Going Dark (12 page)

“It’s not about individuals,” Cory says.

“I know that.”

“New circumstances mean new opportunities to identify and evaluate threats. Maybe the Red is letting this war play out to see what turns up.”

“No. That is not what this is about. Something else is going on.”

We stare at each other for several seconds. Then Cory asks, in a meek voice, “Is that a guess, or . . .”

I start eating again, glaring at one of the monitors: a replay of last night’s burning oil derrick.

“Shelley?” Cory asks. “Is there something you know?”

“It just feels wrong.”

I look at him again. To my surprise, he’s nodding. “Your feelings count. They’ve been validated before.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. This is not the Red talking through me.”

“Okay. Then what is it?”

I finish off the second meal, using the time to organize my suspicions into words. When I’m done, I stack the second tray on the first. Then I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Too much went wrong on this mission, and it started in the planning phase. Dr. Parris was doing pharmaceutical research, but we didn’t know that. We assumed the increase in security meant they were developing something illicit, something dangerous. Why didn’t we consider that they were just cutting corners on a legitimate investment?”

His cheeks darken. FaceValue notes the growing intensity of his emotion and tags him with a little bar graph colored to show 30 percent anger, 70 percent embarrassment. “We
did
consider it,” he insists. “But even if we’d understood the goal of the research, with security that tight we would have needed to look to be sure.”

“You were following the mission, right?”

He nods.

“When you saw the video stream of that lab, did you think it was a biowarfare operation?”

“It seemed plausible.”

“I was sure that’s what it was. We’ve been looking for something these past months. Something bigger than the operations we’ve turned over. I thought we’d found it. But we got it all wrong.”

“Sometimes we get things wrong,” Cory says. “It’s that simple.”

“Nothing about this mission was simple. And there are a lot of open questions. Like why didn’t Intelligence know that helicopter was there? That information should have been easy to obtain. How could you have missed it?”

The percentages on the graph don’t shift, but the colors darken. Cory is only half of our intelligence team, but to his credit, he doesn’t make excuses. “I don’t have an answer for that, Captain Shelley. I’m sorry.”

I lean forward. “It seems suspicious to me that the helicopter got dropped from our surveillance, but
we
didn’t get scrubbed from the satellite image. You know it’s supposed to work the opposite way. The enemy is visible. Not us.”

“It
is
a concern. We
are
concerned, Captain. And we are looking into it.”

“There’s more to look into, Cory. Oscar-
1
had improper orders. Julian could have died because of that delay. And why didn’t the mission briefing include a psych evaluation of Vincent Glover? I don’t remember reading any suggestion that he was a cold-blooded killer.”

Cory nods, not really looking at me anymore. “These are all questions that we need to answer.”

I lean back again, flexing my mechanical feet, curling them and then stretching them out again. It’s a bad habit I’ve gotten into ever since the feet started making noise. As the small joints slide past one another, a series of soft clicks is generated—a worrisome rattle that tells me the joints are no longer properly aligned.

I catch Cory staring in fascination at the intricate mechanical movement.

“Cory, there’s something else I want you to look into.”

“Sure. Of course.” Like he’s ready to agree to anything to get rid of me. “What do you need to know?”

“Jayne Vasquez—”

“Oh boy.”

“—and Karin Larsen, aka Delphi.”

“Major Kanoa isn’t going to like this.”

I shrug. “If he gives you trouble, let me know and I’ll handle it. But I want you to find out for me where Jaynie and Delphi are, what they’re doing, who they’re working with—every fucking thing you can turn up. I want to know if Yana Semakova is stalking them. I want to know about this Mars thing, if it’s real.”

That puts Cory on his feet—“Oh, the Mars endeavor, that’s real!”

He doesn’t mean any harm; it’s just enthusiasm. But the motion is so sudden it shocks me. I launch to my feet too, reaching for a pistol in a chest holster that I’m not wearing.

Cory sees me, sees my expression, and his enthusiasm transforms to fear. He backs up against the desk, staring at me like I’m the monster who emerged from under the bed.

“Damn it,”
I whisper. “Don’t
do
that.”

“I’m sorry.”

