“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE PRESIDENT 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.”

“Fuck,” Jaynie says softly. I can’t tell if she’s offended or pleased.

Flynn is less complicated. “I’ll do it!”

“I want to know more,” Harvey says, “but I’m interested.”

Moon looks around uneasily. “You know, we survived a hell of a lot already. I mean, how long can our luck hold out?”

That’s the smartest question I’ve ever heard Moon ask—but no one pays any attention to him.

Tuttle, as usual, is looking to Nolan for guidance, while Nolan is staring at me. After a few seconds, he asks, “What are you going to do, LT?”

“Go home. For a while, anyway.”

“But you’re not saying no?”

“I’m probably saying no. Moon’s got it right. Think hard about this before you sign anything.” I stand up. “You’ve got five months of pay in your accounts. Get a room, get laid, get stoned, whatever. Get a phone or farsights—and call me. Call me in a few days. We’ll figure things out.”

I make sure they all know how to contact me. Then our packs go on. We take our helmets in hand. “We’ve started a process,” I warn them. “And there’s going to be all kinds of fallout. There are people who support Thelma Sheridan, who support what she did on Coma Day, because they’re that scared of the Red. Those people are your enemies. So be careful of who you’re with and where you go—and don’t be surprised if things get crazy when her trial starts on Monday.” I pick up the folded bones of my dead sister. “Let’s go.”

•   •   •   •

I sit by the window on the evening train to New York, my dad beside me and my uncle across the aisle. I’m on edge, watching the dark reflections of the other passengers in the window. Watching the reflection of my dad as he watches me.

“You’ve been through a lot, Jimmy,” he says. “It’s going to take time to process. It’ll take time to find a new direction.”

“Yes, sir.”

I answer absently because I’m thinking about the squad, already second-guessing my decision to leave DC, to leave them on their own.

“Jimmy.”

I turn to look at him.

He gives me a half smile. “I never raised you to call me ‘sir,’ so don’t start now.”

I crack a smile of my own, though I’m not really feeling it. “Like you said, sir, it’ll take time to process.”

“Smartass.”

Across the aisle, my uncle nods off.

My dad tells me he’s not tired, that he’s too wired on the aftermath of adrenaline to sleep, but a few minutes later, he’s dozing too.

I stay awake and on watch. We’re in first class with just a few other passengers in our car and only the staff wander­ing through, so the potential risk seems minimal, but I remain alert anyway.

My dad wakes up again. He uses his tablet to answer e-mails. I watch my overlay. It’s almost time for the usual daily video upload of my life’s adventures, and I’m anxious to know what will happen now that the army’s programs are out of my head.

But nothing happens. There’s no activity—which means whatever story the Red was telling through me is over.

I should be relieved, but I’m not. I’m scared.

My dad looks up from his tablet as we pull into the station. His eyes are bright; he looks happy. “Almost there,” he assures me.

“I’m not looking forward to the crowds.”

Like I told my squad, we really do have enemies, and not just random crazies. I know Carl Vanda wants me dead and maybe the president does too, but if the Red is really gone I’ll have to handle it on my own, without the prescient warning sense that kept me alive in the past.

I never thought I’d miss the King David gig.

“You’ll be fine, Jimmy. Give it a week and it’ll feel like home again.”

I think it might take a little longer than that.

My heart races as we leave the train. The station isn’t crowded, but people are moving in so many different directions it’s hard to do a threat assessment. So I make sure we move quickly, and in just a few minutes we’re in a hired car that’s taking us through Manhattan’s midnight streets.

The city is changed. The glittering energy I remember on Saturday nights is gone. Only a few people are out and there are more bicycles than cars. “Is there a curfew?” I ask.

“No,” my dad says. “But the economy was hard hit on Coma Day.”

We say good night to my uncle, then go on to our own building, where a crowd of mediots and video stalkers waits for us at the door.

My dad sees the look on my face and shrugs. “Don’t worry too much about it. The celebrity can’t last.”

He’s right, but I still have to get past them. So I do the same thing I did in DC: pretend they’re not there. I walk through the throng with my helmet in one hand and my dead sister in the other, using the bulk of my equipment to open the way while I ignore their eager questions. I know I have to expect this. It’s going to be routine for a while to have strangers pressing around me, but I hate it. There’s no way to know if one of them has a gun or a knife, and I’m not wearing armor.

I should do something about that.

We make it into the lobby.

Overhead, a huge plastic banner greets me: Welcome home, James Shelley! You have the thanks of a grateful nation. Fortunately, no one’s around, so I don’t have to think of anything to say.

I press the button to call the elevator, but nothing happens. Apparently, my fingerprints are no longer in the system.

“We’ll get your biometrics reactivated tomorrow,” my dad says, pushing the button himself.

As we’re riding up, I tell him, “I want to go into the apartment first. Alone.”

“Why?”

“Just to check on things.”

Things like bombs rigged to go off on our arrival, or waiting assassins.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jimmy.”

I know he’s wrong.

We arrive at our floor. I want to rig up in my dead sister before we go any farther.

“Look, let me show you something,” my dad says. He puts down his suitcase and takes out his tablet. On its screen are feeds from security cameras inside the apartment. There is of course no one in any of the rooms. “An AI monitors the apartment at all times. No one’s been inside.”

“What if the AI’s been subverted?”

He gives me a dark look—“You can’t live your whole life being paranoid”—and picking up his suitcase he heads down the hall. The apartment door recognizes him and opens. No bombs go off. “Come on in,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re home.”

My dad is no sentimentalist. He had my room redecorated after I left, new furniture brought in. But the bed is still the same one I shared with Lissa when she stayed over on Saturday nights. It feels like I’m trespassing on someone else’s life when I lie there in the dark, remembering how it used to be. Melancholy grows until the flickering of the skullnet icon distracts me, reminds me there is no point in brooding. Why think on the past? I can’t change any of it. Why think at all? Better to sleep. The skullnet helps me with that. I don’t wake up again until past noon.

Then I wake in a panic, sweat-soaked, heart hammering. I’m out of bed and on my titanium feet before I know where I am.

I hear my dad talking, happy and relaxed in the living room, while in my head I hear a ghost voice shouting an urgent alarm: Rig up! Armor and bones!

What the hell is wrong with me?

I cross to the window and cautiously pull aside the heavy curtain, blinking into bright sunlight, studying the building across the street, wondering if there’s a sniper out there looking for me. I think about opening the curtain all the way, because I hate being afraid, and anyway, with the proper equipment, a shooter could see through the curtain and through the tinted window glass.

I open it and flood the room with sunlight.

But I stay well back from the window.

•   •   •   •

That afternoon, Sunday, I go through my e-mail and my phone log. I have my phone set to put live calls through only from select people. Everything else gets logged. I clear the log and after a quick scan I dump most of the e-mail, knowing I’ll never catch up. When I check the phone log again, there are twenty-four new calls. I recognize only one name: Joby Nakagawa, the brat engineer who made my legs.

Curiosity wins, and I call him back.

He links right away. A little image slides into sight on the periphery of my vision and I’m looking at his pale face framed in white-blond hair. “Hey, Joby.” Then, because he’s sensitive about his work and I have a bad habit of baiting him, I add, “I haven’t managed to break the legs yet. Still working on that.”

“You can’t fucking break the legs.”

I sure as hell hope he’s right.

He adds, “I can’t believe the fucking army gave them to you without consulting me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I told them I have a program running on your overlay—”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I have to track performance data on the legs. You didn’t erase it, did you?”

“I don’t think so, but the army wiped all their stuff.”

“I don’t put my data where Command can access it.”

He talks me through the file tree. It turns out he knows his way around my overlay better than I do.

“You see it?” he asks.

“‘Bonedance’?”

I hear a heartfelt sigh of relief. “So it’s still there. Okay. Find the settings.”

“Why? What do you want?”

“I want my data. It hasn’t been able to upload in months, and now the army has cut off my access.”

It’s nice to have confirmation that the army really is out of my head.

Joby and I have had our differences, but he did a damn fine job on my legs and I don’t see any reason to deny him his data. “Tell me what to do.”

We set up his access, and the first data package uploads. “Got it,” he confirms. “Okay . . . I’m setting the program to upload once a day.”

Suspicion kicks in. “Hold on. Is this going to include location data?”

“Is there anything you don’t complain about?”

“I’m not complaining. I’m asking a question.”

He must really want this to happen, because he bites back on his temper. “For the data to be meaningful, I need to know the environment you’re operating in.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t want to be tracked all over the globe?”

“Why? What have you got to hide? Are you going to work for Carl Vanda?”

This is so out of context, I’m at a loss for words.

“Because I heard you played the hero and saved his life—”

“Ah, shit.”

“—that you fucking got in the way after somebody set up a guaranteed kill.”

“Somebody?”

“Yeah.”

I inventory my memory of Joby’s menagerie of robot toys . . . and decide not to ask any more questions. “You’re right, Joby. I did get in the way, and I’m sorry for it. I really am.”

Several seconds pass in silence while he tries to decide if my apology is sincere.

It’s totally sincere.

“Yeah, all right. If you’re off on some secret mission, you can turn off the geopositioning. It’s just a check box.”

“Okay. I’ll do that if I need to.”

“Don’t forget to turn it on again.”

“Yeah.”

“Or I’ll reach in and do it for you. And if the legs ever do break? No one works on them but me. You got that?”

“Understood.”

•   •   •   •

I go through the closet and the drawers, pulling out my old civilian clothes, the leftovers of another life, from before I went into the army. I put all the slacks in a pile to be donated because my robot legs are two inches longer than my organic ones used to be. Most of the shirts still fit, though I discard a few that I must have purchased in a state of teenage euphoria.

Then I decide I’m going out.

I pull on a pair of knee-length athletic shorts and a running shirt, no shoes on my gray titanium feet because I don’t need them. My heart is thudding at the thought of going outside—which is why I have to go.

“Dad!”

“Yeah?”

I find him in the living room. “I’m going running.” I head straight for the door, not giving him a chance to object.

He doesn’t try. Just like last night, he’s braver than I am. “Don’t run over any mediots,” he advises me as I step into the hall.

It’s not the mediots who scare me. I’m used to being watched. It’s the potential for a bullet in my brain that’s got my heart racing.

The elevator stops twice to pick up people. Both times, the new arrivals do a double take on my legs before they realize who I am. Then it’s all smiles and welcome-homes. I want to be polite, but “Thank you” is all I can manage.

The skullnet icon is glowing steadily by the time I cross the lobby, but I still feel afraid. Outside the door there’s a gauntlet of at least fifteen mediots. They’ve caught sight of me and already their farsights are blinking in recording mode.

Face your fears, right? I step outside. A mob of strangers closes in, shouting questions. I shoulder through them. Feedback from my legs is a jumble of sharp sensation, hard to parse, but I think it’s telling me I’m stepping on feet, kicking ankles. I don’t care because I’m on the edge of panic, sure that someone in this crowd is not what they seem and that I’m about to take a knife in the ribs or feel the cold muzzle of a gun hard against the back of my neck, my last sensation. Then the sidewalk opens in front of me and I take off at a hard run.

The corner light cooperates with my escape, letting me cross the street. I turn right, then left, cross another street, and put another block behind me before I slow to a walk. I’m sucking for air; my heart’s hammering. Despite my daily workouts, the five months I spent in prison have wrecked my aerobic conditioning. I need to start training again, today. But for now I just walk.

The sidewalk is not crowded, but there are people coming and going, some in masks. It makes me uneasy, not seeing their faces. Anonymity shifts the power balance, which is why we always patrolled with our visors opaque.

I try not to make eye contact, but I notice anyway when gazes linger on my legs. Some people even stop and stare, their farsights blinking in recording mode. A few try to stop me, to get me to talk, but I just keep going.

In my logical mind I know it’s a beautiful afternoon, sunny and cool, but it’s not my logical mind that’s in control and I hate everything about being out on the street. I hate the touch of the breeze against my skin and the absurd lightness of my clothes that offer no protection against anything but sunburn; I hate that I don’t have the assistance of the squad drone and that I can’t tap into its angel vision to look around corners and assess hazards in the surrounding terrain. I hate that I have to turn around to know what’s behind me.

To think I used to live like this all the time, vulnerable without even knowing it.

I eye the traffic, study the windows on both sides of the street, check doorways and alleys as I pass. I evaluate the pedestrians, masked and unmasked, and keep my distance from them when I can. I want to be in uniform, anonymous behind my black visor, linked in to a squad willing and able to back me up. I want the counsel and advice of my handler Delphi.

Up ahead I see a new hazard: scaffolding over the sidewalk that’s holding up an ugly canopy to protect passers-by from an ongoing remodel of the building above. The sidewalk beneath the canopy is gloomy and enclosed. I don’t want to go there, but I make myself do it anyway. The scaffolding squeezes the pedestrian traffic and I wind up trapped behind two older women who’ve just come out of a store. On the street, a gray cargo van rolls slowly alongside the curb, falling so far behind the flow of traffic that a taxi driver lays on the horn. It makes me think of the fake FBI van in the parking garage of the federal courthouse . . . and of the merc whose throat I tore out.

I fade back toward the building, watching the van driver who is watching me through an open window. He’s a big man, muscular, with a military haircut. He’s not wearing a mask, so I get a good look at him. My encyclopedia detects my interest and launches a facial-recognition routine, but it can’t come up with an ID so he gets tagged unknown.

My paranoia is more creative, and labels him as an Uther-Fen mercenary.

I cut into a corner drugstore, weave between the aisles, go out a different door that opens onto a cross street where there is no scaffolding, waiting there until the van clears the intersection and moves on.

This street is luminous with late-afternoon light. It glints in rearview mirrors and the reflective faces of street signs, and picks out a flight of small objects suspended above the traffic: microdrones, three of them, hovering six meters or so above the center of the street. They look like aerial seekers, the palm-size helicopter drones the army uses for surveillance in urban environments, equipped with camera eyes, audio pickups, and chemical sensors.

I hear a faint buzz and turn to see another microdrone, this one just high enough above the street that it won’t be hit by trucks. Looking up, I see even more—gray objects hovering high between the buildings. I try to count them: Seven? Eight?

“More than usual,” a man observes.

I whip around, doing a threat assessment, ascertaining the position of potential enemy, but there’s just the one guy. No high-fashion mask for him; he’s going barefaced. He looks maybe thirty, skinny as a junkie, wearing tight jeans, a tighter shirt, and a lifeless prosthetic arm. He’s gazing up into the blue through the lens of his farsights.

“Since when are any of them usual?”

“Since Coma Day. It’s a whole new world out here.” He brings his gaze back to Earth, looks at me, and gets labeled with the same tag as the other guy: unknown. “You’re him, aren’t you?” He gestures with his dead arm. “I was in Bolivia. You got better equipment than I did.”

“The difference a couple years make. Who’s running the drones?”

“Police. Private security. Mediots. General snoops.”

“It’s legal?”

He shrugs. “They’re supposed to stay above the buildings. You know how that goes.”

A tiny green light winks on in the corner of his farsights. He’s recording me. I return the favor, logging an image of his face so my system will know him if we ever meet again. As I walk away, the microdrones retreat ahead of me like a flight of fairies.

Up ahead, I catch sight of the imposing bulk of an armored personnel carrier, rolling through the next intersection surrounded by civilian traffic. It’s an urban APC, with four wheels and four doors, marked with police insignia. So it’s come to this? The police riding in military equipment on a beautiful, peaceful spring day?

I cross the street and jog the next block, walk the one after that, alternating, but always looking around, evaluating threats. There’s so much going on, so much in motion, cars and pedestrians and drones and bicycles, with uncountable windows and rooftops for snipers to inhabit. I need an AI to track it all.

Calm down, I think. Calm down. Too bad my skullnet doesn’t know that command. The icon glows, but it’s only taking the edge off, because in my profession—my former profession—a healthy fear can be the difference between life and death . . . but this isn’t a healthy fear. If Delphi were with me, she’d adjust the biometrics, but I don’t have a way to do that.

I stop wishing for it when I hear a shot—bang!—echoing off the buildings. I scramble for cover, shouldering open the door of a deli. Standing well back behind the window display, I try to guess where the shot came from, where it hit. Bang! I flinch as another gunshot rings out—except it’s not a gunshot. Across the street, a pair of overenthusiastic kids helping out on a remodel are hurling old plywood panels into a steel truck bed.

My hands are shaking, but I make myself go outside again. The gray van I saw before is waiting at the curb, hazard lights flashing. The sliding door is ajar. Two muscular men stand on the sidewalk beside it, arguing in Russian. They wear civilian clothes but have military haircuts. Both look up at me. “Hey,” one says, switching to English as the van door slides open wider on remote control.

I don’t stay to find out what he has to say, or what’s inside the van. Uptown traffic is stalled, so I make my escape by cutting in front of the van and then weaving between the cars until I’m in the middle of the street. I scare the shit out of an oncoming bicyclist as I dart in front of him to get to the opposite sidewalk. A block uptown a siren goes off. I look over my shoulder. One of the Russians is in the street, glaring at me, but his hands are empty. He’s not carrying a weapon. Maybe he’s not Uther-Fen after all. Maybe he’s just a civilian who wants to tell his friends he got to meet the fucking Lion of Black Cross.

The siren is getting louder. The Russian glances uptown, scowls, and retreats, jumping into his van as a police APC like the one I saw before heads our way, lumbering across the intersection under lights and siren. I turn and walk fast for the corner. I want to get around it and out of sight, but the cops have other ideas.

The APC swoops up to the curb in a no-parking zone just ahead of me. Doors open. The cop riding shotgun jumps out, along with two more from the backseat. They head straight for me and I know I’m in trouble again for jaywalking in this town.

The first cop grins at his fellow officers. “I told you it was him. Lieutenant Shelley, sir, it is an honor to meet you—”

I glance back at the van, in time to see it turning the corner.

“—but I need to warn you not to cross the street like that. Tickets for pedestrian violations get issued automatically now, and there’s nothing I can do to help you out.”

“What?”

“You know, street cameras, they ID you with facial recognition and a ticket shows up in your city account if you’re a resident, last known address otherwise.” He sticks out his hand; his name tag says Sutherland. “Welcome home.”

Officer Sutherland is carrying a gun, but I estimate the odds of him shooting me are low and I don’t want the NYPD pissed off at me, so I shake his hand and then I shake hands with the other cops, trying not to show how messed up I am.

I think they suspect. Sutherland says, “It must be a shock for you, being in the big city again.”

I ask about the microdrones. “Is it always like this?”

They turn to look at my flock of hovering fairies and as they do, the drones move away, rising higher between the buildings. “Shit,” Officer Sutherland says. “Let me get the meter.”

While he returns to the APC, one of the other cops explains. “All the drones emit IDs, so we can cite their reg­is­­tered owners for harassment, and seize the equipment on a repeat offense.”

But by the time Sutherland is back with the meter, the drones are out of sight. “We’ll log you into the system,” he promises me. “Then our drones can monitor the situation.”

