try to get the tip of the scalpel under it, but I can’t see what I’m doing.

The bathroom door opens. It’s Logan. “Your stress levels are going crazy—
Jesus!
” he says when he sees the blood. “Have you finally cracked?”

I get the impression Logan does not approve of self-mutilation. He makes a quick grab for my right wrist, wanting to get the scalpel away from me, but I fall back. Blood drips on the floor. “I need your help.”

He is outraged. “Are you trying to take out your own skullnet?”

“Fuck,
no
. I’d need a surgeon to do that. I just want to take out the receiver.” I move back to the counter, trying to see the incision site in the mirror. “I thought it’d be easier than this.”

By this time, Tran has picked up on the excitement. He’s crowding in behind Logan, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

“You can’t take out the receiver,” Logan says.

“I can. I am.” The pain is backing off. That’ll be my skullnet, pumping me up on adrenaline and natural pain-killers as it follows its baseline program. I’m going to miss that.

“How are you going to make adjustments to the skullnet?” Logan asks.

I tell him the truth. “I won’t need adjustments. I found a program in the manual that will wind down the baseline until it hits zero. So that’ll run, and then I’m on my own.”

“You’re serious?”

I press a square of gauze against the wound to slow the
bleeding. “It’ll take twenty-one days for the program to run. Time for me to adjust. But the skullnet will still be there. It’ll still be able to assess my physical status, monitor my thought patterns. I’ll still be able to hit gen-com.”

“So you’re not dropping out of ETM?” Tran asks.

“No. I have the overlay. I can get orders that way. I just don’t want the Red inside my head, making me think it’s okay to drag us into another suicide mission.”

Tran trades a look with Logan. Then he asks, “What if you can’t handle things on your own?”

That’s the part that scares me. I scowl at my image in the mirror. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll just get rewired, right?” I turn to Logan again. “Come on. I don’t want to make another decision like I made in the UGF. This is the compromise solution.”

“Think what you’re giving up,” Logan says. “You won’t get any help staying focused or staying awake. You won’t get any narcotic effects. No stress abatement. No automatic sleep.”

“I’ll get by. Just like I used to when I was a civilian.”

“You’re not a civilian, Shelley. Civilians don’t pump RPGs into rooms full of people.”

“Just do it for me. I don’t want to cut my ear off.”

He still hesitates, while my blood seeps through the gauze and my temper flares. “You know what, Logan? Do it. That’s an order.”

“
Fuck
you.” But he grabs the pack of wipes anyway and cleans his hands. “Give me that.” He takes the scalpel. “And put your fucking head down on the counter.” I do it, pillowing my skull against the blood-soaked towel. “I should just cut your throat,” he says.

“Probably better all around.”

“Shut up.”

I feel his fingers press against my head. He’s not making
any effort to be gentle. He trades the scalpel for the scissors. There’s a faint
snip!
and then he drops a tiny black lozenge on the counter in front of my eyes. “Hope we got the right one.”

I hope we did too. I think,
You there?

“Gotcha,” Tran says.

And Logan, sounding disappointed: “Yeah, you’re still linked.”

He uses the wipes to clean up the blood, and then he glues the incision closed. The glue’s anesthetic kicks in right away. Other than numbness at the site of the incision, I don’t feel any different. Not yet.

•  •  •  •

By the time I get out of the shower, I’m ready to take the next step. “We need to find out where we stand with Kanoa,” I announce. “Let’s get our network access back on.”

Tran has taken over the armchair facing the door. “Thank you, God!” he proclaims. “This living-in-my-own-head shit is killing me with boredom. And I need to order a new HITR. Express delivery. Why the hell did you let me drop mine, Shelley? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this stupid M4 if we get in serious trouble.”

“Aim?” Logan suggests.

He’s stretched out on the couch again, hugging his HITR. I push his feet off and sit down. My overlay is independent of my skullnet, so it’s unchanged by my recent modifications. I look for the network icon. It brightens under my gaze and a menu pops out. I return myself to full network access. Gen-com automatically links home.

