The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

“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.”