I guess that means it’s only police drones that are going to be pursuing me from now on, but I don’t ask.

They let me go on my way, but I’m done. I need to get off the street.

I start to flag down a cab. Then I get a better idea. A few more blocks will bring me to Elliot Weber’s apartment building. Elliot’s a journalist, and he’s been my friend since before I went in the army—though now that I think about it, his name wasn’t in my phone log. It’s possible he doesn’t want to see me. During our last conversation, he was trying to tell me something important, and I wasn’t listening. We didn’t part on the best of terms.

It would be smart to call ahead, but I don’t.

Maybe he’s not even home.

I get to the lobby, and then I make the call.

He startles me by picking up right away. “Shelley? Where are you?”

“Downstairs.”

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

•   •   •   •

His apartment hasn’t changed much: notes and papers on every horizontal surface; a stack of old tablets; a large monitor on the wall; a collection of long lenses for a digital SLR I’ve never seen him use. He sprawls on the couch, long and wiry, his tightly curled black hair cut short and his eyes veiled by the tinted lens of his farsights. I stand at the side of the window, studying the windows across the street, and the cars and people below. Looking up, I see a microdrone floating against the pale blue sky.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Elliot tells me, “but this needs to be said up front, so we understand each other. I appreciate your intentions on the First Light mission, but I think what you did was absolutely crazy. And wrong. There was no excuse for it. People died.”

Lissa died.

The Uther-Fens we killed? I don’t care about them. They were the enemy, and they were in our way.

Still, after being treated like a hero ever since the pardon, I’m almost relieved to hear a different opinion.

“I’m glad you got off,” Elliot adds.

A gray van rolls slowly down the street, but I’m sure now that the Russian who tried to talk to me wasn’t working for Carl Vanda.

Elliot gets up, walks to the window, looks down at the traffic. “What’s up, Shelley?”

“I walked here and it was crazy. I was crazy. I was scared to be out there. I thought I’d get over it if I kept going, but it just got worse.”

“Like a King David thing? A warning from the Red?”

“No.” I try to laugh at myself, but the truth is I feel like I’ve been abandoned. “It hasn’t messed with my head since I got back from First Light. I’m on my own now. I think my character’s been cut from the show.”

“Shelley . . .”

“I sound kind of crazy, don’t I?” The van moves on, nothing suspicious about it. “It’s just PTSD. I’m not the scary prick behind the black mask anymore, you know? I’m just scared I’m going to run into that guy. But it’s stupid. No one came after me.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Elliot says. “But it’s not stupid. You’ve got enemies. You have to know that.”

I tense as I see someone move behind one of the windows across the street.

“I’ve got neighbors,” Elliot reminds me. “Not all of them are killers.”

“Sorry.” I tell myself there’s nothing outside I need to worry about, but I’m not convinced.

“You want to sit down?” Elliot asks, gesturing at the couch.

No. I want to watch the street and I want to know what’s going on around me. It occurs to me that Elliot likes to know what’s going on too. That’s what makes him a good journalist. Once he latches on to a subject, it’s hard to get him to let go—and he was interested in me. “Did you find out if there was anyone else like me?” I ask him.

“Like you? Another King David?”

“Yeah. Right before Coma Day, you were telling me you’d already heard a rumor about the Red, that there were soldiers in the linked combat squads who’d been hacked.”

“Oh, okay. I remember that. I was doing a lot of research at the time—the unreliable sort that involves fringe sites and crazy speculation.”

“So was it real? Were there others like me?”

“I don’t know. I never got any names or details, if that’s what you’re asking. But you know what? I’ve got something better. How would you like to meet the film editor who put together the reality shows?”

I turn to him in astonishment. “Is that a hypothetical question?”

“No. I’ve met her. She’s here in the city. I can probably set up a time to see her tomorrow, if you can make it.”

“I can make it. How did she get the contract? Who dictated the script?”

He starts in on an involved explanation of how she came to handle the show, but I get a call on my overlay. It’s an unknown number but it’s got my passcode extension, so it rings through. “Hold on,” I tell Elliot. And with my gaze I accept the call.

“LT?”

“Flynn?” I turn away from the window. “Flynn, is that you? Are you okay?”

“When are you coming back, LT?” She doesn’t sound okay; she sounds like she’s been crying. “’Cause I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

“Where are you, Flynn?”

“In a hotel.”

I’m imagining that some asshole she picked up in a bar has been beating up on her, but then I check myself. This is Flynn. She tries to take after Harvey. If a guy pushed her around, she’d probably gut him. Fuck, maybe she did.

“Flynn, are you alone?”

“Sort of. Sergeant Vasquez is next door.”

“You haven’t been in any fights?”

“No.”

“Okay. You stay out of trouble. I know it’s a hard transition, but it’s going to work out.”

“It’s just . . . I’m scared shitless every time I step outside. I feel like I’m gonna get slammed every time I go around a corner. I hate it here. I hate it.”

“It’s just the first day. It’s going to get better.” I hear her ragged breathing. “Flynn?”

“You’re not coming back, are you?”

“I am. I’ll see you in a day or two. It’ll be okay.”

Afterward, Elliot emerges from the kitchen where he retreated out of politeness. “Flynn of the Apocalypse Squad?” he asks, handing me a glass of water. “Flynn who pulled a gun on you?”

“That wasn’t her fault. That was Rawlings.” I drink the water in one go. “I should head home.”

“You’re going to call a cab, right?”

“No.” It’s strange, but I feel a little less scared after talking to Flynn. “I’m going to walk. Nothing happened on my way here. Nothing is going to happen if I walk home.”

He shakes his head. “That’s a dangerous assumption. You’re not going to get your old life back, Shelley. It’s not a matter of will. Your world has changed.”

I head for the door. “Let me know what time tomorrow.”

“Stubborn as ever. Hold on a second. I’ll go downstairs with you and show you a back way out.”

We go to the first floor. I follow him to a fire door on the side of the building. “It’s not as obvious as leaving by the front . . . I mean, if you think there’s a chance the bad guys followed you here?”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know what’s real and what’s paranoia, but I’ll play the game. I ease the door open just wide enough to get through. “See you tomorrow,” I tell Elliot. Then I take off, running flat out to the corner, where the light’s against me. I look back, I look around, I look for someone, anyone out to kill me, but there’s nobody. I don’t even see the microdrones anymore. Maybe the cops got rid of them after all. The light turns and I walk across the street.

•   •   •   •

Twenty-five minutes later I’m two blocks from home and no one’s tried to slam me yet. It looks like I might make it.

The sun has set, but there’s still plenty of light as I approach the corner. The traffic light’s against me, so I slow my pace, waiting for it to change. On the opposite corner a group of four is waiting to cross. One of them is an older man. He’s chatting with two women, both of them wearing pretty white masks with gold filigree. A third woman stands a few feet away, half turned, looking back toward my dad’s apartment building. She’s slender, dressed in boots, dark slacks, and a gray coat, with blond hair down to her shoulders. I follow her gaze to where four or five mediots are still loitering on the sidewalk.

If I were going to set up an ambush, it would be here, where sooner or later my target would show.

I change my mind, deciding I’m not ready to go home yet. I step around the corner and into a shadow, to wait and watch.

The light changes. The pedestrians on the other side of the street step into the crosswalk. The man and the two masked women walk and talk together, but the other woman, the blonde without a mask, walks by herself. I catch my breath as my overlay identifies her.

Her eyes look gray in the waning light. She’s three-quarters of the way across the street when she sees me. She hesitates. Her lips part in an expression of disbelief. Still in the street, she turns to look again at the mediots. Then she hurries to the curb. Her face is smooth, unmarred by smile lines.

“Delphi.” My heart is beating hard again, but it’s a good thing this time.

“Hi, Shelley.” Her voice is magical. It’s comfort. Delphi’s no-nonsense guidance kept me alive more times than the Red. She cocks her head; still no smile. I want to move in, sweep her up in my arms, let her know how happy I am to see her, but I don’t quite dare. I don’t know what our boundaries are.

A faint blush in her cheeks hints that she’s feeling awkward too. She says, “I was waiting with the paparazzi, hoping I’d get to see you, but it started to feel like a bad idea. . . . You’re not still recording everything, are you?”

“No. Not since the army got deleted from my overlay. You want to get dinner?”

She looks me up and down, eyeing my titanium legs and my running clothes. “You’re not really dressed for it.”

I do not want her to go away. “Can we just walk?”

She lifts her chin to indicate the cross street, and that’s the way we go. As we walk, she studies the street, the buildings overhead; she eyes the traffic. Every few steps, she looks over her shoulder. After the first block I ask her, “Have you seen the microdrones?”

“Yes.” We walk another half block in silence. Then, “You probably don’t know this, but after Black Cross I resigned my position.”

That catches me by surprise. I think about the other soldiers she handled, feeling sorry for them.

“I moved back home to Madison, but when I heard about your pardon, well . . .” She looks up at me—she only comes up to my shoulder—and for the first time she gives me a little smile. “I worry about you, and I just . . . I really wanted to see you one more time. That’s why I’m here.”

I think if I could convey to her the truth about how glad I am she’s here, I’d scare her away. So I just tell her part of it. “Geez, Delphi, if I could have picked one person, one living person, to magically appear on the street in front of me tonight, it would have been you.”

She overlooks my joy and reacts to my grief. “I’m sorry for your girlfriend, Shelley. And I’m sorry for Ransom. He was a hell of a soldier. And Colonel Kendrick too.”

“Do me a favor?”

She looks back over her shoulder. “I can try. What do you need?”

“Tell me your name.”

•   •   •   •

It’s Karin Larsen. A name as smart and no-nonsense as she is. Walking with her, I feel my nervousness leach away. I stop looking at everything with suspicion. I start to relax.

We hit one of those lulls when, for a few seconds, the sidewalk is empty. The street is clear. Delphi points down the block. “That’s my hotel on the corner.”

I don’t want to let her go. “Is there a bar? Maybe we could sit for a few minutes.”

“Do you drink?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“No.”

She laughs, looking up at the buildings across the street, looking over her shoulder. “Glad to hear it, because that’s what I remember from your personnel—”

There’s a catch in her breath. “Drop!”

I do it just like I would on patrol. She’s still standing, looking up at something behind us when I hit the concrete. In the field, I’d take the impact on the struts of my dead sister, but here it’s my forearms. I have just enough time to register how much it hurts when a little crater bursts open in the sidewalk a meter in front of me. Concrete chips and hot metal fragments tear into my face. I roll toward the building as another bullet bites the sidewalk where I was until half a second ago. I roll to my feet.

“Shelley, get in here!”

Delphi has retreated into an alcove with a glass door. She’s got the door open. I hurl myself after her and we stumble together into the building.

She looks at me. “You’re bleeding.”

We’re in the hotel lobby, near the elevator. On the other side of the lobby, the desk clerk is busy checking in two guests and hasn’t noticed us. No one else is in sight. I pull Delphi away from the door. “They could shoot through it.”

“They could come through it. I’m calling the police.”

“No, hold on.” My dad’s been through enough. He doesn’t need to know about this. “I don’t want to deal with the police. They’re going to use words like ‘protective custody.’ And anyway, there’s nothing they can do. The shooter will be long gone. These things get done in secret or they don’t get done at all. No one is coming through that door.”

I feel a warm trickle on my face and wipe it away.

Delphi looks like she wants to argue, but instead she grabs my arm and drags me toward the elevator, which opens at her touch. “If anyone asks, you fell down.”

No one asks. We get to the fourteenth floor and into her room without meeting anyone.

It’s a standard hotel room, with a king bed, two nightstands, a small desk, and a monitor on the wall above a set of drawers. The curtains are open, but the window looks out onto the cross street, not onto the street where the shooter waited for us.

Of course, a second shooter could be on this side of the hotel.

Delphi uses a remote control to close the blinds and the room goes black. Only after a few seconds can I see the green glow of a night-light from the bathroom.

“Even with the blinds closed, we need to stay away from the window,” I warn her. “A good surveillance drone can see through . . .” I catch myself, as it occurs to me that Delphi knows exactly what a good surveillance drone can see through. “Sorry. You’re the expert.”

Her voice comes out of the dark, low, annoyed. “Get in the shower and wash off the blood. I’ll be right back.”

•   •   •   •

She returns with skin glue from the hotel convenience store.

We put a chair in the bathroom, and I sit in my running shorts looking up at the bright makeup lights while she glues the broken parts of my face back together, using her eyebrow tweezers to dig out bits of concrete I missed when I washed out the cuts in the shower.

It hurts, which is the only thing keeping my head clear.

My shirt is hanging up in the shower, drying after I washed the blood out. With the lights and the lingering steam there’s already a fine sheen of sweat across my bare chest. Delphi has taken off her coat and her boots. She’s leaning over me, wearing a silky white sleeveless pullover so sheer that every time she inhales I can see the contours of her bra as it cups her small breasts. Her skin’s scent is magnetic and my brain is soaked with it. I stare at her from six inches away, committing an assault with my eyes, trespassing with my gaze against her features: her pale, creamy skin, pink lips parted in concentration, blond hair hooked behind petite ears, glistening brown lashes, and her bright blue eyes firmly focused on the task of minimizing my scars.

“Stop,” she says without looking away from what she’s doing, “staring at me.”

“I can’t help it.”

She smiles, which does not improve my predicament. It’s all I can do to keep my hands off her.

Too soon, she’s done. I look in the mirror, to see each little cut glued neatly closed. “You’re really good,” I say, honestly impressed.

Her blue eyes meet my dark brown ones in the mirror. “Every handler gets three weeks’ training in first aid and trauma. We can’t coach you if we don’t know how it’s done.”

“Training, huh? I always thought of you as a magic genie who was there whenever I called your name.” I smile, gazing into her reflected eyes. “I guess I still think of you that way.”

There’s a flush in her pale cheeks as she looks away. “Too hot in here for me,” she whispers, and walks out into the room.

I’m thinking of her and that big bed out there with its creamy sheets when I should be thinking about a sniper outside the window or a death squad outside the door . . . but I guess every man has his priorities.

•   •   •   •

The room is dark except for the light from the bathroom. Delphi is half sitting, half leaning on the dresser, her arms crossed, looking at me with grave eyes. “You had no idea that bullet was coming, did you? You always used to know these things, Shelley. What happened to King David?”


“Gone.” If not for Delphi, I’d be dead. “I think it’s not my story anymore.”

If not for Delphi, I would never have walked down the street outside this hotel, and into an ambush. I give her a puzzled look, my heart running a little fast. “How the hell did they know I’d be here?”

Her arms are crossed tight just beneath her breasts. “I think it was a backup plan.” She frowns at the floor. “My guess: They had their primary shooter at your apartment. Then some analyst ID’d me while I was waiting there for you, and decided I might work as bait.”

People are predictable, and the more that’s known about them, the easier it is to call their next move. My life is an open book, so it wouldn’t have been hard for a skilled analyst to know how I feel about Delphi.

“If that was the plan, it was a good one.” I sit down on the bed. “I expected a sniper at the apartment—hell, I’ve been expecting a sniper all day—but when it finally happened, I was distracted.” I get up again and move closer to her. I touch her cheek. She looks up, surprising me with an angry glint in her eyes. I don’t understand what’s going on, what she wants, what she doesn’t want. “Delphi . . . Karin . . . are you sorry I’m here? Do you want me to go?”

She answers with a little, exasperated laugh. “No.”

“Then tell me what you’re thinking, because if you make me guess I’m going to get it wrong.”

“You’ve been expecting a sniper all day, but you’ve been walking around on the street. Why, Shelley? Do you have a death wish?”

This is not the conversation I want to have. “Look, I’ve been reading this whole thing wrong. I’m going to go.” My shirt is still wet, but what the hell.

“I thought you died at Black Cross,” she says, stopping me as I head for the bathroom.

I turn back, sure that I’m missing something, that there is more behind her words than I’m wired to understand.

Her voice and her gaze are steady. “You do crazy things, Shelley, and I can’t tell how much of it’s you and how much of it is the Red playing you. At Black Cross, when you went outside, I was there with you. Remember? I was looking through your eyes. I saw the flash when that nuke went off. I saw the analysis—and I knew it was over. You were dead. You had to be, and it didn’t make any sense to me.” She looks away. “That whole mission, I’d been so scared. And then we won . . . it seemed like we won . . . until you walked outside for no reason and then you were gone. All contact lost.”

She has started to tremble, though she’s trying not to show it. Her arms are still crossed, her shoulders hunched. She won’t look at me. I go back to her, touch her shoulder. I have no idea what to say. Black Cross was a lifetime ago.

She looks up at me with her somber eyes. “I couldn’t handle it.” Looks away again. “I went home and I cried for hours. I sent in my resignation. And no one bothered to tell me you were still alive. When episode two came out, I thought it was propaganda. It wasn’t until you came back from First Light that I started to think it might be true, that you really had survived. It’s stupid, but that’s why I came here. Just to be sure you’re not some figment of govern­ment propaganda or a generated character conjured up by the Red.”

“I am so damn sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m not looking for an apology. It’s not your fault. And you don’t owe me anything—”

“Yes, I do.”

She looks up at me again. “Then stop making yourself a target. Stop daring God or the Red or whoever or whatever it is. I’ve already seen you die once for no reason. Once is enough.”

I put my arms around her. She’s still got her arms crossed, but she leans into me a little.

“Being a civilian is a raw deal,” I tell her.

She scoffs. “You’ve decided that already?”

“Hell, yeah. I hated being out on that street today. I never felt so vulnerable in my life. I don’t want to go out without my armor and bones, my weapons, my angel eyes. Without you, looking over my shoulder. At Dassari, we hunted down and we killed anyone who tried to kill us. . . . NYPD is being nice to me, but I don’t think they’re going to let me get away with that here.”

“Probably not. So what are you going to do?”

I tell her about the e-mail from Anne Shima. “I haven’t talked to her yet, but most of the squad is kind of interested and Flynn’s all for it. She’s had enough of civilian life. She’s having trouble adjusting. I am too.”

“You’ve been out one day.”

“One day, and somebody tried to blow my head open. I want to be in a position to hit back.”

“There is that.” She sighs and shifts, yielding at last. Her arm goes around my waist as she rests her head against my chest like she’s listening to my heart beating. “So you’ve already decided?”

“I think so. I think it’s my best choice. And I want you to be part of it—I mean, if you don’t mind working with me again and you need a job that may or may not be legal.”

“Oh, a chance to watch you die again?”

“Well, that’s not the goal.”

She laughs, soft and cynical and deep in her throat. It’s like she’s already seen everything that’s going to unfold between us and she knows what an idiot I’m going to be.

And I want her.

So badly.