I walk to the door. I know he’s hoping I’ll leave, but I close it and turn back.

“I’m
really
sorry,” Cory says. Like he thinks I’m going to tear his head off.

He’s operating on antique assumptions. A closed door used to indicate a desire for privacy, but privacy is a dead concept at C-FHEIT and the only thing a closed door means anymore is
don’t interrupt
. Kanoa will get a report on this conversation and so will our senior intelligence analyst, Bryson Kominski. They could decide to slap me down or order Cory to disregard the assignment I’ve given him, but I think they’ll leave it alone. 7-1 operates on transparency and trust, both up and down the chain of command. Our senior staff knows what we’re up to, but they take care
not to meddle in every little aspect of our lives. If we had to live under the rigid discipline of a police state, 7-1 would spiral apart.

I sit down again, hoping that will make Cory feel less threatened.

“You’re into this Mars stuff?” I ask him.

“Sh-sure. In general, anyway.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s real. People
will
go to Mars. There’s a coalition of billionaires financing an expedition. I didn’t realize Jayne Vasquez was involved. It’s so cool that she’s using Semak’s money for a purpose like that.”

“You want to go to Mars?”

“I’d love to. It’s a new world. Who wouldn’t want to go?”

I wouldn’t. Unlike Cory, I’ve been in space—low earth orbit—and it was awe-inspiring, a life-changing experience. But my destination, the Semak Hermitage, was just an ugly little prison cell. I’ve been locked up in prison. I know what that’s like. The Mars module would be a prison without parole. There would be no way out.

But for Cory, Mars is a dream. I hear the ache in his voice when he says, “It’s never going to happen for me. It takes money—or skill or connections—and anyway, I’m forty-nine years old.” A sad little smile. “Not exactly a hot candidate.”

He doesn’t understand what he’d have to give up. “Would you be willing to pull your overlay? Jaynie would make you get rid of that before she’d ever consider you. Otherwise, she’d assume you were a spy for the Red.”

“I’d be willing to pull the overlay just for the chance to try out.”

No hesitation.

His earnestness bothers me. It makes me question his loyalty. He’s here at C-FHEIT, working with us. He knows
what we do. He
is
a spy for the Red. That’s his job. But how immersed is he, really, in our purpose?

I tap my head. “You don’t have a skullnet, right?”

“Oh, no. Only select soldiers are equipped with those. They were banned for civilians last year. Too much potential for abuse.”

“Abuse? Abuse by who?”

He doesn’t like the question. His upper body starts rocking in a stiff, repetitive motion. “By whoever controls the programming.” He tries, but he can’t quite meet my gaze. “I saw the report you wrote on your kidnapping. You know what can be done to a captive subject. You experienced it.”

“That was blatant abuse.” Hell, it was torture. “It’d be smarter to be subtle. Keep the interference minimal. Your subject might never be aware of the manipulation.”

“No, you would know,” Cory says. “The skullnet icon would tell you something was going on.”

That’s the theory, anyway.

“Who controls the programming, Cory?”

The pace of his rocking picks up. “Your programming?”

“Sure. Let’s talk about my programming.”

“In the regular army, it would be Guidance. Now it’s the Red.”

“No one else?”

“No.”

FaceValue confirms he’s nervous as hell but he’s not lying.

“Not that I know of, anyway,” he adds. “And I
have
looked.”

I get a feeling Cory looks into most things. He’s like a human version of the Red.

“Who has access to my programming?” I ask him.

His shoulders hunch. It’s not a question he’s comfortable answering, but it’s also not one he can evade. “Technically,
I do. It’s part of my security clearance, but I would never try to adjust your skullnet.”

“Unless Kanoa ordered you to?”

“Not even then. I’m not trained for it. It would be a foolish risk.”

FaceValue confirms he’s sincere. Good to know, though I resolve to talk to Kanoa about who has the authority and the ability to mess with my head.

I decide I’ve scared him enough. “Find out what you can about Jayne Vasquez, Karin Larsen, and Yana Semakova. Send me a report.”

“I will,” he says. “I’ll do it. It’s in the queue.”