Logan sits up in a hurry. “Gen-com’s updating.”

“Same here. Tran?”

“Yes.”

The update completes. Gen-com restarts. I get automatically linked in again. So do Logan and Tran. I see their icons in my overlay.

But it’s just the three of us, like it’s been since we launched on Arid Crossroad.

“
Shit
,” Tran says. “Where’s the rest of 7-1?”

Nervous tension makes me check the monitor on the wall, but the hall outside remains empty. “We’re here if Kanoa wants to talk.”

“If he
can
talk,” Logan says. “Maybe Abajian’s got him locked down.”

“Yeah.” I’m worried about that too. “I’m just going to call him.”

I try it. The call links, but then it drops. No option to leave a message. It’s like I’m not on his approved-contacts list. “I’m going to try Fadul.” Same thing.

Logan and Tran give it a shot, but their connections drop too. We try everyone in the squad: Fadul, Escamilla, Dunahee, Roman, Julian. But we’ve been locked out.

Tran says, “I’m going to order a weapon.”

“Do it.”

If Kanoa is in trouble, then so are we. We might as well be ready.

I pick up my HITR and head to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I lie down on the bed. I am used to being part of an organization, one geared to handle security and supplies, to sort through intelligence, to assign tasks. I like it that way. I don’t like being on my own. The last time I was out in the world without supervision was my brief and disastrous stay in Manhattan after my court-martial.

That’s when I hooked up with Delphi—and I guess that was disastrous too.

I should call her. I memorized her address the evening she contacted me at C-FHEIT. I should call her back. We didn’t get to talk for long.

I whisper her address to my overlay and mark it priority,
so if she ever calls me again, she won’t get dropped. Then I highlight her address and think,
Link
.

To my relief, the call is accepted. A synthetic, androgynous voice answers, inviting me to leave a message. “Delphi, it’s me. If you want to talk, authorize my address. I’ll call again.”

I grab the remote control Tran left on the bed. I need to distract myself before my elevated stress levels make Logan come after me. So I turn on the TV and pull up feeds from the hotel’s security cameras—the hall outside, the elevator, the secure lobby. I see one of the smiling men behind the front desk. No one else.

A link request opens in my overlay. The overlay’s masculine voice names the caller: “Karin Larsen.”

I swallow against a dry throat and accept the link. A video feed opens.

“Can you see me?” she asks.

“Yes.” She’s wearing a tank top. No bra. Her blond hair is loose and wispy around her face. The light is dim. “Did I wake you up?” I ask.

“I want to see you, Shelley.”

“Okay.” I open a video feed that lets her see what my overlay sees. Then I get up and go into the suite’s second bathroom, meeting the gaze of my reflection in the mirror. What I see is a brown-skinned man with a stubble of black hair and guilt in his eyes, and regret.

She sees something else. “You look good, Shelley.”

“Where are you?” My voice is hoarse. That’s from the fire.

“San Antonio. You?”

“Budapest.”

“Guess we can’t meet at the corner coffee shop.”

The only place I want to meet is in a bedroom, with the door closed and locked and Delphi naked and demanding
beneath me. I don’t like my expression, so I turn away from the mirror, return to the room.

“Okay,” she says. “Bad joke. Look, I really don’t understand what happened between us. If you wanted to leave, I wish you’d just told me—”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“—but that was all a long time ago. I’m glad you’re alive. I am so happy to know that.”

She’s moved on. I sense it. But I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. Because if she hasn’t found someone else, then it’s my fault for fucking up her life, and if she has . . .
shit
, I don’t want to know.

I sprawl in a chair, staring at her image, with the TV playing in the background. “I don’t want you to go to Mars. That’s a mistake.”

She gives me a dark look. “Did you use your influence with the president?”

“What?”

“Monteiro issued a temporary order suspending all orbit-crossing flights pending a new licensing system, and that means we’re grounded. God knows for how long. Government-contracted flights are still on schedule, but the rest of us have to line up and wait for a turn to explain why we should have free use of our own assets.”