I give up on being a gentleman. I scoop her up, making her gasp, and then I collapse on the bed with her, kissing her face, her neck, waiting for her to protest, to tell me to get the fuck out of there, but she doesn’t so I unhook the little pearl button at the back of her shirt and she helps me to get it off and then I get her bra unhooked and out of the way and kiss her pink nipples, my brown hands looking so dark against her pale, pale skin. She makes a little mewling noise as she unbuttons her pants. I pull back just long enough to help her get them off, to get her panties off, to get my shorts off, and then I’m against her again, skin to skin, pushing into her but slowly, making myself go slowly, I don’t want to hurt her. She pulls my head down, bringing my mouth to her mouth and we kiss, deep and wet and I’m all the way inside her and I don’t think I could stop now if she told me to, but she doesn’t. She throws her head back and we fuck and I hold out as long as I can and she comes, I come, we come together.

•   •   •   •

By the middle of the night we’re exhausted and paranoid. Fear of death squads makes us ask for a different room.

•   •   •   •

“Hey, Shelley. I guess you’re still alive.”

I don’t remember answering the call, but it’s Elliot, speaking through my audio implants. I blink my eyes, trying to wake up, trying to focus on the time displayed in my overlay: 0932. Jesus.

I have a vague memory of calling my dad sometime last night, letting him know I’d met someone and not to worry. I’m struggling to figure out where Elliot comes into the equation. Delphi is curled up next to me, breathing softly, still asleep, but her eyes blink open when I ask Elliot, “Uh . . . yeah, what’s up?”

He sounds irritated. “You remember we were going to see the film editor behind Linked Combat Squad?”

I do remember that.

“Shelley, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I just woke up. What time is the appointment?”

“Ten thirty. You okay with that?”

“Yeah. I’m going to bring a friend.”

“Who?”

I trade a gaze with Delphi. “Where should I meet you?” I ask him.

“I’ll text you the address. Make sure you show up.” Then he adds, “Thelma Sheridan’s trial started today, in case you forgot about that too.” The link closes.

I frown, reaching past Delphi to the nightstand for the TV remote.

“Where are we going?” she wants to know, stretching beautifully with her arms over her head.

I give up on the remote and reach for her breast instead. “To see a filmmaker.”

She catches my wrist, giving me a dark look. “A filmmaker? You haven’t had enough exposure lately?”

•   •   •   •

When I get out of the shower the TV is on, with a blond mediot made up to plastic perfection reading lines from behind a news desk. “. . . the so-called trial of kidnapped American Thelma Sheridan began today. Sheridan is accused of crimes against humanity for alleged involvement in the Coma Day atrocities in the United States.”

Delphi, dressed in a white hotel robe, is packing her suitcase. She gives me a suspicious look as I sit down at the foot of the bed. It’s like she can see the skullnet icon, flickering in the corner of my vision.

“She has refused all legal counsel or representation, and this morning she faced a hostile courtroom as she delivered a stirring opening statement.”

In Niamey, it’s already afternoon.

The video shifts to a courtroom. The camera pans across a panel of seven judges, middle aged to elderly: four women, three men; Asian, European, African, the flags of many countries draped from poles behind them.

Next we see Thelma Sheridan. It’s a close-up shot designed to make her look noble, brave. She’s gazing off camera, her expression fiercely determined. Her hair has been freshly trimmed but not colored, and the new growth coming in is gray. There is a shadow that could be a bruise across one flat cheekbone. I flash on a memory of her with Ransom’s blood splattered on her face. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

The clip cuts to her speaking, midsentence: “. . . sought no representation. I will make no defense. To do so would only legitimize an illegal proceeding. I have been held here against my will, punished for a crime I did not commit. My true offense, the offense that made me a pariah among powerful elements in the American government, was my well-known opposition to the invasive artificial intelligence known as the Red.

“Under secret orders issued extraconstitutionally, the so-called Apocalypse Squad was tasked to remove me from my home and transport me here to face a mock trial on false charges. But I will not be silenced.

“The world is facing a threat unlike any other. The Red is real. It is an invading entity, born of our hubris, and now taking control over all human systems. It is our duty to resist.”

Extreme words, but not all untrue. Jaynie might say the same thing. Like Sheridan, she has a vendetta against the Red. It offends her to imagine her life plotted and manipulated. If Jaynie could eliminate the AI, she would—but not at the cost of burning down the world.

Thelma Sheridan doesn’t share that restraint. “Any action taken to limit or destroy the Red is justified, in defense of the future existence and autonomy of humanity.”

“So she was justified in what she did.” I turn to Delphi.

She meets my gaze with a wary frown.

“That’s what she’s saying,” I insist.

“Yes.”

It’s not the Red that frightens me.

The clip ends and we’re looking again at the blond mediot, nodding her perfect face in sympathy with the accused. “The prosecution began presenting evidence today, though our legal consultants tell us that by the standards of American courts, this evidence is tainted—”

The TV turns off. Delphi tosses the remote onto the bed. “You look like you’re about to take a swing at someone.”

“Sorry.” I lie back and stare at the ceiling.

“Ten thirty,” she reminds me.

I get up again.

She heads for the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says over her shoulder. “And then we need to stop by your place so you can change clothes.”

All I have with me are running clothes. “There’s a store downstairs. I’ll just buy something.”

I wait until the bathroom door closes behind her, then I call my dad. He sounds relieved to hear from me. “Jimmy, you okay?”

“I’m good. I’m going to come by the apartment later.”

“Call me when you do. I’m at work, but we can get lunch.”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

There’s an awkward pause. I want to reassure him, but there’s not much I can say. “We’ll talk later,” I promise, and we leave it at that.

Delphi is still in the shower when I go downstairs. There’s a self-serve boutique in the hotel lobby where I pick out a collared shirt and slacks. I scan the tags at the checkout. Then, using my overlay, I call up my bank account number—I can never remember it—and tap it in on the touch screen. The amount shows up on my overlay. I approve it, and the transaction is done.

I try to get back upstairs, but the room was reserved under the name of Karin Larsen. The elevator doesn’t know me and won’t open at my touch, so I change clothes in the lobby restroom. Delphi is at the desk, checking out, when I reemerge in the guise of a respectable civilian. She’s wearing farsights today. She looks me up and down through their clear lens, her gaze lingering extra seconds on my bare titanium feet before returning to my face. With a flicker of a smile she tells me, “I approve.”

From that point, she assumes control of the operation, directing me to stay inside while she surveys the street and summons a cab. I’m not even allowed to carry her suitcase. “It will slow you down.” Only when she’s in the backseat does she turn and crook a finger at me. I shove the door open and bolt, rocking the cab as I drop onto the seat beside her, slamming the door behind me.

“Get down!” she orders, manhandling me until my head is in her lap. She glares at the driver, a small, black-skinned woman who is scowling at us over the back of the seat. “Let’s go,” Delphi says. “Before the mediots find out he’s here.”

The driver eyes me suspiciously, and then recognition sparks. “Hey, you’re—”

Delphi isn’t one to be trifled with. “Let’s go.”

•   •   •   •

The address Elliot gave me is an office building on West Fifty-Fourth. On the way over, we research the building and study the directory of tenants. Delphi is annoyed that I don’t have the company name, but there’s only one likely candidate: Koi Reisman Productions. They do most of their work for charitable organizations, editing raw digital footage to develop docudramas with maximum emotional appeal. Nowhere in their company profile is it mentioned that they’ve worked on Linked Combat Squad.

Elliot meets us in the lobby, looking surprised when he sees me. “What happened to your face?”

I forgot about the cuts. “Nothing’s bleeding, right?”

“No.”

I decide not to answer his question, and turn instead to Delphi, to make the introductions. “Elliot, this is Karin Larsen. Karin, Elliot Weber.”

Delphi is surveying everyone present, using her farsights to log faces, masked and unmasked, into a database so she’ll have a record of who was present if trouble finds us. This keeps her busy, so she doesn’t bother with chitchat. Glancing at Elliot, she asks, “What led you to Koi Reisman Productions?”

Elliot has watched Linked Combat Squad many times—enough that he recognizes her voice. “You’re Delphi!”

“Come on, Shelley,” she says. “I don’t like being in the open, especially when I can’t identify everyone.” She strides to the security desk, pulling her little rolling suitcase. On the desk is a prominent sign: Security Requires Masks to Be Removed. Fine with me.

We present ourselves, and have our faces scanned and our appointment confirmed. During the process, Elliot gives me a questioning look. “Doesn’t she work for Guidance?”

I smile. “Not anymore.”

We’re admitted through the security gate, to the bank of elevators. One is standing open. We step aboard and Delphi touches the key for the nineteenth floor.

“It’s on the twentieth,” Elliot says as the doors close.

She gives him an arch look. “Shelley will wait on the floor below until I’ve assessed the situation on the twentieth. Did you tell anyone else about this appointment?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.” Elliot looks at me. “What the hell is going on?”

“I wasn’t just being paranoid yesterday,” I tell him.

“Someone came after you?”

I nod.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Lots of candidates, though. Carl Vanda. Rogue Uther-Fen. Nativists offended by what I’ve done to US sovereignty. Any dragon who resents losing privilege. The president?”

“So what happened? Did you call the police?”

I don’t want to scare him with the details, so all I say is, “The police can’t help.”

The elevator stops on the nineteenth floor. No one is in sight, so I step off. Elliot starts to follow, than changes his mind and stays with Delphi. I wait by a window, looking down on the city. A minute later, Delphi calls. “We’re clear.” I take the stairwell up.

•   •   •   •

Koi Reisman Productions is a small firm with a staff of three. Koi herself is an older woman with a dancer’s petite figure. She wears her thick gray hair in a braid on her shoulder and speaks in a low, precise voice. “I need to let you know there’s an NDA, a nondisclosure agreement. I know why you’re here, but there’s not much I can talk about.”

FaceValue suggests she is nervous. I screenshot the report and send it to Delphi.

“This is all off the record,” Elliot assures her. “Just like before.”

We’re in a sitting area in the front office, furnished with a couch and armchairs. The two assistant editors and the office manager have disappeared into the back.

Koi glances at the door before returning her gaze to me. “Elliot took advantage of my vanity. No one was supposed to know we were the firm doing the work on this project, and I was okay with that when we started. The money was good, is good.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ve worked on a lot of meaningful projects in my career, but Linked Combat Squad is easily the best work I’ve ever done—and no one knows I’ve done it except my staff and Elliot, who let me believe”—she gives him a dirty look—“that he already knew what was going on, leading me to share more than I should have.”

Elliot is concerned. “Did someone find out you talked to me?”

“It was bound to get out,” she says in a cautious voice.

She’s clearly uncomfortable, worried about what she can say, so before she decides to say nothing, I ask what I want to know the most: “How many episodes are planned? Is it just episode four?”

She frowns, not meeting my gaze. “There isn’t going to be an episode four. Linked Combat Squad has finished its run. That’s been reported in all the media.”

I don’t believe her. In my cell, I watched my overlay send uploads almost every night for five months. “It’s not over,” I insist. “There’s been more digital footage. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Video from the courthouse?”

She bites her lip, and after a few seconds she whispers, “Oh, screw the NDA. You deserve to know, if anybody does. It’s not episode four. It’s a new series. The contract is for three shows—”

“Three?” I start to sweat, thinking about where the material for three shows might come from, and wondering if I’m going to get pulled back in.

She watches me with wide, wary eyes. “The first episode was finished over the weekend. It’ll be released tonight in a special showing. The series is called Against the Beast. My staff and I, we think it’s a double reference—to dragons like Thelma Sheridan who imperil the world, and to Revelation, where the dragon summons the beasts of the Apocalypse—a metaphor for nuclear weapons. At least that’s how we interpret it.” She sighs, and then she smiles an apologetic smile. “We live in a crazy quilt of cultural traditions. Our mytho­logies are as blended as we are. It doesn’t really matter if we’ve got the interpretation right. It only matters that the name resonates with the people who watch the show.”

I want to know everything about the new series: who’s involved and how the process works. Because then, maybe, I can understand the purpose behind the shows, and maybe I can guess what’s coming.

“Who’s your contact person?”

“There is no one, beyond the federal contracting officer, and that’s just financial. I’ve talked to her. She doesn’t know what we’re doing here. She gets a notice to approve the payments, and she does.”

“So there’s no direct oversight?”

“None.”

“And how much material do you receive? Do you have to fast-forward through all twenty-four hours of every day?”

“No! No, no, no. We’d never be able to handle that in the time we’re given. We get extended clips, and we work from those. We don’t see the boring stuff—the quiet time, the sleep periods, the personal hygiene that no one wants to see.”

“You don’t know who selects the clips?”

“No.”

“Do you get daily updates?”

“No, they come in every few days, a package of files with digital footage from multiple cameras. The record from your overlay is only part of it. There’s a lot more going on, especially in the new episode. It’s called The Trials, plural, because the integrity of all the main characters is tested.”

“What about the next two episodes? Have you seen scripts or story outlines or anything like that?”

“No. There’s never a script. It’s up to me to make a coherent story out of the material I receive.”

“Out of my life?”

“For Linked Combat Squad, yes.”

Delphi speaks for the first time. “Why do you think Linked Combat Squad was your best work?”

I think it’s a peculiar question, but Koi doesn’t. “Because it told an important story that spoke to many different people. These days, most programming is aimed at a narrow audience. LCS was different. It was aimed at a wide range of narrow audiences. It had universal elements that appealed across demographic bubbles, elements that affected a range of people, inspired them, united them . . . let people know that individuals can make a difference, even if there’s a heavy price to pay.”

“The demonstration on the National Mall,” Elliot said. “That only happened because of the show.”

Koi leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees so her braid sways free. In a conspiratorial whisper she says, “That’s the aim of the show—to shift the direction of the culture. That’s how I see it. The story is expanding, Lieutenant Shelley. Your court-martial is part of the new episode of course, but it’s just a small part. I don’t think you need to worry about the other two shows, because your role appears to end with the pardon.”

So I was right.

“Does the new show include any other soldiers?” I ask. “Anyone like me?”

I feel Delphi stiffen beside me. She puts her hand on my arm, making me wonder what she knows, but I can ask her later. For now, I keep my gaze on Koi, who says, “No, there are no other soldiers. But there are new adventures and new heroes—on the Mall, in the streets, among the witnesses. Heroes who endure their own ordeals, their own trials, who have protected you without your knowledge, Lieutenant Shelley, and prevented a reprise of Coma Day.”

I stumble over what she just said. “What do you mean, ‘a reprise’? Are you saying there was another nuclear device? One that was close to us? To the courthouse in DC?”

Her lips press together as if to contain the secret, but she affirms it anyway with a nod. As if she can’t help herself, she adds, “I believe the title tells us the theme of the new series.”

“Nukes?” Delphi asks in a weary voice.

Koi leans back, presses her knuckles to her lips, clearly struggling with how much to say. “It’s just my guess.” Then she stands abruptly. “And I’m not going to say any more than that, because I don’t want this project taken away from me. I want to be part of it. I want to do the next two episodes—and that means you need to go.”

No one argues. We move toward the door. It’s a strange feeling, a combination of relief and a poignant sort of nostalgia to have confirmation that it’s over, that I’ve been cut loose—no more King David because the Red is not telling my story anymore. Whatever plot twist I have to face next, I’ll face on my own.

•   •   •   •

“I don’t like it,” Elliot says when we’re all tucked into the back of a cab with me in the middle. “If Koi’s right, your adventures should be over. So why is someone trying to kill you?”

“Because happily-ever-after is always a fiction.”

“Huh. So what are you going to do?”

“Go home.”

“Is that safe?”

“Probably not, but I need my gear. I need breakfast. I need to make some phone calls.” I need to talk to my dad too, but I’m not in a hurry to have that conversation.

I look at Delphi. “I need to know what you’re going to do.”

She turns a pointed gaze on Elliot.

“What?” he asks, looking offended.

I take her hand. “Delphi and I have things to talk about.”

“Like how you’re going to avoid getting killed?”

“I guess that’s part of it.”

“No more secret missions, though? That’s not what you need to talk about, right?”

I’m not sure how to answer that one. My hesitation ignites his suspicion.

“Damn it, Shelley! This is just like that last time we talked in San Antonio, when you said you weren’t going to do anything stupid.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need to figure things out.”

“Figure things out with the help of your partner in war?” He’s glaring at Delphi.

She turns to look out the window.

“Leave Delphi out of this,” I warn him. “It’s like you said yesterday, Elliot. I can’t get my old life back. So I have to adapt.”

The cab pulls up in front of my building. The crowd of mediots has thinned to three. They eye the cab suspiciously, waiting to see who will emerge from behind the tinted windows. Delphi looks them over. “They were here yesterday. ID as freelancers. Long histories.”

“So they probably won’t try to kill me?” I ask as I pay the cabdriver.

She gives me a dark look past the clear lens of her farsights. “You never know. I’ll go first, get my bag from the trunk. When they turn to look at me, I want you to move—straight into the building.”

She gets out. The driver does too. I turn to Elliot. “Thanks for taking me to see Koi.”

“You’re taking off, aren’t you?”

He’s angry. I don’t blame him. “Take care, okay?”

“That’s good advice, Shelley. Advice you should follow.”

I open the door, step from the cab into the shelter of the canopy, and in three strides I’m at the front door, with the mediots shouting questions behind me. I reach for the lock pad, remembering too late that I never confirmed with my dad that he’d reactivated my access—but that’s not the kind of thing he forgets. The lock clicks and, ignoring the mediots, I push into the lobby. When it’s clear I’ve escaped, the mediots converge on Delphi, but she’s only a step behind me, and she gets past them unmolested.

On the elevator it’s only us, so my arms go around her. I kiss her hair. “My dad’s at his office,” I whisper. “But he’s got surveillance cameras in the apartment.”

“Awkward,” she says regretfully. “I’ll just have to kiss you now.”

She does.

•   •   •   •

I’m on the phone with Anne Shima when my dad shows up at the apartment, so furious he’s shaking.

“When were you going to tell me?” he demands.

Delphi and I both stand up from the couch. She circles around him, moving toward the door, while I tell Shima I’ll call her later. Keeping my voice calm, I ask, “What’s the matter, Dad?”

“Your friend Elliot Weber came to see me at my office. He said you ran into trouble last night. By the condition of your face, he wasn’t lying. He’s under the impression you’re about to do something stupid. Take on another secret mission? Gamble your life again?”

I believed I could trust Elliot to be discreet. I know the truth now. “I didn’t want you to worry, Dad, but I was going to let you know. I’m leaving New York. I have to.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Someone tried to kill me yesterday.”

“And you didn’t even call the police—because you want to take care of it yourself? Where the hell did you get the idea that it’s okay for you to be part of some vigilante crew?”

“That’s not what this is about. And I want this to be over too, but it’s not over. You have to see that.”

“No. No. What I see is you throwing your life away, again. Look at you! You’re standing there on artificial legs. You have just narrowly escaped spending the rest of your life in prison. And Lissa is dead. She’s dead because of your adventurism, and you’ve already replaced her?” He gestures at Delphi, who is poised by the door, on the verge of slipping away.

“Dad, this is Karin Larsen.”