I head out, leaving the plate of cookies behind for Cory but taking the empty trays with me. The trays go into the recycler. As I walk back to the barracks, I worry over what Jaynie will tell Delphi. I worry that Delphi will talk to my dad; he doesn’t need that kind of hurt. I worry over the mission too, considering again all the things that went so inexplicably wrong. By the time I get to the barracks, I’m watching for the skullnet icon, waiting for a flicker that will indicate an adjustment in my brain to bring my mood back from a looming melancholy. But there’s nothing.

My mood stabilizes anyway.

Like Cory said, the icon is supposed to glow with any activity in the skullnet beyond baseline, but I rarely see it anymore. I’ve let myself believe that’s because I don’t need it as much as I used to . . . but abuse doesn’t have to be blatant. Would I know it if the icon failed to report subtle interference?

Tran is coming downstairs as I go up. “Hey Shelley, aren’t you going to the Christmas party?”

I tell him the truth. “I’m getting too old. I’m so beat up, I’m just going back to bed until tomorrow.”

Tran is actually six months older than me, but I’ve got
more mileage. He flashes a smile. “Yeah, I got pounded too, but I’m calculating good odds that I’ll be able to collect a little Christmas cheer.”

I think I know the private Tran is after. Kanoa won’t approve of a hookup, but he won’t say anything either. He’ll just transfer the target of interest before things have a chance to gel. “Good luck with it.”

I head upstairs, take another shower, and go back to bed, but I don’t really want to sleep. I’m still thinking about what’s going on in my head. There’s a simple AI embedded in the skullnet, tasked with monitoring and regulating my brain function. It’s had two years to learn how I think, and it’s gotten really good at interpreting my thought patterns and translating my commands.

Cory said it’s the Red that controls the programming behind my skullnet’s AI and no one else. But I think he’s wrong. Because
I
interact with that AI every time I issue a silent command, every time I use it to sleep, every time I look to it to take the edge off of my anger or my grief. Every time I’ve ever resented the appearance of the skullnet icon. Just how well does the embedded AI know me?

I decide to test it. I visualize the skullnet icon, willing it to appear.

My skullnet detects the pattern of my thought, the AI interprets it and sends a command to my overlay, where the icon appears: a circle with a black background overlaid with a glowing red web.

I’m looking at it. I see it. But I feel nothing.

The icon should only appear when the skullnet is actively using chemical stitches and staples to hold my head together, but that’s not what’s going on or I’d feel it.

Monitoring my thoughts, translating them, posting commands to my overlay—none of that should induce the icon to appear, because none of those things requires any
interference in my brain. So what is the appearance of the icon telling me?

I will the icon to fade to invisibility and within a second, it’s gone.

It’s telling me that, absent outside input, the icon is no longer linked to skullnet activity. All this time when I thought I was operating on my own . . . the truth is I’d just chosen not to see it.

Vertigo sweeps over me. I feel lost in my own history. I know I operate on programs. That’s not a secret. But I’ve always known
when
I was operating. Or I thought I knew.

Now? I have to wonder if I’ve been operating on a rogue program that I accidentally helped to write. And if so, how much has it changed who I am?

I think of another experiment, one that could answer that question. The skullnet has no off switch, but what if I try telling it to stop regulating my mood, to turn off all active interference? Not just to turn off the icon which only reports activity, but to turn off the activity itself?

Could I do that?

Do I want to?

I stare at the ceiling, thinking about it. I’ve been de-wired before. I know what happens without the cerebral support of constant stimulation. But I want to know who I am.

Identity is not a fixed thing. I know that. Who we are shifts from moment to moment, day to day, fucked-up disaster to fucked-up disaster. And brain-stimulation therapies that are used to treat mental illness do not create a new person . . . they just strip away the scar tissue to reveal what’s underneath.

I want to know what’s underneath my skullnet. I want to look down there again. I want to know for sure that the choices I’ve made are mine and that the loyalty I feel to ETM is real.

So I envision the skullnet. I envision its position beneath my scalp, on the surface of my skull. I imagine the electrical processes continuously shooting through it as it senses and modifies the activity in my brain. I envision that activity gradually slowing, descending into stillness.