“Elliot told me who she is.”

“None of this is her fault. She wasn’t part of First Light.”

“You’re really leaving, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t come back.”

At first I can’t process it, too stunned by these words I never imagined I’d hear. Then instinctively, I move toward him. “Dad . . .”

He raises his hand, palm out. “No. I love you more than anything in this world, Jimmy, but I cannot do this again. I don’t know where I went wrong. I don’t know what the hell happened that made you like this. I’d blame it on the wiring in your head, but you’ve been like this since you were nineteen.” He gazes at me, old and gray, but not a weak man, never that. “I won’t go through it again, waiting to learn if you’re going to live or die. If you leave now, you leave for good.”

Silence falls between us. The skullnet icon flickers. Inchoate plans form and die in my mind. But I already know what I need to say. “I want you to leave with me, Dad. You’re not safe here either.” I take one more step closer. “Come with me. Please.”

“So your friends can protect me the way they protected Lissa? No, thank you. I’ve got my own security. I’ll take my chances here.”

That’s it. He turns and walks out. Delphi watches him go, her face locked, no expression, no presence, until the door closes behind him. Then she leans against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut. “Are you sure?” she whispers.

No.

But I can’t stay here.

•   •   •   •

One big lesson I learned from my time in service: Focus on what needs to be done now.

So I get Shima back on the phone.

The quintessential American male is supposed to be independent, able to handle his own shit, but me? I’m used to being under the protection of a very large and intimidating organization. My day-to-day life in the army tended to be hazardous, but I lived in secure housing, I had access to weapons, and I was in a position to protect myself and those who mattered to me. After only forty hours on my own, I can’t wait to get myself back under that kind of organizational security.

I try to talk details with Shima—what she wants, what her organization of mysterious assholes is after, what I get out of it, but the phone connection is intermittent, her voice chopped and cut by blocks of silence until, after a minute, the call drops.

It’s been less than six months since Coma Day—not nearly enough time to restore what was destroyed. In the end she e-mails me, inviting me to come see her, no obligation.

Delphi is sitting at the end of the couch, a tablet in her lap, engrossed in some project, her fingers dancing across the screen, unaware of my gaze as I watch her for half a minute or more. I’m thinking of her, thinking of Lissa, weighing my dad’s words—and I know he’s wrong. This thing between me and Delphi is too new to define. No way to know where it’s going. But I know this much: Lissa is part of me and always will be. No matter what comes to pass between Delphi and me, what I shared with Lissa won’t be rewritten.

If she were still alive—

No.

I won’t pretend.

Lissa is gone. I will never have her back again.

But as I watch Delphi with the light from the window wrapped around the curves of her face, my heart fills with gratitude that she’s here with me. “Delphi?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Things are moving kind of fast between us. . . .”

Her fingers freeze above the virtual keyboard. Then she slips off her farsights and turns to look at me, cool judgment in her eyes. “Second thoughts, Shelley?”

A better man would answer yes.

“I was just going to ask if you’d consider going to the ends of the Earth with me.”

She cocks her head. “And where exactly would that be?”

I forward Shima’s e-mail to her. “Northern Wyoming.”

“That’s a long way.” Her gaze scans back and forth across the screen of her tablet before she looks again at me. “We’re going to need a car.”

“That’s your way of saying yes?”

“Yes.”

We trade a smile.

Elliot called her my partner in war and that’s true. Me and Delphi have been together a long time. I think I’ve come to know her pretty well and she knows everything there is to know about me—who I am, what I’ve been through—she’s gone through a lot of it with me. We know how to operate together.

She goes to work on a plan that will get us out of the city; I work on reconnecting with the squad. The only number I have is Flynn’s, so I link to that. I’m caught off guard when Jaynie picks up.

No greeting; Shima must have messaged her, because she gets straight to business. “Shelley, you made up your mind? You’re going to Wyoming?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had any trouble?”

“A sniper—”

“Shit. You’re not hit?”

“No.”

“Was the Red looking out for you?”

“No. There was no warning.” I look at Delphi. “Just got lucky.” She bares her teeth at me. To Jaynie I say, “What about you? Anything happen on your side?”

“Small-time stuff compared to you.”

“Trust me to grab all the dramatic scenes.”

“I’ve noticed. Are you safe where you are?”

“For now. But—”

“No ‘buts.’ Just stay where you are. Stay under cover. We’re coming to get you.”

My relief is real. No matter how smart our next move, Delphi and I are vulnerable on our own. I hold my hand out to her and she takes it, giving me a questioning look. “We need to get you armor,” I tell her.

“I’ve got armor,” Jaynie says, unaware Delphi is there. “I’ve got our angel too. Chudhuri pried it out of storage somewhere and turned it over.”

Our squad drone—I wish I had that here. “So who’s in?”

“Everybody.”

“Even Moon? I thought he was smarter than the rest of you.”

“It didn’t last. He reverted to type. I’ve got a stop scheduled to pick up weapons—”

“Jaynie, you can’t bring weapons into the city.”

“I don’t give a shit, Shelley. I’m bringing weapons.”

Right. I hope the police drones don’t give a shit either.

She says, “Send your address. I’m putting our ETA at ninety minutes.”

That takes me by surprise. “Ninety minutes? It takes almost four hours to drive here from DC.”

“We left early.”

“What if I said I wasn’t coming?”

I swear I can hear her smile. “You’re predictable, Shelley. Shima’s got you modeled. She knew what your decision would be.”

Shima is not the first to pull that off. “Jaynie, Delphi’s with me. She’s coming to Wyoming with us.”

Two seconds of silence go by, then, “Wait . . . Delphi? Your handler?”

“Yeah. She quit Guidance.”

“And came to New York to look you up?”

I hear the suspicion in her voice, and I don’t like it. “I trust her, Jaynie. All the way.”

The suspicion is still there when she tells me, “Glad to hear it, but it’s going to take me some time to catch up with you on that one. We’re at the gun shop. I’ve got to go. Send the address.” She breaks the link.

Delphi is watching me.

“They’re coming,” I tell her.

“I worked that one out. If you’re having any doubts about me coming along—”

“No. No, I am not, and you’re part of the squad anyway, even if Jaynie doesn’t know you.” I reach for her. She puts aside her tablet and her farsights, and then she comes into my arms. “But I have to ask you, why would you want to do this?”

She leans against my chest and thinks about it. “I don’t have a good reason, except that you’re alive and I’d like to see you stay that way. And besides, I’ve been out of work for months, and I’m bored out of my mind.”

This is flattering. “So you’re going to go rogue with me and turn into a merc because you’re bored?”

“Who said anything about being a merc? I haven’t heard there’s a job on offer for me.”

“There’s a job. I’m offering.”

“You?” She looks up; her eyebrows arch. “And what kind of job would that be?”

Those blue eyes, daring me.

I have to look away. “There’s a surveillance camera in here.”

She crawls into my lap anyway, kisses me on the mouth. We need to be getting ready to go, but we spend a few minutes at it anyway. We break off only when the building shudders. Delphi pulls back, looks around. A second later we hear the rumble of an explosion.

I propel myself off the couch, sliding to the floor, carry­ing Delphi with me. Her eyes flare in surprise, and then she’s lying on the carpet beneath me, her hand gentle against my cheek. “Hey, take it easy. That was far away.”

“Not that far,” I growl.

A faint wail of sirens and angry car horns seeps through the apartment’s insulation. Delphi tilts her head back to look at the window. I follow her gaze. Blocks away, a fat plume of black smoke is churning into the sky. We get up to look, standing carefully to the side of the window. The smoke is from somewhere near Penn Station. I turn on the recording function in my overlay because I want to remember this. Delphi grabs her farsights and does the same thing.

“This isn’t uncommon,” she says in a low voice. “Bombs go off somewhere in the country almost every day—although that’s a big one.”

“I thought the country was recovering.”

“You didn’t get much news when you were in custody, did you?”

“No.”

“The official line, and what most of the mediots preach, is that the Red isn’t real. But the paranoid types know that’s a lie. Thelma Sheridan is their hero. They want to get rid of the Red, and they don’t care about the cost. Critical targets like the remaining data exchanges and undersea cables have massive security now, so terrorists go for smaller targets like cell towers, and server farms when they can get to them. But more and more it’s just random.”

“Like a nuke in DC?”

“That isn’t hard for me to believe. Not at all.”

On the street below the window, traffic is stopped, gener­ating a faint chorus of bleating horns. One vehicle at the end of the block isn’t willing to wait: A shoddy old van with rust stains on the roof surges up onto the sidewalk, startling two pedestrians, who jump clear. With two wheels still in the gutter, the van guns down the sidewalk—and I know a slam is coming. I grab Delphi’s arm, dragging her from the window as the van stops right below us. “Get away! Get into the hall!”

I wish I could scream a warning to the other residents and to all the people stuck in traffic.

Delphi’s a handler and a damn good one. She doesn’t waste time with questions or protests as we fall back across the living room, through the foyer. I open the door and shove her ahead of me into the hall, yanking the door closed behind us just at the moment of the explosion.

The blast wave hurls me across the hallway. The pressure is like a glass spike in my ears. I can’t breathe. I’m down on the floor and it’s vibrating under me, unnatural motion accompanied by an avalanche of noise. Dust everywhere, so thick I can’t see. Concrete dust, a cold wind, muffled screaming beyond the deafening ringing in my ears.

The floor stops quivering and the dust begins to clear, some of it sifting out of the air, more carried away by the wind.

Both walls of the hallway are intact, but the apartment door is hanging open on broken hinges, with torn black wiring protruding from the frame. Past the door, the apartment glows with spring sunlight softened by a glittering haze of dust settling out across the tumbled furniture. The outer wall is gone, and in the building across the street the windows I can see are shattered.

I turn to look for Delphi. She’s on the floor, a fallen statue molded of gray dust, coming slowly to life, raising her head, pulling off her farsights, coughing hard as she pushes up to hands and knees.

Why the fuck did I bring her here? I should never have gone near her. I should never have come home at all. I should have broken with my dad first thing Saturday night and headed straight for Anne Shima, armed myself with every piece of firepower she could give me, and gone hunting for Carl Vanda.

I’m going after him now. I swear it.

Fuck me, anyway.

I get up—at least the legs still work—and help Delphi to her feet. She has all her limbs; nothing looks broken; I don’t see blood.

I put my arm around her shoulders. I need to get her out of the building—“Come on”—my own voice sounding muffled in my shocked ears.

As we head for the stairs, a door opens in the hallway. A woman staggers out, covered in gray dust so I can’t tell her age. An older man emerges from another apartment. “My God,” he wails. “My God.” We all get to the stairs and join an exodus heading down. “The gas lines,” a woman calls out. “What if they catch on fire?”

We get to the street. It’s chaos. Cars are still jammed bumper to bumper. Some of them are burning. People are screaming for help. Where the front of my building used to be, there’s a slope of debris: broken concrete, drywall, wood paneling, shattered furniture, and pipes, with water spraying over all of it. God knows who’s crushed beneath. What’s left of the sidewalk is paved in shards of glass.

People come running in from nearby streets, wide eyed, looking to help; others are fleeing. Sirens scream in the distance, but the police can’t get here because traffic on the cross streets is at a standstill. A single motorcycle cop appears at the end of the block, rolling in along the opposite sidewalk.

Across the street, all the lower windows in a thirty-eight-story condominium are shattered, the front doors reduced to warped steel frames. A man in a gray business suit is making his way out past the wreckage, moving carefully but calmly. I watch him past the smoke, the flames, the dust settling out of the air.

My overlay can’t identify him because of his headgear: an old-fashioned fedora, tinted farsights, and an iridescent mask like the one Major Ogawa showed me.

But I don’t need to see his face. I know him anyway. His brief appearance in the courtroom made a lasting impression on me. I know him by his biometrics—his height, his gaunt build, his severely straight posture. And by his ­kinetics—the particular way he walks, favoring his right hip.

Carl Vanda.

He’s clutching a hard-walled, dull-gray case, one that’s just long enough to hold a sniper rifle if the weapon is broken down to stock and barrel. He gets past the broken door and pauses, showing no concern for the risk of falling glass as his masked face looks across the street—right at me.

I grab Delphi as Vanda uses his free hand to reach inside his coat. I drag her down with me behind the cover of the burning cars just as a gun goes off. Silver bees—the payload of a fléchette shell—whine through the air we just occupied, throwing themselves in suicidal rage against the wreckage of my building.

Delphi struggles in my arms. She tries to get free. “Stay down!” I plead as someone—it has to be the motorcycle cop—shouts, “Drop the weapon!” It sounds just like a movie.

I can’t see what happens next, but I hear a second shot from Vanda’s gun. Someone starts screaming: an adrenaline-­fueled howl of pain. The hair on my arms stands on end as I remember other times and other wounded, screaming just like that.

I get up on my knees, lifting my head just high enough to peer over the hood of the nearest car. Heat from the fires fans shimmering ripples of air that distort but don’t disguise Vanda’s gray-suited figure as he trots away down the sidewalk.

Past him, at the corner, a man stands waiting: a still point in the chaos of the street.

I duck back down, trying to decide what I just saw. The man on the corner was a stranger, too far away for my overlay to identify. He looked to be six feet tall, an athletic figure dressed in a crewneck shirt, slacks, and a casual brown jacket. Gray hair in a military cut. Was he watching me? No. He was watching Vanda—and he was holding a gray case like the one Vanda is carrying. That’s what caught my eye.

I look again. The man in brown is gone from the corner— I think I see him farther down the street—while Vanda is moving in the same direction, weaving through gridlocked traffic to reach the next block.

“Is the shooter still there?” Delphi asks, a high edge to her voice.

“No, he’s moving out. It was Vanda—”

“Carl Vanda? You know that?”

“Yes.”

“He had a mask on.”

“It was him. Are you injured? Can you stand up?”

“I’m okay.”

We get up together, look across the street.

“Did Vanda shoot that police officer?”

“Yeah.”

And the cop isn’t screaming anymore.

I cut between the burning cars with Delphi right behind me.

We find the cop on the opposite sidewalk. He’s on his side, moaning, clutching at the bloody pulp of his face that’s been shredded by steel fléchettes. Beside him is his police-issue sidearm. I stoop to pick it up. “Delphi, do what you can for him.”

She gives me a look of searing blue fury, knowing as well as I do that he’ll be dead in another minute—but I take off before she can say, Stay.

This is my chance. Carl Vanda is not alone, but he is on foot and he’s a broken man. I know I can outrun him.

•   •   •   •

Sirens wail. Helicopters turn and swoop in manic paths above the buildings. Microdrones shoot past me, racing toward the blast site to harvest digital footage. I’m going the opposite way.

All along the street, people are emptying out of the buildings. They stand in small groups on the sidewalks and in the gridlocked traffic, watching smoke rise, relating their experiences, debating the danger. A bold few rush toward the disaster. I weave past, holding the gun close to my side. No one notices it. There is just too much to look at, too much going on.

I don’t see the man in brown, but I get a glimpse of Vanda on the next block. He’s slowed to a walk, but it’s a New York pace that covers ground at a furious rate. He doesn’t look back. I don’t think he has any idea that I’m following. He ducks around a corner—

And it happens a third time: The air shifts, and then the thunder of another massive explosion rolls across the city. This one comes from somewhere uptown, the blast reverberating between the towers. People scream. They evaporate from the sidewalks, fleeing inside, leaving no obstacles to slow me down.

I sprint to the corner, peer around the black marble base of the building.

The next street is just like the last street: crammed with cars all going nowhere. A few people mill between them. Horns honk. A middle-aged woman runs toward me along the sidewalk, awkward in high heels. Vanda is beyond her, almost at the end of the block. I step around the corner.

Maybe he’s got a handler using a microdrone to watch over him. Maybe the man in brown is hunkered down somewhere out of my sight, watching to see if anyone is following the boss. I don’t know. But I’m halfway down the block when Vanda gets the word that I’m coming.

He’s crossing the next street, surrounded by stalled cars, when he turns to face me. I see the iridescent glimmer of his anonymous mask. He lets the rifle case drop to the ground as he uses both hands to aim a massive handgun in my direction. I can’t fire back, not with civilians on the sidewalk and in the cars. Some of them see his weapon and scream. I duck into the recessed entry of a pastry shop, praying he won’t shoot if he doesn’t have a target.

No shot comes.

Is he waiting for me? Or is he running?

I scan the cars, their drivers, the fleeing pedestrians across the street, looking for the man in brown because I do not want him to get behind me.

I wish to God I had my HITR—the M-CL1a Harkin Integrated Tactical Rifle is equipped with onboard muzzle cams that let it look around corners—but all I’ve got is a police pistol with no electronic sights. It’s a museum piece. All of NYPD’s budget must have gone to armored personnel carriers—but at least the pistol doesn’t lock up when an unregistered user handles it.

Ten seconds go by. Eleven. Twelve. I lean out, all too aware I’m not wearing a helmet. My helmet is in my dad’s ruined apartment, along with my dead sister. Too bad I didn’t have a chance to rig up. I peer around the edge of the concrete, imagining my forehead shattering—but nothing happens. Vanda is out of sight and the only civilians left are hunched down in their cars, most of them yelling into phones.

I wish to God I had the squad’s angel.

I expend three more seconds debating what to do. If Carl Vanda’s priority is to see me dead, he’ll wait for me somewhere and hit me from ambush, and I’ll never know it’s coming. But I don’t think that’s his priority. He gunned down a cop. NYPD is going to put out every effort to discover who’s behind the veil. The current chaos and carnage won’t stop them from coming hard after him and he knows it. They’re probably tracking him right now with a microdrone.

They’re probably tracking me.

Fuck it.

I make my decision and go, running hard to catch up to Vanda again, calculating that he must have turned onto the cross street to disappear so quickly, but when I reach the corner, he’s nowhere in sight.

“Where did he go?” I shout at a cabdriver who’s made the mistake of leaving his window open. “Which way?”

The man hunches deeper into his seat, but he gestures down the block. “Next corner.” It’s a short block.

I dart between the cars, reach the sidewalk, and run hard. I’m almost there when a fourth explosion rips into the city. This one too is far away, but for a moment all sound vanishes except death’s thundering roar as it claims more souls.

With the sound of my footsteps covered by that cloud of noise, I hurtle around the corner—and discover that my assessment of Carl Vanda’s priorities is wrong. He’s waiting for me, just a few feet away, along with the man in brown.

Vanda is standing half hidden behind a scalloped column that’s part of the façade of a new condominium. He’s got his gun out, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the man in brown, who’s crouched behind a concrete planter close to the curb. Brown has one hand raised to his farsights. He looks like a man still organizing his assets. Maybe he’s lost contact with the drone. Maybe he’s lost contact with his handler. But it’s certain that he doesn’t expect me quite that soon. When I pop into sight, he recoils in surprise.

Vanda doesn’t. Stepping clear of the column, he turns to target me with the fléchette gun.

I can’t stop. I’m going too fast. So I keep going and dive for his knees.

Vanda’s gun goes off. The fléchettes fan out, but my dive has put me under the trajectory of the spray. A barb clips my shoulder. Another pings against my titanium foot. I wrap an arm around Vanda’s legs and take him to the ground.

He hits the sidewalk with his shoulder and that saves his head, but his weapon is pinned under him. I still have the cop’s gun. I try to jam it against his throat, but he grabs my wrist with his free hand. We’re grappling, rolling across the sidewalk. He loses the hat, and the mask goes with it, but his gun hand is free.

His face is inches from mine: teeth bared, eyes squinting, every muscle engaged. I pitch my pistol away and use two hands to go after his weapon, slamming the back of his gunhand into the concrete. His grip breaks, the fléchette gun falls loose, and I grab for it—but the man in brown has found an opening. He kicks the gun away. Kicks me in the ribs. Then in the belly. Maybe in the head, because I miss a second or two. By the time I check back in, Vanda is up, talking in a low, growling voice:

“She is out of control.”

He’s not talking to me. I’m already dead as far as he’s concerned.

“I’m putting an end to this chaos. Niamey is glass.”

Somehow I’m on my back. I glimpse the fat muzzle of the fléchette gun centering on my face. I see it like a still image, frozen in time, gripped by a large hand, tanned skin darker than Vanda’s, a smoky, pale-blue sky beyond. I kick at that hand. I propel my robot feet up like a gymnast initiating a backward somersault, titanium impacting flesh just as the little steel arrows are released. The deadly fléchettes buzz away into the sky, the gun spins into the street in a shower of blood, and the man in brown retreats, cursing, “Fucking hell, fucking hell.”

I roll over onto my shoulder, then scramble on hands and knees to the shelter of a parked car, expecting to die at any moment, but when I look back, they’re gone. Both gone. The sidewalk is deserted.

I squat in the gutter for a few seconds, hunched over my bruised ribs, with my shoulder bleeding and my eye starting to swell shut. But I have enough vision left to see a glistening trail of blood on the concrete, leading to fancy brass doors at the foot of a skyscraper.

Where the fuck is my gun?

Maybe they took it, but if so, why didn’t they stay long enough to shoot me with it?

I lean out around the car that’s hiding me and look for the gun in the street. Next I look under the car—and that’s where I find it. I have to get down on my belly to reach it, trying not to breathe too hard because my ribs fucking hurt.

Armed once again, I eye the building, but it’s a luxury tower, the security system is not going to let me inside, and right now I’m an easy target from any window overlooking the street.

Sense kicks in and I backtrack to the corner. I wait there, watching—and a minute later a helicopter lifts off the roof five hundred feet above my head.

It has to be him. I retreat again, in case he’s thinking of taking a wild shot at me, but the helicopter speeds away toward the Hudson.

And I remember his furious threat: Niamey is glass.

That’s what I remember. But did I hear it right? Because to do something like that . . . it doesn’t make any fucking sense to me.

•   •   •   •

I try to call Delphi, but the city’s network is overwhelmed and I can’t get a link. So I text her instead—I’m coming back—hoping the text won’t take too long to go through.

My shirt is torn and bloody where the fléchette grazed me, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. I’ll deal with the wound later. For now, I just jam the gun into my pant pocket—but the pocket isn’t deep enough to hold it. So I try sticking it into the waistband of my pants at the small of my back, the way I’ve seen it done in movies. It’s damn uncomfortable, but at least the gun is out of sight under my shirt as I walk back past gridlocked traffic.

People have come out onto the sidewalk again, gather­ing in pensive knots. Bits of conversation reach me as I pass, escaping a background noise of sirens and the low, pounding roar of helicopters:

“. . . phone went out with the second blast . . .”

“How many did you count? Four?”

“What’s been hit?”

“. . . seven bombs on Coma Day.”

Sirens rise in an earsplitting howl right behind me. I turn to see a convoy of emergency vehicles creep into the intersection I just crossed. Leading the way is a pair of motorcycle cops rapping knuckles on car windows, directing the drivers to move their vehicles to the sides of the street and onto the sidewalks if they have to. A center lane slowly opens, wide enough to allow a fire truck to pass. Four squad cars follow, their sirens wailing.

I shove my fingers in my ears and keep going, thinking more about what Vanda said: She is out of control.

She.

His wife, Thelma Sheridan?

Though she’s a prisoner in Niamey, she’s also a hero to the paranoid types who want to get rid of the Red at any cost. Delphi said there are bombings somewhere in the country almost every day—but today is different. Today is the first day of Sheridan’s trial. It’s the day to make a statement.

Vanda must have concluded the bomb that almost killed him was placed by Thelma Sheridan’s supporters. He couldn’t have been involved. He couldn’t have known it was going to happen or he wouldn’t have been in the building across the street. He came to kill me in person—a lesson to anyone else thinking of fucking with him—but he was taken by surprise.

She is out of control.

A car bomb in the street was a stupid way to try to kill me. The terrorists who did it couldn’t have known if the blast would be the correct scale or channel in the proper direction, or if I would even be in the apartment. But terrorism isn’t science. It doesn’t have to be smart, it doesn’t have to be logical. It just has to fuck with your head.

My head is telling me I’m dangerous for anyone to be around, that innocents die when they get near me. Lissa died. Delphi almost died. I wonder how many blameless civilians are buried in the rubble that used to be my building?

It’s not like this operation was even centered on me. Four bombs went off. I was almost an afterthought.

I trot ahead of the fire engine to get away from its brutal siren. As I reach my block, I hear another rumble from somewhere far uptown.

The count of the explosions climbs to five.

•   •   •   •

Cars are still smoldering, filling the street with stinking, toxic smoke. Someone has draped a jacket over the face of the dead cop. I cross the street, to find seven more bodies laid out in front of my ruined building. These are uncovered; some of them are burned. Ambulances are on scene, their lights flashing but their sirens mercifully silent. I look for Delphi, but it’s my dad I see, halfway up the pile of rubble, wearing a now-filthy dress shirt and slacks as he works with three other people to dig someone out.

A text comes in from Jaynie: No traffic allowed into city. Holland and Lincoln Tunnels closed. Bridge traffic one way only: out.

“Shelley.”

I whip around. It’s Delphi. Her face is dirt streaked, her hair dull with dust, her fingers seeping blood, and her clothes filthy. She eyes my bruised face, my half-closed eye. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He got away.”

Her gaze shifts to my dad as he and another man lift a concrete slab, sliding it farther down the heap, and she starts trembling. “At least he didn’t kill you . . . though realistically, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Delphi . . .” I reach for her and she responds, hugging me, holding me tightly while I tell her the truth. “It’s going to be like this. You were at Black Cross. You know the kind of things Vanda-Sheridan is willing to do—and the kind of things we have to do too. And it’s only going to get worse. Vanda has more nukes.”

She looks up at me, blue eyes even brighter surrounded by dirt. “You know that?”

I nod. “I heard him. He wants to nuke Niamey. Shut down the trial. Shut down his own wife and the crazies who do shit like this in her name. So I’m going after him, but I’ll take you home first if you want me to.”

This draws a bitter smile. “I don’t need help getting home—but you might need help getting to Wyoming in one piece.” She half turns in my arms. “Your gear’s over there. I got it out of the apartment.”

“Shit, you went back up there?”

She shrugs. “It took a few trips—your rig is heavy—but I wanted to get your things before the police closed off the building.”

“You’re amazing.”

She’s been helping with the search and rescue. That’s why her hands look like they do, but as the fire truck arrives civilians are ordered to clear out of the site. My dad climbs down the rubble heap, and sees me. We glare at each other for a second and a half, and then we embrace.

“Why are you still here?” he asks.

“I’m on my way out. You coming with me?”

I’m not surprised when he shakes his head. “This is my home. I want to know who did this. I want to see them burn.”

I nod. He has his own mission now, his own purpose, his own story.

So it’s just Delphi and me.

I text Jaynie: Can you get into Brooklyn?

While I’m waiting for an answer, I get the first-aid kit from my pack and we all clean our cuts and bruises. Delphi glues the gouge on my shoulder, and I put on a clean but stale-­smelling T-shirt that I find stashed at the bottom of my pack.

After a few minutes Jaynie’s answer comes back: Roger that. VZ Bridge open.

We’ll walk out over the Manhattan Bridge. Rendezvous.

By this time, the police are getting organized. They come by, barking orders for us to move away, to move back from the ruined building. I turn to my dad—but what is there to say? Nothing that will make a difference. We trade a nod. Leave it at that. I should never have come home.

Hefting my gear, I turn my back on the shattered rubble of his life and I walk away with Delphi beside me, pulling her battered suitcase.

But I get only two and a half blocks before I decide my dead sister is just too damn heavy to carry. “Delphi, give me a minute. I’m going to rig up.”

She looks unsure. “Is it legal to wear that on the street?”

I don’t really know—but on a day like today, I don’t think it matters. “The cops are going to be too busy to worry about me.”

The dead sister’s power levels prove good, so I strap in, and then we set out again. I’m not in uniform and I’m not using my helmet, so no one seems too bothered by my rig. Soon it’s clear we are only a tiny part of an exodus out of the city. It’s organized chaos and yet for the first time since I’ve been back home, I feel safe. There are strangers all around me, but they have their own problems. Only a few bother to comment on the rig, and all of those are just exhausted walkers wishing for their own augmentation. No one cares who I am, and no one tries to kill me.

•   •   •   •

It’s late afternoon when we finally rendezvous with the squad. They’re at Trinity Park, waiting in and around two new SUVs—one gunmetal gray, the other light brown—and although they’re dressed in civilian clothes, I don’t think anyone who sees them is fooled. Their close-fitting brown skullcaps are a clear indication that not all is normal here. They’re also wearing the audio loops from their helmets, which will let them talk between vehicles.

“You look like a gang of mercs,” I tell them as Delphi and I walk up beneath trees thinly clothed in new spring leaves.

Jaynie flashes me a smile from beneath the rim of her skullcap. “You’re the one rigged in a dead sister. The cops didn’t try to stop you, wearing that?”

“The cops are busy.”

She admires my swollen eye. “You look like you got your ass kicked.”

“Two against one.”

She’s wearing a tight-fitting, long-sleeved blue athletic shirt that shows off her muscles and draws the eye to the elegant, alluring shape of her breasts. Her tight black jeans are equally distracting. It’s like looking at your sister and realizing how goddamn desirable she really is. Embarrassing.

I introduce Delphi. Everyone shakes hands. Then Delphi slides into the backseat of one of the SUVs to change into clean clothes, while I get out of my rig and load up our gear. There’s not much room left in the cargo areas. Nolan gives me a rundown of what’s already there: the squad’s dead sisters, helmets, and backpacks; our squad drone, a.k.a. our angel; M-CL1a assault rifles, newly purchased; ammunition and grenades for the same; more grenades for distribution by hand; miscellaneous equipment; and enough meal packs to get us through the first couple weeks of the apocalypse. The weapons are surely illegal in every state, even Wyoming.

“How the hell did Jaynie get her hands on this stuff?”

Nolan says, “Shima set it up. We’re employed by a licensed security company now. Legit credentials.”

“You mean you’ve got permits for all this?”

“Everything but that piece you’re carrying.”

I pull the dead cop’s gun out of my waistband and show it to him.

“Primitive piece of shit.” He turns it over. “No electronics at all. Where’d you get it?”

“Long story, but I need to get rid of it.”

“I’ll break it down. Scatter the parts.” He checks the load, and then makes it disappear into an inside pocket of his jacket.

Jaynie tosses me an ice pack, not yet activated. “Climb in. We need to move.”

Harvey gets behind the wheel of the gunmetal-gray SUV; Jaynie is shotgun. I slide into the backseat with Delphi. To my surprise, Nolan comes in behind me, leaving only Tuttle, Moon, and Flynn in the other vehicle. He’s a big man and I’m feeling squeezed. It occurs to me that’s deliberate.

“What’s going on?” I ask as we head out, with Flynn’s vehicle following us.

Jaynie turns around to look at me—“We need to work some things out”—and I know we’re on dangerous ground.

“Are you talking about you and me? Or the squad?”

“All of us.”

“Then let’s make sure we’re all here.” I’ve still got the communications software Anne Shima loaded into my overlay for First Light, so I use that to log in to gen-com. “Roll call,” I say, just to annoy everybody.

Jaynie nods, and carefully pronounces her name, “Vasquez.”

The others follow by rank:

“Nolan.”

“Harvey.”

And from the other car:

“Moon.”

“Tuttle.”

“Flynn.”

“And Delphi’s here too,” I add. “Though she’s not hooked in.” I’m watching Jaynie warily; she’s watching me. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about, but I want to hear her say it.

She gets right to the point. “Shelley, you’re too impulsive to serve as CO of this squad. If we’re going to do this, we need to set up a new rank structure.”

I turn to Nolan, to gauge his feelings on this. He nods. “If Colonel Kendrick were here, it’d be different.”

Harvey glances back over her shoulder. “Nobody’s better than you at the front of an assault,” she assures me. “No one’s going to forget Black Cross. But the CO needs to keep the full scope of the mission in mind.”

“And to operate under known parameters,” Jaynie adds.

“So this is about the Red? You think it makes decisions for me.”

“It’s about you and the Red.”

I glance at Delphi, but she’s staring out the window. Staying out of it? Or not objecting because she agrees?

“What’s your proposed rank structure?” I ask Jaynie.

Nolan says, “We voted on it.”

“This is a fucking democracy?”

Jaynie’s finely shaped eyebrows knit in a brief scowl. “It was. Temporarily. But now I’m CO, and you’re my second. Can you work with that?”

Taking orders from Jaynie? I’ve done that before and I didn’t like it. I answer honestly, “I don’t know. I had an idea I would be establishing mission priorities.”

“This outfit isn’t Uther-Fen. We pick our missions. Nobody is fucking telling me my priorities without my input.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I can get your input on this: that our first priority should be locating the rest of Carl Vanda’s nukes before he uses them on innocent populations, on our allies, on people who have helped us.”

Jaynie draws back a little. Her eyes narrow. “Report,” she says. “Tell me what you know.”

She makes it an order. I play along, summarizing the high points of my encounter with Vanda because I want her to know what happened. When I mention the cop, Nolan swears, “Ah fuck, is that the gun you gave me?”

Harvey throws me a grin over her shoulder. “Nothing impulsive about you, sir! Arming yourself with a murdered cop’s gun. Hoo-yah! King David! I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Harvey,” Jaynie warns in a voice endowed with the same quiet threat as a baseball bat. “Keep your eyes on the fucking street.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But she’s still grinning as she turns her full attention back to traffic.

“It wasn’t impulsive,” I say defensively. “It was the result of a split-second assessment. I had a chance to bring Vanda down and I took it.”

Jaynie raises an eyebrow. “Did you kill him?”

Same question Delphi asked. Same answer: “No.”

I report on the street brawl, on what I heard.

This earns me the skeptical look that is Jaynie’s signature expression whenever I’m involved. “You were barely conscious. You sure you understood what was going on?”

She’s pissing me off. “Hold on. I’ve got video.” I avert my gaze and then scroll through my menus.

“You’re recording things again? When did you get switched on?”

“I didn’t get switched on. I turned it on myself after the first bomb went off, when we were still in the apartment. Just another one of my fucking impulsive moves.”

I check to make sure I turned the recording function off. Then I skim through the video in my overlay, bracket a clip around the time Vanda is speaking, and extract it. “Who’s got a tablet?”

Jaynie has one up front. She gives me the address. Delphi rejoins the conversation. “Send me a copy too. The clip first, but I also want the whole record.”

When Delphi plays the clip on her farsights, the sound is isolated to her ears, but Jaynie has the volume turned up on her tablet so we all can hear. Mostly it’s grunts and thumps and hard breathing as I wrestle with Vanda; then I’m getting kicked in the ribs and Vanda is speaking. He’s breathing hard between words, but he says more than I remember, his voice hoarse and dry: “She got in the way of my operation. She is out of control.” His words get harder to hear as he walks away. “I’m putting an end to this chaos. Niamey is glass.”

The video shows the approach of the fléchette gun, with buildings and blue sky in the background. Then, for a fraction of a second, just at the edge of the video, we glimpse Vanda’s partner, the man in brown. He has narrow features—a sharp nose, with prominent cheekbones behind deeply tanned skin. Opaque black farsights hide his eyes, contributing to a cold expression that vanishes as his thin lips part in a scream I don’t remember hearing. The clip ends with a spray of blood as I disarm him.

“Shit,” Nolan breathes as he settles back in his seat. “You cut that one close.”

Delphi doesn’t say anything, but she has her arms crossed, hugging herself tightly, her shoulders hunched.

I return to the issue that matters. “Vanda has nukes.”

My skullnet has tuned out most of the pain, but being reminded of it lets the pain break through. It shortens my temper. As Jaynie turns around again to look at me, I lean forward, getting in her face. “You get it, Jaynie? He has nukes and he’s acting like it’s nothing to move them around the globe. He could be moving them already.”

“I get it, Shelley.”

Her gaze warns me to back off, but I don’t. “This is our mission,” I insist.

Delphi speaks up using her handler’s voice: cool and stern. “This is not your mission. It’s the president’s mission. This video needs to get sent up the chain of command.”

“We’re not part of the chain of command.”

“I still have contacts in Guidance. I’ll send it there.”

I don’t object. It’s worth a try, but I don’t think it will work. “Somewhere along the chain of command, someone is going to make this record disappear, or hold it back until it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jaynie looks like she wants to take a swing at me—but she’s less impulsive than I am. “I’ll call Anne, see if the organization wants to do background on this.”

That would be useful, because there’s not a damn thing we can do until we know where the nukes are stored. “You might also want to suggest to Anne that she forward that video to Ahab Matugo. Let him know what’s coming.”

“I’m already on it, Shelley.”

I punch the ice pack, blending the chemicals. Then I lean back and lay it against my swollen eye. After a few minutes I pull up the video again. I watch it from the start. I want to know if there was a warning sign, if there was something I should have seen, should have sensed that would have told me a massive bomb would soon go off in the street, killing innocents . . . but there’s nothing. God didn’t speak to me.

Koi Reisman said it’s not my story anymore. The silence in my head is reason to believe her. But if it’s not my story, if the Red has cut me off, why does the plot keep looping back to me?

•   •   •   •

We escape Brooklyn, and then take Interstate 80 across New Jersey. No one tries to stop us. I study the traffic, noting individual vehicles, wondering if any of them have been assigned to follow us.

There’s nothing obvious.

Connectivity is good, so I use my overlay to look for updates on the Manhattan bombings. Details are easy to find. Every aspect of the rescue work is being posted for public consumption, but analysis of the identity, origin, and motivations of the terrorists is almost nonexistent. Next, I skim through transcripts of Thelma Sheridan’s first day of trial, but after the opening statements, most of it is legal maneuvering. Finally, I follow up on Koi Reisman’s claim that a rogue nuclear device was recovered in the capital. There’s nothing solid, but there are rumors and informed speculation that a major terrorist strike was averted just before the start of our court-martial.

“Delphi?”

She turns from staring out the window. Her eyes are red rimmed, from dust or distress, I don’t know.

“When we were talking to Koi, and I asked her about other soldiers, you knew something, didn’t you?”

A rare, faint smile touches her lips. “It’s classified.”

I glance at Nolan. He’s asleep beside me. I look up front. Jaynie and Harvey are staring at the traffic ahead. Hoping road noise will cover my voice, I whisper in Delphi’s ear, “Tell me anyway.”

She leans back and sighs. “There’s not much to tell. I was interviewed several times by an investigator. He implied you weren’t the only one, but how many others there were, and how deep their involvement went, he wouldn’t say. You’re the only one whose name ever became known.”

“It might be worth trying to find out who the others are.”

“I did try. After I resigned, I spent time looking into it. I asked myself what set you apart, and the one obvious asset was your overlay. So I looked for other soldiers who used one.” She gives a little shake of her head. “I had only civilian access. I didn’t get anywhere.”

“It’s a good lead, though.” I lean back, thinking about it. If she’s right and an overlay is key, that narrows the prospects. My own overlay, my first one, was a prototype. I got in early because my cousin was on the development team; he’s part owner of the company. I decide I’ll call him when things calm down, ask him to research the question for me.

Traffic thins as we cross Pennsylvania, and connectivity becomes intermittent. For mile after mile, the interstate is flanked by office parks, distribution centers, and car dealerships—most with empty parking lots and many looking abandoned.

Nolan is awake now, gazing out the window, while Delphi has fallen asleep. For maybe the hundredth time I turn to look behind us. I have no doubt we’re being tracked. We’ve gone too far and we’re moving too fast for a microdrone to successfully follow us, but that doesn’t mean we’ve escaped surveillance. No one escapes surveillance these days. The real questions are: Who’s looking? And what are their intentions?

It’s likely a government agency is monitoring us by drone or by satellite—maybe more than one agency. That’s their job. It doesn’t mean they’re a threat. It doesn’t mean anyone human is even paying attention—the feds have a limited budget and a long list of surveillance targets more dangerous than us.

It’s possible the domestic terrorists who struck Manhattan are watching us too. If so, they are very much a threat, but I doubt they have the size or the organization to manage a sophisticated surveillance operation.

Vanda-Sheridan is surely interested—and sophisticated—but I was supposed to die in Manhattan. If Carl Vanda didn’t have a plan in place to follow me if I got out of the city, then it’s going to take him time to track me down.

The possibility of mediots tailing us doesn’t really concern me, because mediots don’t chase stories, preferring their victims exposed and helpless.

I study the scattered traffic behind us, but if there’s a suspicious vehicle back there, I can’t spot it. So I turn around, to look again at the road ahead. And I wonder: Is the organization watching us? Do they have that ability? I’d like to think they do.

I’d like to think they’re watching Carl Vanda.

I wonder if he’s gone back to his Alaskan stronghold, the Apocalypse Fortress. I wonder if that’s where he keeps his nukes. The Apocalypse Fortress extends underground, a home that doubles as a bomb shelter . . . but how mad would he have to be to keep nukes in his basement?

They won’t be there. Carl Vanda is not stupid.

Still, if you want to hide something, going underground is a good way to do it. Secrets can stay secret beneath meters of rock and soil, shielded from EM leakage that could be harvested by spies. You’d have to get a camera inside a facility like that to know what was going on. If you could keep cameras out, if you had no direct connection to the surface, your secrets might stay locked away, even from the Red.

That’s where the nukes will be: someplace where the Red can’t see them.

•   •   •   •

That night we stop near Pennsylvania’s western border, at an old three-story hotel with two long wings skirted by a nearly empty parking lot. Business is bad all around, but at least this place has pride of ownership: The landscaping is perfect, with the hedges around the parking lot lit up by knee-high lights. It occurs to me the owner could be trading the use of a room for maintenance services.

“Let’s park away from the door,” Jaynie says over gen-com. “Leave one stall open between the vehicles, and back in.”

That way we can leave quickly if we need to.

Before I get out, I check myself in the rearview. I look like a criminal with my eye bruised and swollen, but thanks to Delphi, who insisted on a short stop at an anonymous mall, I’m wearing a new shirt. She went in by herself and bought me collared shirts, T-shirts, slacks, shorts, and a light jacket long enough to cover my chest armor. I didn’t go with her because the new CO is being a hard-ass, and I am under orders to stay out of the public eye.

Delphi has been driving for the last couple of hours. She parks and slides out from behind the wheel. I get out at the same time and catch her elbow. We’ve hardly talked since we joined up with the squad.

“What’s it going to be?” I whisper. “Do you want your own room? Or do you want to share a room with me?”

She gives me a coy look, then stands on her tiptoes and speaks in my ear, “If it’s not going to destroy unit cohesion, I wouldn’t say no to a replay of last night.”

It is bad for unit cohesion. I know that. But I haven’t signed a contract yet. I kiss the side of her mouth. “You’re on.”

On check-in we present IDs for the teenage desk clerk to scan. He watches the records come up, sees our names, but he has no idea who we are. I go last. I’m the only one who’s chipped, so instead of groping for a wallet, I press my wrist against a sensor plate. The clerk eyes my bruised face and then reconsiders the record on the screen in front of him. “You’re from Texas?” he asks in a soft, nervous voice.

“Just my driver’s license. I’m from New York.”

He looks relieved.

The great majority of Texans had nothing to do with the insurrection, but that can be hard to remember, and since Coma Day, a lot of people have been carrying a grudge against the Lone Star State.

We get adjacent rooms on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot. Jaynie sets up a watch rotation so that someone will be patrolling the area around the SUVs at all times. Tuttle gets the first shift, while the rest of us crowd onto the elevator. “No one goes out tonight,” Jaynie warns. She taps her ear. “And everyone wears their earpiece. We stay linked in to gen-com at all times. Harvey, Moon, figure out something to order for dinner.”

“How is all this shit being paid for?” I ask as the elevator door opens onto an empty corridor.

“The organization sent a cash card. Delivered by courier on Sunday afternoon.”

I wish I knew more about the organization. I know they have deep pockets and the competence to pull off a complex operation. Rawlings said they were fully funded by donations from individuals who believed in a government by the people, for the people—not for the dragons. I hope it’s true.

The room is simple but clean. There’s a bed, a set of drawers, a desk, and a monitor. As soon as the door closes, I’ve got my arms around Delphi.

“Let’s take a shower,” I murmur in her ear.

Goose bumps rise across her skin as she says, “Yes.”

•   •   •   •

Forty minutes later, Moon links on gen-com, letting me know the food has arrived. I get dressed and go out into the hall. It’s barbecue. Smells good. Nolan hands me a pistol—a 9 mm SIG Sauer in a nylon holster—along with a box of ammo to go with dinner. “Just in case.”

When I get back inside the room, Delphi is wearing a tank top and panties as she kneels on the bed, puzzling over the remote control. “Don’t turn the cable on,” I plead.

She gives me an annoyed look. “Koi Reisman said the new show launches tonight, remember? Against the Beast. I want to know what time.”

“So check the Cloud.”

“My network connection is comatose. How’s yours?”

“Slow,” I admit.

She turns the TV on.

The show is scheduled for later in the evening, so Delphi watches the national news-propaganda channels instead. We sit on the floor, eat our barbecue, and listen to their pseudojournalism. Every time the coverage moves to celebrity babies or sex scandals, Delphi shifts to a different brand.

“I can’t believe there’s a regular audience for this shit,” I grouse as I head into the bathroom to wash up.

When I come back out, two so-called legal analysts are discussing how the case against Thelma Sheridan relies on the preliminary FBI report, which should be inadmissible because it is classified, and that Colonel Kendrick committed an act of treason when he turned it over to Ahab Matugo.

Impulsively, I want to strangle both of them.

“Delphi, can you fucking turn it off, please.”

“No. We need to know what the enemy is saying. If you don’t want to hear it, then listen to some music with the volume turned up.”

The skullnet icon is flickering, and I know I should take her advice, but I don’t. Instead I sit on the bed and watch, waiting to see how much worse it will get.

The pair of pseudo-intellectuals continue to coach the audience in outrage for another minute and a half, and then we get to hear the mediot again. “The acts of violence that have plagued the country continued today with a spree of car bombs in Manhattan. Five bombs were detonated within twenty-two minutes, causing widespread damage to transportation and communication infrastructure, as well as to property. The victims are still being counted, but estimates range upward of four hundred dead and twelve hundred wounded in an attack most analysts are attributing to supporters of the Texas Independence Army, the same organization believed responsible for the Coma Day atrocities.”

“Fucking liars,” I mutter. “The TIA is dead.”

“The dragons need a bad guy who is not one of their own.”

“If the president wants to be the good guy, he needs to stop these lies.”

“Hush, listen.”

Because now the mediot is talking about me. “. . . destroying the residence of former army lieutenant James Shelley, popularly known as the Lion of Black Cross. It’s not yet clear if Mr. Shelley survived the bombing. Authorities will say only that his present whereabouts are unknown.”

“Liars again—but maybe I’m better off if people think I’m dead.”

“No, that just means it’ll be easier to make you disappear.”

I think about that while the mediot reads her lines: “That the timing of this latest terrorist act coincides with the start of the Sheridan trial is very likely no coincidence. Analysts regard it as a protest against the federal government’s yielding United States sovereignty by allowing the Sheridan trial to go forward.” She sounds like she’s starting to get bored by the whole thing. “Street surveillance cameras were able to capture and upload images of two of the bombers seconds before the blasts took place.”

I’m looking at my street again: video preceding the blast. The van I saw in real time pulls up to the curb. The driver jumps out. Under his floppy hat he’s got a mask like the one Carl Vanda wore, but a mask isn’t going to save him. The video contains his full-body biometrics and a nice kinetic sample of the way he moves. The sequence ends abruptly at the moment of the blast.

“There’s more than enough in that clip to identify him,” I say. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“If he didn’t die in the blast.”

Well, yeah. There’s that. “I wonder if street surveillance caught my brawl with Vanda?”

Delphi’s shoulders roll in a shrug. “The cameras were probably intact, but whether the network was up—who knows?”

•   •   •   •

While Delphi watches more propaganda, I sit on the carpet and empty my pack for the first time since Niamey. There’s the first-aid kit, my arctic camo, sealed rations, a ­gun-cleaning kit, the armored vest I used for First Light. . . .

The vest smells musty and there’s a slug embedded in it, but I put it on anyway over one of the civilian T-shirts Delphi got for me. I rig the holster of my new pistol so it’s centered on my chest. My newly purchased jacket goes over it.

Delphi eyes my bulk. “Amazing how fast soldiers put on weight once they’re out of the ranks.”

“You can help me work it off later.”

“Deal.”

I head downstairs to relieve Tuttle and take my turn on watch. I’ve been thinking a lot about Carl Vanda and the assets he has at his disposal. Vanda-Sheridan specializes in satellite surveillance. Most of their equipment is under government contract, but part of their contractual obligation is processing and analysis, which would allow Vanda to run searches on the data his satellites collect.

Lights in the lobby are low and no one’s at the desk. The doors slide open as I approach. Outside, the night is cool and quiet, and though the interstate is just a hundred meters from the hotel, the only traffic I hear is the distant static of tire noise from a single electric car. I glance up at a sky that holds a good collection of stars, though their light is dulled by humidity in the atmosphere. It’s not an ideal night for seeing, but conditions don’t have to be ideal for a sophisticated satellite to pick out faces on the ground.

Knee-high lights illuminate the handful of cars in the parking lot. I have to bite down on an urge to chew out Tuttle when I see him leaning with his ass against the front grille of the brown SUV, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, soldier? Stand up straight!

He’s wearing farsights, giving him enhanced vision, so as I cross the parking lot to meet him, it’s easy for him to read me, despite the dark. “Take it easy,” he whispers. “I’m slacking on purpose. Vasquez says we’re supposed to look like civilians.”

“You’re doing a damn good job. Anything I need to know about?”

He nods toward the interstate. “You hear how quiet it is? It’s not always like this. Every now and then you’ll hear a convoy of trucks. Twenty or more together—I guess they have problems with hijackers—but it sounds like a fucking invasion force when they roll through.”

He leaves me a set of keys before he goes. First thing I do is unlock the gunmetal-gray SUV, the one with my equipment in it. I rearrange the load so my helmet and dead sister are within easy reach in case I need them. Then I open the brown SUV, get out the angel, and unfold its three-foot-long crescent wing.

I still have the software that was loaded into my overlay at the start of the First Light mission. It lets me send a signal to the angel, waking it up. Normally, the angel collects enough solar energy to enable it to fly around the clock, but it’s been locked up in storage for months, so I’m worried it will be unusable, the battery drained to wisps—but I underestimate my squad. Someone took the initiative to prep the angel and it’s fully charged.

I launch it from the parking lot, sending it in a spiral around the hotel and then up, high above the interstate, and for the first time since we were in the Apocalypse Forest, I have an angel’s view of the terrain around me. It’s electrifying, like having a lost sense returned to me, a handicap overcome.

But the angel’s AI is jumpy. It was trained for the Apocalypse Forest, where any motion at all is a likely threat, so it red-alerts at a lone car on the interstate, and again as a police cruiser moves slowly along a frontage road. I check the default settings, find a template for North American terrain, and start reeducating it on what can be accepted as normal.

If “normal” can be defined anymore.

The angel red-alerts again, highlighting an object low in the sky to the west. It looks more like a reflection than anything real: seven tiny, faintly glowing pearls arranged in a vertical line with no visible link between them. Seen through the humid air, the lights are elusive—twinkling, shimmering, fading from sight only to reappear again. I have no idea what they are and no way to judge their scale or their elevation—they could be high in the sky and far away or much lower and only a few miles down the interstate. All I know for sure is that they’re too low for me to see directly from my position on the ground.

I capture an image on my overlay and run a search on it in my encyclopedia. In just a few seconds the encyclo­pedia launches into a verbal explanation: “The object identifies as a node in the experimental EXALT communications system, a federal stimulus project launched in January of this year. ‘EXALT’ is an acronym for ‘Expandable Aerial Labyrinth Traffic,’ and is intended as a robust, distributed communications system that will use aerial relays to bypass—”

I cut it off, and instruct the angel to ignore any more sightings of EXALT aerial nodes. It’s good to know the feds are working on a new communications infrastructure, but judging by my connectivity it’s not working yet.

Impressive though, that a new project has been funded and launched in the five chaotic months since Coma Day. The US economy crashed after the bombs knocked out critical components of the communications system. Jobs were lost as food and fuel prices soared, and recovery won’t come soon, but we’d all be worse off without the tireless efforts of people both in and out of government to build on what’s left. They are the anonymous heroes of an ­ongoing story, but there are villains too.

How did Vanda-Sheridan get their nukes?

I think about it, imagining a hypothetical individual: a faceless, nameless link in a nuclear security chain, in this country or another, someone who gave away the ability to immolate thousands in return for a fat payoff.

Hell was made for people like that.

Hell was made at ground zero in San Diego, in Chicago, in Alexandria.

Niamey will have its own ground zero if Vanda’s remaining nukes aren’t found.

I look up at the sky and wonder if a surveillance satellite has marked my position yet. If Vanda is hunting me, he’s got a hell of a lot of territory to scan, a massive amount of data to process. Is his system capable of it?

I’m distracted by a faint roar of engines, far to the west. At first I think it’s a jet, but then the angel red-alerts again, this time highlighting a long line of eastbound trucks still a few miles away: one of the convoys Tuttle warned me about.

He was right. It’s amazing to hear them. Against the quiet of the night, the slowly building roar of their approach sounds like a prelude to the end of the world.

But it’s not the end of the world. Not yet. I reduce the alert status from red to blue and then walk to the end of the parking lot where I have a view of the freeway’s on-ramps, and of an overpass that spans the lanes. The trucks’ headlights blaze in the distance. I watch them approach, and as they pass I count them—one, two, three, four—and that’s just the beginning.

The drone continues its patrol. As the twelfth truck rumbles by, the drone makes a pass over the parking lot—and flashes a red-alert. I spin around, looking back at the SUVs.

I don’t see anything.

I shift to angel sight, so that I’m looking down on the vehicles in green-tinted night vision. There’s someone in the empty stall between the two SUVs. He? She? I can’t tell, but the intruder is skinny and not very tall—an underfed teenager maybe, with what looks like a crowbar in one hand.

I race back across the parking lot, determined to interfere before any glass gets broken. Joby engineered my padded feet to be quiet, and the little sound I do make is covered by the roar of the convoy—a roar that was no doubt a factor in the timing of this little venture.

A glance at angel sight assures me that the drone has not found any accomplices.

With my pistol in hand, I make a dramatic appearance between the front ends of the two SUVs, boxing the enemy in, with the neatly trimmed hedge blocking a retreat—but the convoy is still rolling past and my appearance goes unnoticed.

It’s a girl—I’m pretty sure. She looks coppery in the glow of the streetlights, her smooth, shoulder-length hair bound up in a little ponytail, maybe five six in height, dressed in long, dirty pants, running shoes, and what looks like a badly worn armored jacket—the kind motorcyclists sometimes use. I can see a faint display dancing in the thin lens of her farsights as she cocks her arm, working up her nerve to swing her crowbar at the window in the passenger door of the gray SUV.

“Not your best idea,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the trucks.

“Fuck!” She spins around, swinging the crowbar so that it whistles through the air between us. “Touch me and I’ll kill you!”

Definitely a girl.

I step aside, giving her room to run. “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”

She grips the crowbar in two hands. “Don’t you touch me!”

“I won’t.”

She edges sideways, watching me through her farsights, a pinprick green light in the corner indicating she’s recording. I expect her to turn and run as soon as she’s in the open, but instead she hesitates, asking, “What’s going on with your eyes? There’s sparks of light flashing in them.”

Angel sight is still running in the corner of my vision as the drone takes in the brilliant headlights of the convoy along with our little conflict in the parking lot. I’m impressed she can see well enough to make it out. “It’s an implant.”

“You’re a soldier, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re the one they call King David.”

“Not anymore.”

She thinks about this for a few seconds, watching me with an anxious gaze. “Sorry,” she whispers, edging away. “Sorry I messed with your stuff.”

“Are you hungry?”

Just the question, the implication that there might be food, and she looks faint.

But I don’t want that crowbar anywhere near me or the trucks. “Go across the parking lot. Wait there. I’ll get you something.”

She backs away.

I open up the gunmetal-gray SUV, find a case of MREs I remember seeing earlier, and extract a dozen packets while watching her with angel sight. She’s retreated thirty feet, toward the opposite end of the parking lot from where I was watching the convoy. Behind her is a vacant lot, overgrown with spindly young trees. I leave the packets on the asphalt between us and return to the vehicles. The last of the convoy has passed, and the night has gone quiet again. She scurries toward the food, setting the crowbar down just long enough to stuff her pockets. Then she turns and sprints for the trees.

It bothers me that the angel missed her presence in its initial survey. I send it to track her, wanting to map her hiding place, but there’s no sign of her—so she must be hiding under the concrete shelter of the overpass.

I resolve to stay close to the vehicles, where I spend my time looking for satellites.

Satellites are seen when they reflect light from the sun, so they’re easiest to spot early in the night or just before dawn. It’s almost 2200, but I see one anyway, gliding in stately silence from the west, so big and bright it makes me curious.

I go back to the gunmetal SUV, sure I saw binoculars stashed with the supplies. I find them and get them out in time to study the object as it fades into shadow. The binoculars are electronically amplified and image stabilized, and what they show me is not just a point of light—it has length and width, a glowing rice grain that has to be a space station. I send an image to my encyclopedia, and it returns an audio article. What I’m looking at is a billion-dollar toy. A company called Sunrise 15 is manufacturing orbital pods to serve as private dwellings, high-tech cabins—dragon lairs. A spaceplane services them. One has been sold to an eccentric hypochondriac, another to a socialite because she can. The money invested in the venture is staggering—billions of dollars—while kids go hungry in rural Pennsylvania.

Motion behind the hotel’s glass doors makes me reach for my pistol, but the doors slide open, revealing Nolan coming to take over the watch. He’s wearing farsights and a thigh-length jacket like mine to cover his armor.

I search the sky again, wondering how many satellites have looked down on this parking lot since I’ve been out here.

“You looking for something up there, LT?” Nolan asks.

“I don’t have a rank anymore.”

He makes a low, skeptical grunt. “Shelley, then. Counting satellites?”

I look at him. His farsights cast a faint glow around his eyes. “Did you know there’s a company selling space stations to dragons? They’ve launched six dragon lairs already.”

“No shit?” He looks up.

I pass him the binoculars. “They’re looking down on us.”

“They always have.” He puts the binoculars to his eyes. “We just watched the newest reality show.”

“Yeah? How was it?”

“Like you said it would be . . . focused on the people who protected us. Cops and FBI, but mostly these teenage kids in DC who knew something was up and kept poking at it.” He lowers the binoculars, frowning. “They almost got themselves killed—but then they found an IND, just like the ones recovered on Coma Day. A nuke in a cheap-ass van. The FBI shut down the trigger mechanism less than two hours before it would have gone off. That would have been the Saturday night before the court-martial.”

“That was the night before the president came to see me,” I realize. “So when he talked to me, he knew. He knew how close we all came.”

“Including him,” Nolan agrees.

I think about it. Would the country have survived if that IND had gone off? Our president killed? The government thrown into chaos? I want to believe we would have gone on somehow, with the military remaining loyal to the people, and the people pulling together in support of the Constitution . . . I want to believe it.

But even after the nuke was disarmed, the president kept its existence secret. He knew how close we’d come to disaster, but he didn’t trust the people with that knowledge. He didn’t trust me. He came after me only hours later, asking for an end to the disruption, the chaos, without ever hinting at what had almost happened.

It’s all out in the open now. “Goddamn,” I breathe. “Do you know how lucky we are? Not just us. The whole fucking country.”

“Thanks to those kids. They’re heroes, and not just them. The FBI too.”

“And the seven hundred thousand protesters on the Mall.”

If not for them, today would have been the start of our sentencing hearing. A lot of people have been saving my ass lately.

“Hey,” Nolan says, “is that one of the dragon lairs?”

I look up to see another bright satellite. For several seconds Nolan studies it through the binoculars. Then he turns to me, scowling. “We’re out here without our helmets.”

“We want to look like civilians.”

“Sure, but we’re standing out in the open. A good surveillance satellite can identify us with facial recognition.”

I nod. “And Vanda-Sheridan specializes in surveillance satellites.”

“Shit. You think he’ll come after us?”

“He came after me in New York. He came himself. He didn’t hire the job out.”

“Like it was a personal vendetta.”

“He’s not like other dragons. He came up through the ranks. It’s hands-on with him. And right now it’s unfinished business. The job’s not done.”

Nolan stares at the sky a little bit longer. “I’ve met assholes like that. Guys who’ll go out of their way to finish a grudge match before they transfer.”

I’m betting Carl Vanda is one of those guys, and that he’s as predictable as I am. “If he does come after us, we need to turn it around on him. Take him alive.”

“Alive?”

“Persuade him to tell us all about his nukes. Then we don’t have to wait for the organization, or depend on half-truths leaked by corrupt government moles.”

“You want him to come,” Nolan accuses.

I don’t deny it.

“So you think it’ll be soon?” he asks.

“Yes. If he comes at all, it’ll be soon. Probably not tonight, though.”

“But if it is tonight?”

“You have any suspicions, put out a call on gen-com.”

“Roger that.”

I tell him about the girl in the trees, and then I get him set up so his farsights are linked to the angel.

The Red may not be telling my story anymore. That doesn’t mean I can’t tell one on my own.

•   •   •   •

As I head back inside, I’m planning to purchase a replay of the new episode, but that changes when I get to the room, because Delphi isn’t there. There’s no note to say where she’s gone. There’s nothing. Fear hits. Has she been kidnapped? I didn’t hear anything. It doesn’t seem possible . . . and no one left the hotel. I know that. I was watching with angel eyes.

I call her.

The cell network is down so the call doesn’t go through.

I swear to God I can hear Lissa’s ghost whispering, It’s not your fault.

Panic sends me racing into the hall. I visualize a link to Jaynie. My skullnet picks up the command and tries to connect, even as I pound on her door. “I need your help! Delphi’s gone.”

The door opens and it’s Delphi. She’s wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms.

Jaynie is right behind her, dressed in a tank top and panties with a pistol in her hand. “What the fuck, Shelley?” she asks me.

I don’t know what to say.

Delphi looks puzzled. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck, no.” My heart is hammering, my hands are shaking, and the skullnet icon is aglow. “I didn’t know where you were, Delphi! Why the hell didn’t you—”

“Stop,” she says, putting her hand against my chest. “Just stop.”

I back up, shaking my head. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. He took Lissa out of a secure facility! This is just a fucking hotel.”

“Delphi is fine,” Jaynie growls, “and you need to calm down.”

She’s right, but I’m not ready. I go back to our room, letting the door slam behind me.

•   •   •   •

I tell the skullnet, Sleep, but I wake up when Delphi comes in.

She slips into bed beside me, putting her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest. I don’t react. “You said it yourself,” she whispers. “It’s going to be like this. We’re going to be frightened for each other.”

Frightened doesn’t cover it.

“He can’t know about you,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We can’t let him know.”

“He knew before we knew. That’s why he had a sniper waiting outside my hotel.”

She means I’m predictable. Predictably impulsive.

“What were you talking to Jaynie about?”

“My place in the squad.”

“You’re going to be our handler, aren’t you?”

“If we can get set up for it.”

“As long as you’re safe.”

“None of us is safe, Shelley.”

She’s right, and it’s going to get worse long before it gets better.

•   •   •   •

At 0500 we’re all gathered in the parking lot again, packing up.

“Are we going to secure the handguns?” Moon asks.

“No,” I tell him. “I want you to hold on to them, just keep them out of sight and let’s try not to get pulled over.”

I’d rather take my chances with the highway patrol than be unarmed if we run into trouble on the road.

Moon hesitates, turning with a worried look to Jaynie. She’s standing a few steps away, her arms crossed as she eyes me with a critical gaze. I catch on: Moon’s question wasn’t directed at me. It was meant for the CO.

“Ma’am?” Moon asks her.

“What Shelley said.” She unfolds her arms, crooking a finger at me as she walks away.

I glare after her, hating the position she’s put me in, but it’s not going to help my case to act like an angry kid. So I follow. We meet by a hedge, just out of earshot.

I take charge of the meeting, reminding her, “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Do you doubt my ability to command this squad?”

I take a second to consider her question; then I shake my head. “No. That doesn’t mean this is going to work.”

“You named a mission yesterday,” she says. “If that becomes our first assignment, if we have to go forward with it, I want you along. I need you, especially now that Ransom’s gone. But you’re no use to me if I don’t have your loyalty.”

“You promoted yourself over my head, and you want my loyalty?”

“If not me, then who?” She raises her chin, indicating the squad, milling around the vehicles. “Pick one who’s ready for command.”

It’s a trick question. “You’re the only one.”

“You don’t like it,” she says. “I understand that. But you are not in a condition to hold the responsibilities of CO. You’re not in command at all times.”

“If you’re talking about last night—”

“This goes back farther and you know it. Think about Black Cross. Think about why you went outside.”

My glare doesn’t waver, but my confidence does. I went outside at Black Cross because the Red got inside my head and walked me out there like a fucking puppet.

She nods, letting me know my thoughts are easy for her to read. “It’s for the best,” she says. “Now let’s roll.” She starts back toward the vehicles, but after a few steps she turns to me again. “By the way, it’s your turn to drive.”

“Hell, no, ma’am.” I follow after her. “That is a poor idea.”

Everybody’s watching now.

“Why? Have you got a concussion?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Looks like the swelling around your eye is almost gone. You can see okay?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I look past her. I look at Delphi watching me in concern, at Harvey smirking, at Nolan who’s eyeing me with a puzzled gaze.

“I don’t know how to drive.”

“Come on. You have a driver’s license.”

“The army made me get it. I haven’t been behind a wheel since.”

“You drove an ATV at Dassari.”

“That was an ATV. Not a massive truck, packed with live bodies and ammunition, on a crazy-ass interstate at eighty miles an hour.”

Her brows knit as she tries hard to get her head around this. “You went first down the stairs at Black Cross, but you’re scared to drive on the interstate?”

“I didn’t say I was scared. I said it was a bad idea.”

An idea that could put an end to half of the Apocalypse Squad with no help at all from Carl Vanda.

“You’re driving,” she concludes. “Sounds like you need the practice.”

•   •   •   •

Moon is in charge of the first SUV. I manage to follow him onto the interstate without getting involved in a major accident. Jaynie is shotgun, coaching me on how to change lanes, while Delphi is alone in the back. Everyone else is riding with Moon in a precautionary measure to minimize casualties if I really fuck up.

I’m nervous as hell, especially when we catch up with a long convoy of trucks and I have to pass them all. “Just follow Moon’s lead,” Jaynie tells me. “But not too close.”

We creep past the trucks, one by one, while I imagine the huge trailers swaying, swinging into us, the gas cylinders exploding. . . . My heart is racing, but we get past them without incident. I move into the right lane. Ahead of us is open road.

We’re rocketing past a small town whose name I didn’t catch when my overlay picks up a network connection. An upload link opens in my display. I know it’s not my archival program, because that only runs when I’m asleep. I puzzle over it, concluding it must be Joby’s program transmitting data on the performance of my legs—but the link stays open. Seconds pass.

“Shelley!” Jaynie shouts.

I look up, startled to see that I’ve swerved onto the shoulder.

“Turn the display on your overlay off,” she growls at me.

I try, but I have to keep looking up at the road and every time I do, the process aborts.

From the backseat, Delphi says, “We’ve got flashing lights behind us.”

I check the rearview and she’s right. “Fuck.”

Jaynie reaches into my jacket, pulls out my pistol, and passes it, along with her own, to Delphi. “Secure these.” Then to me, “Pull over. And once you’re stopped, get your license out.” She switches to gen-com. “Moon, drive on to the next exit, then wait.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I bring us to a controlled stop. The upload link is still open in my overlay. While the patrol car pulls in behind us, I check the system log. It’s not Joby’s program. It’s the video of the Manhattan bombing that’s uploading—to an address that’s just a random string.

Not forgotten. That’s what I think. And I’m angry it’s back, now, after the silence in New York, but fuck me, I’m relieved too.

Jaynie is still focused on the cop. “Shelley, get your license out!”

“I don’t need to,” I tell her as the upload finishes. “I’m chipped.”

“More machine parts?” she asks with a note of disgust.

“I used to lose my wallet a lot.”

We watch the patrol car, using the rearview camera. I watch the traffic too, but I keep my gaze averted as cars shoot past us. I don’t want to advertise my face.

“Look across the freeway,” Delphi says. “That’s the highway patrol’s drone.”

I see it. It’s an old model—white, cross shaped, flying slowly at a low altitude, keeping an eye on us.

The officer gets out of his car. Jaynie tells me, “Put your window down. Then put your hands on the steering wheel.”

As the window goes down, spring warmth rolls in. I watch the rearview screen as the cop approaches. He’s a man of average height, chunky, wearing a khaki uniform, his opaque gray farsights like blind robot eyes, and he’s got an arsenal around his hips.

I switch my recording function on, and then I turn to look at him. A tiny green light at the corner of his farsights is glowing, indicating he’s recording too. We stare at each other for two seconds. His name badge says “Munroe.” He’s enough of a public figure that my encyclopedia recognizes him and tags him as Terence B. Munroe.

Of course, he’s running facial recognition too.

“Shit,” he whispers when it lets him know who I am. Then he remembers himself, and in a formal voice he says, “Let’s see your driver’s license, Mr. Shelley.”

“Implant,” I tell him.

He sighs—“Should have guessed”—and reaches for his shirt pocket, extracting a three-inch-long wand. “Moving slowly, place your hand on the door.”

I do as he says. He holds the wand over my wrist, frowning over the report that appears in his farsights. Then he looks at me again. “Do you have a weapon in the car, sir?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

Not the answer he was hoping for. His cheeks pinch and he takes a step back.

I add, “They’re secured in the back cargo area.”

Jaynie leans over. “They’re legally permitted for interstate transport. I have the paperwork.”

His forehead wrinkles. “The weapon in question is a police-issue revolver reported missing by the New York City Police Department. Is that in your possession, Mr. Shelley? Ms. Vasquez?”

“No,” I say. “That is not in our possession.”

He nods. “I heard you tried to chase down that cop killer. NYPD wants to talk to you about that.” He waits for my reaction. When I don’t give him one, he shrugs. “There’s no warrant. You’re under no obligation to return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you planning to stay in this area?”

“No, sir.”

Relief floods his face and he gives me a tight smile. “Good. God knows we’ve had enough trouble around here since Coma Day. I’m going to issue you a warning for inattentive driving and let you go on your way.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

One of the tools on his belt is a thumb printer. It spits out a yellow strip of paper, which he tears off and hands to me. “That’s your warning. It also has a contact number for NYPD, if you’d care to talk to them.” He takes a step back. Then he visibly gathers himself, straightening his shoulders, settling his lips into a determined line. “One more thing, sir.”

It’s like some lame line from a movie, spoken right before the smiling assassin pulls his weapon. Fear shoots through me and I tense, my gaze locked on his gun hand while I rehearse in my mind what I’m going to do if he goes for his weapon.

Jaynie puts her hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy,” she whispers.

“For the record, Mr. Shelley . . . the Red . . . is it bullshit? Or is it real?”

Not a question I was expecting, but easy enough to answer: “It’s real.”

He nods. “Around here, a lot of people want it to be real. They’d rather have an out-of-control AI running things than the human nut jobs who let a nuclear bomb go off in Chicago. You ask me, I’ll say no to either choice.”

I don’t think that’s an option, but I keep my opinion to myself.

He nods again. “You’re free to go on your way.”

As he walks back to his cruiser, I end the video recording, and then start the engine. From the backseat, Delphi says, “Every police department between here and Wyoming is going to instruct their drones to look for us.”

Jaynie shrugs. “Good. With the cops watching, hitting us gets a little more risky.”

“We can’t assume every police department is going to have our best interests in mind.”

“You’re right about that. Pass those weapons back up here.”

I get back on the road, rejoining the westbound flow of scattered traffic. After a few minutes, we link up with Moon, and then it’s another ten miles before Jaynie asks the inevitable question. “So what distracted you back there?”

She deserves the truth. All of it.

I tap the corner of my eye. “I thought my part was done, but the video I took of the bombing—it uploaded on its own.”

“To where?”

“Some anonymous relay.”

“Are you carrying leftover software from the army?” she asks, without much hope.

“So far as I know, they’re out of my head.”

I tell her about the digital footage that went out every night on the cellblock when I was supposed to be locked down, and about my conversation with Joby, who insisted the army no longer had access to my overlay. She already knows about our meeting with Koi Reisman.

“You watched the new episode last night, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, we all did. It streamed while you were outside.”

“Koi Reisman said our part in the story was over. Did it look that way to you?”

She considers this for a few seconds, then nods. “Yeah, it did. But things haven’t exactly been quiet for you since you left DC—and if the Red’s done with you, if you’re not King David anymore, then what the fuck is going on?”

I don’t know, but it’s meaningful to me that there are two more shows.

“Maybe it’s just a leftover process,” Delphi suggests from the backseat.

I look in the rearview mirror and briefly meet her gaze, wondering if she really believes that, or if she’d just like to. “We’re planning on going after Carl Vanda’s nukes,” I point out.

“You’re planning on it,” Jaynie counters. “You’re the one who wants to do it. You need to think about that.”

And Delphi reminds me, “It’s not our mission. I reported what we know. An official agency will take it.”

Jaynie turns to me, channeling sincerity in her voice and her expression as she says, “You’re being manipulated, Shelley. You need to get that wiring out of your skull.”

I stare at the back of Moon’s vehicle, sixty meters ahead. “No. That is not going to happen.”

Delphi plays reinforcement on Jaynie’s side. “You could go back to using a skullcap. You know the effect is essentially the same, but if the Red endangers you like it did at Black Cross, it doesn’t require surgery to take the cap off.”

“Come on, Delphi. You were my handler. There’s a risk, sure, but you know the skullnet is a hell of a lot more advanced than a cap.”

Jaynie hooks her elbow on the back of her seat, turns to Delphi. “He doesn’t want the option of taking off the cap. He doesn’t want anyone else to have that option.” She looks at me again. “That’s what you’re worried about, right, Shelley? That the cap could be taken away?”

I keep my eyes on the road. “You wouldn’t ask me to give up the legs, would you? They’re prosthetics that let me walk. The skullnet is a prosthetic that keeps me humming along while people I love die around me and assholes try to blow up my life. Take either of them away, Jaynie, and I’m a cripple. No use to you. So yeah, I’m more worried about losing that functionality than about the Red hacking into my head.”

She is unimpressed by my rant. “The real story is you don’t mind the Red hacking into your head. It almost killed you at Black Cross, but you trust it anyway.”

“Not true. I just deal with it. Part of the terrain. The Red’s not going away, Jaynie. Sheridan proved that on Coma Day. You either learn to live with it, or be like her and build yourself an Apocalypse Fortress and lock the Red out.”

Jaynie settles back into her seat, her gaze returning to the road ahead. “I thought about that,” she concedes. “Be a lot of money to buy that kind of privacy. More than this job is going to pay.”

“You wouldn’t want to live in a hole in the ground anyway.”

She doesn’t answer, so I just drive.

In Ohio, young corn crops are already several inches high in some of the fields that flank the freeway—but many more fields have gone unplanted. On both sides of the interstate, miles and miles of land are growing a harvest of bright green weeds.

“What the hell?” I finally say. “People don’t need to eat anymore?”

“You ever been hungry, Shelley?” Jaynie asks. “Three-days hungry?”

“No.”

I wait for her to say more. She doesn’t. When I glance at her, she’s staring straight ahead, her back straight, shoulders squared. I return my gaze to the road.

It’s Delphi who fills the silence. “Farms like these, they need fuel, fertilizer, machine parts, bank loans. Cash. The system that used to deliver all that got broken on Coma Day.”

It’s not just the fields. Gas stations are abandoned too. We top up whenever we come across a rare open one. They’re all automated. No one is around to talk to.

At one of our stops I spot an EXALT node floating low above an abandoned field, just north of the interstate. At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It looks like a stack of curved blue reflections just a little brighter than the background blue sky. When I look at it through the binoculars, the curves become the visual edge of a series of small spheres. Their smooth surfaces reflect the color of the sky around them, making them hard to see even with magnification. From the article last night, I know they’re linked together by a filament, but I can’t see it. As I lower the binoculars, a bright white light flashes from the topmost sphere, like a star briefly flaring to life in the daytime sky. A navigation warning light? Maybe. Flynn sees it and wants to know what it is, so I hand her the binoculars and tell her about the EXALT project. “It’s supposed to be a new communications grid, but either it’s not working yet or it requires its own account”—I tap the corner of my eye—“because I’m not getting a link.”

Connectivity is intermittent as we head west, but frequent enough that at least once an hour an e-mail comes in from Shima. It’s always the same thing: No news to report in the hunt for Vanda’s nukes, and Vanda’s own whereabouts are presently unknown. Maybe the same players who tried to cover up the real story at Black Cross are at work again.

We reach Iowa—and drive past more unplanted fields.

Coma Day throws one hell of a long shadow.

•   •   •   •

We stop for the night half an hour outside of Des Moines at a little commercial development built to capture weary travelers. It includes a three-story hotel—part of a low-priced chain—just off the exit, along with a gas station and a fast-food place. A competing hotel is a hundred meters west along a frontage road that separates the interstate from an abandoned field. There are no other buildings nearby. Jaynie decides we’ll stay at the second hotel—she likes the isolation—but first we fill up the tanks, and pick up dinner.

To make Jaynie happy, I wait in the car while Delphi goes inside with Tuttle and Moon to order the food. I’ve got a feed from Tuttle’s farsights running in my overlay. I shift my attention between that and the traffic on the interstate.

The restaurant is clean and bright, but it’s a sign of the times that half the slots on the electronic menu behind the counter are blank and all the tables are empty. There are only two other customers—both white kids in their early twenties, maybe a brother and sister. As they wait at the counter, they eye Moon and Tuttle nervously. I think if Delphi weren’t there to provide some feminine balance, they’d bolt. “You look like thugs,” I mutter in Tuttle’s ear.

“Beats looking like a victim,” he answers in a low whisper.

When the two kids finally get their food, they leave in a hurry.

Moon steps up to the counter, where a middle-aged woman with short, curly blond hair greets him with an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, sir. We don’t get anywhere near the traffic we used to, and I’m down to one assistant in the kitchen.”

“Not a problem, ma’am”—and Moon rattles off an order that keeps the manager and her assistant busy for the next fifteen minutes.

•   •   •   •

We drive slowly along the frontage road to the hotel Jaynie has chosen. It’s three stories high, built like a box, with a brightly lit company logo near the roof, facing the interstate. Lights are on in several rooms, but when we turn in to the huge parking lot behind the hotel, we see only two cars, both near the main door. It makes me wonder if the manager turned on some room lights so the place will seem busier than it is.

We park close to the building so our vehicles can’t be seen from the interstate. The landscaping beside the hotel is neatly tended, but the surrounding field has gone wild. Spillover light shows tall grass and waist-high brush beyond the parking lot—too much for one missed planting. My guess is this section has been sitting idle for a year or more. Maybe it was scheduled to be developed, before Coma Day. Now it’s home to a million crickets, chirping and buzzing in the night.

“Tuttle, launch the angel,” Jaynie says. “Flynn, you’re on watch.”

The skullnet icon flickers to life in my display. A vague, restless feeling comes over me. After a few seconds, the icon fades back to invisibility, but the unsettled feeling remains. It’s like a reminder to stay alert. I look around again.

To the east, streetlights illuminate the frontage road back to the overpass, where a little Midwestern forest grows in the triangles created by the ramps. In the other direction the frontage road is lit only by the occasional headlights of cars passing on the interstate.

Flynn watches me curiously through the faintly glittering lens of her farsights as the rest of the squad disappears into the hotel.

“You’re hooked into the angel?” I ask her.

“Yes, sir.”

I link into angel sight too, and take a look at things in night vision. There’s scattered traffic on the interstate, but I confirm the frontage road is as empty as it looks from the ground. To the west, maybe 120 meters and beyond the reach of the streetlights, the landscape gets even wilder, overgrown with young trees that branch all the way to the ground. There’s no one out there—not that the angel can see—but it was the same last night when that girl popped up out of nowhere.

“I’m going to get checked in,” I tell Flynn, “but I’m coming back out again.”

“Sir?”

The skullnet icon brightens again. Its glow is faint but steady—and I’m feeling edgy. “Everything looks quiet. I just want to make sure it is.”

•   •   •   •

Behind the desk is a Caucasian man in his fifties with iron-gray hair. Unlike the kid last night, he knows who we are, and he wants us to know we’re all on the same side. He talks as he scans our IDs and logs us into the rooms.

“Coma Day ruined me. I used to have a healthy business—I had this place and two other properties. This is the only one still open, but it’s just a matter of time. You know what Coma Day did for me? It gave me a full house. For three days after the bombs went off, every room was booked as people left Chicago, but we haven’t been more than a quarter full since. People around here are desperate—while the richest of the rich buy playhouses in orbit. Have you heard of Sunrise Fifteen? It’s a company launching little prefab space stations, for only a billion dollars or so. Can you imagine having that much money to spend? And there’s talk about a resort being planned for the Moon—but not for people like us. The big shots have got everything now. Everything worth having. But at least you made one pay.”

•   •   •   •

In the room, Delphi watches me suspiciously as I put my armor on over my civilian clothes. “I don’t understand why you have to go out. You’re not on watch until later.”

“I just want to keep an eye on things.”

“Have you got a feeling about something, Shelley?”

She wants to know if I’m King David again, with the Red riding me, warning me of impending danger. I eye the skullnet icon, its persistent glow an indicator of artificial activity in my head.

Yes, I have a feeling. It’s the first time in months I’ve felt this way.

But I don’t tell her. She’ll take it the wrong way. She’ll ask questions I can’t answer.

No way though, that I’m going to ignore the warning. “Just stay inside, okay? If you need me, use gen-com.”

•   •   •   •

In the parking lot, I open the back of the gray SUV and get out one of the new HITR M-CL1a assault rifles, still in its case. I take it into the backseat, switch it on, and run through the initial security sequence that registers it to me. Flynn watches me doubtfully through the partly open door. “LT—”

“Get me some ammo, Flynn.”

“LT, if something’s happenin’, you gotta let me know.”

“I don’t know that anything is happening. I just want to walk around.”

I rig up in my dead sister, using the SUV as cover against a security camera that’s keeping watch from the hotel entrance.

“LT, you don’t look like a civilian.”

“It’s okay, Flynn. There’s no one here to see.”

I put my helmet on so I can use night vision, and then I move swiftly into the cover of the overgrown field, silencing the crickets with my presence.

•   •   •   •

I stay low, so that the brush and tall grass hide me from the frontage road as I creep toward the thicker cover of the young trees on the western edge of the field. I carry the HITR close to my side to make its profile less obvious to watching satellites. The angel will notify me with a blue alert if a traffic drone gets close, but my goal is to reach the trees before that happens. Four times as I cross the field I freeze within the cover of the weeds, waiting for interstate traffic to pass before I move again.

I take up a position twenty-five meters within the woods, well beyond the angel’s patrol route, surrounded by young trees with spindly trunks holding up a dense canopy of spring leaves. The lights of the hotel glint through the brush, but I can see Flynn only when I look with angel sight.

At 2200 Tuttle comes to relieve Flynn.

At 2248 my helmet’s audio pickups filter a faint buzzing sound from the rustle of windblown leaves. The anomalous noise is coming from somewhere behind and to my right. I resist the urge to turn around. Moving nothing but my eyes, I summon the feed from my rear helmet cam. Several seconds pass before I spot an aerial seeker—a mini surveillance drone like those that tracked me in Manhattan. It’s at least eight meters away and only a meter and a half above the ground as it moves slowly east through the trees alongside the frontage road.

It gives no indication it’s detected me, but as it nears the edge of the woods it suddenly descends to the ground. I check my feed. The angel is approaching the western limit of its programmed route, swinging past the seeker’s position before circling back toward the hotel. I wait and watch to see if it will pick up the seeker, but it fails to do so, and as it moves off, the seeker rises from the ground, ascending just high enough to achieve a clear view of the hotel across the field.

It’s possible the seeker has been fielded by a government agency, but a seeker requires the oversight of an operator and I can’t see an agency expending the manpower when our position can be easily monitored through traffic cams, police drones, and satellite surveillance. It’s far more likely the seeker belongs to someone with a special interest in the Apocalypse Squad. I’ve been expecting Carl Vanda—but I need to confirm it’s him and I can’t send our angel to look, because any deviation in its route will be a warning to Vanda that we suspect he’s there.

I’ll have to go myself.

But I’m not going to leave the squad vulnerable. I open a solo link to Tuttle, and then I concentrate on a thought: Don’t make a move. The simple AI in my skullnet senses my intention, picks up the thought, translates it to words, and then synthesizes a verbal message, which it sends to Tuttle, who is wearing his audio loop.

“LT? Where are you?”

Wary of the seeker’s audio pickups, I answer in a barely audible whisper: “West of you. Don’t look. Don’t move. Don’t change the angel’s route. Just listen. You’re being watched, okay?”

“Okay. By who?”

“I want you to call a general alert. Wake everyone up. Have them evacuate on foot from the hotel’s east end. They have to stay out of sight. Got it?”

“Yes, sir?” Not sounding sure at all.

“Your assignment is different. You need to stay where you are and act like nothing is happening.”

“Sir, what is happening?”

“Now, Tuttle.”

I listen to him call the alert. He does a good job, repeating what I told him precisely, insistently: “Evacuate, but stay out of sight. . . . I don’t know what’s going on, just do it.”

When I’m satisfied the squad is on the move, I move too, west through the woods as quietly as I can, my footsteps padded by damp leaves and everything around me bright in night vision.

The ground begins to slope up under my feet. I’m encouraged, because logically, I’ll find the enemy at a high point. I move as quickly as I dare. I’ve advanced over two hundred meters through the woods when I see a two-story house with trees leaning over it. Its white paint is stained by time and neglect. Shingles are missing from the roof, and moss is growing on the ones that remain. It looks abandoned. The only sign of life is a faint glow, visible because I’m using night vision, coming from the second-story window.

I listen for voices, for movement, and hear none. Just the rustle of leaves in the canopy, the chirping of crickets.

Moving on, I circle around the house. The woods have taken the yard for their own, but the driveway is claimed by only a few patches of grass, indicating someone comes now and then to visit the old place.

Someone’s here now.

An electric sedan is parked close to the covered porch. The front door is open.

An icon ignites at the edge of my vision: a solo link from Jaynie. But she doesn’t say anything. She just wants me to know she’s watching through my helmet cams.

I step onto the porch stairs and look inside. Night vision shows me an interior stairway with its banister removed. I cross the porch, treading lightly, and as I reach the open door, I finally hear a voice, its volume boosted by my helmet audio. It’s one I know. “Check,” Carl Vanda says. “Position data on the third seeker is in.”

A second voice answers, also male but younger, less resonant, with a slight country twang. “Triangulating.”

In Manhattan, Vanda came after me with a sniper rifle, but there’s a bigger operation going on here.

I use the thrust of the exoskeleton to bound up the stairs, requiring only three strides to reach the top. I’ve got my HITR ready to use if I have to, but I want to take Vanda alive.

Of course they hear me coming.

A figure appears in an open doorway near the top of the stairs. Night vision shows me the narrow face of the man in brown—Carl Vanda’s right-hand man in Manhattan, who almost killed me on the sidewalk. A thin honeycomb cast wraps his wrist and hand—I guess I broke bones when I kicked him—but he’s working despite the injury. His farsights help him see in the dark, and he’s carrying an assault rifle that he’s getting ready to use against me.

I want Carl Vanda alive, but I don’t give a shit about this guy. So it’s just a question of who can pull the trigger first. My tactical AI takes over, firing a three-round burst into his throat. His head snaps back and I’m jumping over his body as it collapses to the floor.

I burn a half second assessing the room: no furniture, old-fashioned wallpaper, a stained ceiling, a window sash thrown open with the woods beyond. The forest’s dense canopy hides the lights of the hotel, but with targeting data from his seekers, Vanda doesn’t need to see the hotel to hit it with the portable, programmable missile launcher he’s got set up by the window. The device is on a motorized tripod already bolted to the floor. My guess is he meant to pull out, and then pull the trigger remotely, maybe from halfway across the state.

It’s too late now to execute that plan, but he’s adaptable.

He tosses a luminous tablet at me—probably the one that controls the launcher. The light dazzles my night vision. I dive for the floor. A pistol goes off. The tablet bounces, spraying its bright-green light around the room as the round explodes against the wall behind me with a concussion like a mini grenade. I keep my head up, my HITR ready as I slam against the floor. My tactical AI is ready too. It puts a targeting circle on Vanda’s chest.

He’s bulky with body armor, so I take the AI’s advice and fire two shots that knock him backward against the wall. He’s stunned, unable to breathe, glaring at me through his farsights, the pistol still in his hand but only because he can’t uncurl his fingers to let it go.

I jump to my feet, twist the pistol out of his grip, and pitch it out the window. Then I grab his farsights off his face and toss them toward the door. He’s starting to recover some volition and takes a weak swing at me, so I seize him by the front of his jacket and hurl him facedown on the floor. Shouldering my HITR, I follow him down, planting the knee joint of my dead sister between his shoulder blades with enough pressure to cut off his breathing. I grope in the pockets of my armored vest and a miracle happens: I find a zip tie, left over from First Light. I use it to bind his hands behind his back and then I haul him to his feet. He makes a wheezing sound as he gasps for air.

Outside, past the rustle of leaves, I hear a racing engine. At first I think it’s on the interstate, but then I hear the crackle and pop of leaves and twigs crushed beneath tires. Someone is on the frontage road. With a thought, I expand the squad map, but the only soldier noted on it is me. No one else is wearing a helmet.

“Jaynie, I hope that’s you coming.”

“Roger that. Is your situation secure?”

“Affirmative. I’m moving the prisoner outside.”

Vanda is hurting. I hear it in the low, grating fury of his voice when he tells me, “You’re going to Hell, Shelley. I’ll see to it.”

“Been there, asshole, thanks to you.”

I push him ahead of me across the room, steering around the black puddle of blood seeping from his compatriot, and then I make him kneel while I recover both his farsights and the ones that belonged to his dead friend. They’re probably so tight with security we won’t be able to get any data out of them, but I don’t want to leave them behind for somebody else to crack.

After that, I half drag, half carry Vanda down the stairs and outside. “Jaynie, I’m taking him out to the frontage road.”

“Roger that.” Her voice is crisp and cold. It dawns on me she’s furious, but she’s not going to let that interfere with the operation. “We’re almost there.”

She comes with lights off. As she brakes, Nolan bails out of the shotgun seat.

“Search him,” I order.

While I hold Vanda, Nolan frisks him, finding a knife, a multitool, a small pistol.

“Check his eyes. Make sure he’s not wearing an overlay.”

“I don’t wear an overlay,” Vanda growls. “And no chip. Only an idiot would hardwire himself into the Cloud.”

Nolan pushes Vanda’s head back anyway, shining a light into his eyes to make sure there’s nothing there. “He’s clear. You detecting any EM?”

My helmet tracks nearby sources, but it’s not picking up anything from Vanda. “Negative.”

“Move!” Jaynie says. “Get him inside now.”

We bundle him into the backseat. I climb in behind him, awkward in my dead sister. Nolan comes in on the other side. As soon as the doors close, Jaynie is driving: over the shoulder, through the wire fence, and onto the interstate, heading west.

I look behind—no traffic—then lean my HITR against the door. “Nolan, you got any zip ties?”

We bind Vanda’s ankles together. I want to get him out of his armor so that if I have to shoot him again, it will count. “Try anything and you’ll have a concussion,” I warn him as Nolan cuts his hands loose.

He’s not stupid. He knows that while I’m wearing armor, bones, and helmet, there’s nothing he can do to hurt me. Even if he gets his hands on my HITR, it won’t fire while it’s registered to me. He might be able to take a swing at Nolan before I break his skull or snap his neck, but that’s it.

All he has left is talk.

As we work his jacket off, he asks, “Anyone still alive that you care about, Shelley?”

Nolan tells him, “Shut the fuck up.”

“You should take this chance to call them and say good-bye.”

Nolan waits until Vanda’s armor comes off, then he slams a fist into his ribs, making him grunt.

“Don’t hit him, Nolan,” I say. “The Red sent his plane nose-down in the dirt last year. He’s a shattered mess inside. We don’t want to start any internal bleeding.”

“Burn in Hell,” Vanda whispers.

We bind his hands again behind his back and then drape his jacket over his head so he can’t see where all this is going.

•   •   •   •

As we head west at exactly the speed limit, I think about what just happened and I wonder, Why now? In Manhattan I felt abandoned, it was only luck that let me live, but tonight it was the Red. Was that luck too? It’s just a rogue AI, after all. It’s not God and it’s not omniscient. It can’t be. It can’t be everywhere at once. It has to allocate resources, so it comes and goes.

Harvey speaks on gen-com. We’ve been on the road nine minutes, so it surprises me we’re still in range. “Second unit loaded and ready. Departing now.”

Jaynie and I ask the same question at the same time. “You got the angel?”

“Roger that,” Harvey says, managing to insert a note of irony.

“And you’ve got Delphi?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. All present. Vasquez?”

“Here.”

“Shima says to get off the interstate. Take Four Fifteen north and keep your speed legal. She’s setting up a safe house.”

“Roger that.”

The lights of Des Moines loom ahead of us.

I take my helmet off, put it on the floor beside my feet. I want to take off my dead sister too—it’s not made for sitting—but I need more room to do that.

This was a successful operation, but there are no hoo-yahs, no congratulations. No one says anything. There’s only silence, for miles.