The Last Good Man

by Linda Nagata

  The cold morning air is moist and sharp with the scent of evergreens. Her breath steams as she follows a winding, wet concrete path down to the Robotics Center. On the way she messages Chris, asking him to assign someone to the front gate, to make sure the driveway stays clear.

  Urgent tasks await her attention. Lincoln sent an email last night to let her know he’d locked up the recovered electronics in one of the robotics vaults and he wants an analysis ASAP. And True emailed an hour ago to report a very unusual and interesting mechanical intruder that needs to be identified.

  But first things first: Tamara gets the coffee started.

  While the coffee brews, she goes to collect the bags. She’s laying them out on a lab table, the coffee just finishing, when Lincoln comes in, freshly shaved, wearing a clean shirt. She nods in approval. “Good morning, boss!”

  He ignores this and says, “I want you to look at the shit we pulled out of the Arkinson before you do anything else.”

  Her eyebrows rise. Lincoln can be hard to read, but she has definitely seen him in better moods.

  “Go over the drives,” he continues. “See if you can extract anything interesting—”

  She stops him there. “Anything interesting,” she warns, “is going to be encrypted.”

  “Do what you can. Have you got a lab in mind for the microbiota analysis?”

  “No, I don’t. I have to research it. I’ve never done this before. Keep in mind though, that geographical analysis of microbiota is a highly specialized field. We could find ourselves caught in a backlog. We might have to wait days, even weeks for results.”

  A sideways shake of his head. “No. We don’t have days or weeks. Find an outfit that will get it done. I don’t care if you have to send it to China. I need to know where that Arkinson has been and where it was serviced. I need a lead on Jon Helm.”

  She puts one hand on her hip and cocks her head, troubled by his intensity. “Something else going on?” she asks him.

  His answer is terse: “Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate.

  Tamara sighs, pours two cups of coffee, hands him one. “You got a budget for me?”

  He gives her a figure.

  “I can work with that,” she says.

  “Okay. Thank you.” He turns to go, coffee in hand.

  “Lincoln,” she says in surprise.

  He looks back. “Is there something else?”

  “Yes, there’s something else. True didn’t call you?”

  He looks puzzled, then worried. “What happened?” he asks. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. She sent me a video. If you haven’t seen it yet? You need to.”

  ~~~

  Lincoln walks back up to headquarters, breath steaming on the cold air, his color-gradient gaze scanning the shadows beneath the trees, the lowering gray sky.

  The biomimetic deer is bad news, but more troubling to him is True’s failure to notify him of it. A flagrant intrusion like that should have been reported. That she didn’t do so—that she didn’t even copy him on her email to Tamara—strikes him as a criticism, an indication of broken trust. Does she still believe he lied to her about Nungsan?

  He wanted to devise another explanation for her failure to report the incident. Maybe she convinced herself the device belonged to a mediot or an independent journalist—someone relatively harmless—but Tamara put an end to that hope as they watched the video.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she commented as the deer retreated on lithe stick legs, speeding backward into the forest. “Impressive agility, good speed, lightweight, and a versatile form. Just gorgeous.”

  Lincoln would never tell this to any of his other people, but he’s seen the signs, read the writing on the wall, and he’s aware that his initial business model—to provide conflict-area intelligence and security, as well as specialized security training—might not survive its first decade, not when he’s in competition with gigantic corporations. So he has steadily boosted the financing behind the robotics department, seeing Tamara’s work as the best hope for the future of the company. Her devices are already generating income. One good patent and they’ll all enjoy an extravagant retirement.

  In the meantime, he respects her opinion on all subjects and defers to it in the matter of robotics. If the deer was an off-the-shelf product, she would have recognized it—but she didn’t. “You’re saying the deer is a custom build.”

  “I want to research it, but that’s my initial evaluation.”

  This is concerning. Mediots and journalists don’t have the skill or the finances to bother with custom mechs. A custom build implies either a serious hobbyist or an operator with meaningful financial resources. A criminal organization, for example. Or another PMC.

  Variant Forces?

  If Variant Forces fielded that deer, it suggests they have resources or a network already in place in the Seattle area, and that they are way ahead of ReqOps in the intelligence game.

  Lincoln wonders again: Are we at war?

  Friday unlocks the door to the headquarters building as he approaches. After the chill of the outside air, the heat inside is oppressive. He strips off his jacket. Checks the time: 0728.

  “Hello Friday,” he says. “Anyone in yet?”

  The AI replies through his TINSL. “Hayden is in the break room. Chris has just arrived in the parking lot.”

  A lesser AI would have mentioned Tamara too, but Friday’s algorithms are clever enough to deduce that Lincoln already knows of her presence. More significant to Lincoln: True isn’t in yet.

  “Call True,” he tells the AI.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

  “What’s your ETA?” he asks.

  “Seven fifty at the latest.”

  “I want to see you in my office.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Precision Strike

  True is sitting behind the wheel of her SUV, stopped at a red light during the brief exchange with Lincoln. The abbreviated conversation reflects the tension, the mistrust that has surfaced between them. She doesn’t like what she’s learned about him in the past twelve hours. He withheld facts from her about Nungsan. He failed to report a war crime.

  She wants to believe he had good reasons.

  She feels cut off, isolated by the secrets of others. Alex swears he’s withheld nothing more from her but the wound remains, while Lincoln might still have more secrets to confess.

  Then there is Shaw Walker.

  Did the deer mimetic belong to Shaw? Or to his outfit?

  Variant Forces.

  The light turns green and she’s rolling again. Traffic is heavy, but over half the cars are autonomous, helping to smooth the flow. AIs are better drivers—more efficient, patient, and conservative than humans. True sometimes uses autonomous mode, but this morning she’s driving. She needs the sense of control.

  As she nears ReqOps she finds herself following Renata Ballard’s sleek red two-seater electric. Renata’s brake lights come on as she rounds the last curve. True slows in turn, surprised by the sight of several cars parked on the road’s shoulder. A ReqOps maintenance worker stands watch at the end of the driveway. He waves at Renata to come in. True follows. Strangers are gathered at the entrance taking pictures, but no one tries to block the way.

  Renata stops at the gate. An automated inspection clears her car and admits her. True goes next. The tall gate and a masonry wall screen the parking lot from view of the road. True pulls into her usual stall, then meets Renata. They trade fist bumps, knuckles stiff in the early morning cold.

  “Missed you last night,” True says.

  A smile brightens Renata’s graceful, fair-skinned face. Her perfectly groomed eyebrows rise in teasing challenge. “Hey, so I was a little late. You were already gone.”

  “Yeah,” True concedes as they walk together across the damp pavement. “Had some things to deal with.”

  In an ideal world, a woman would be judged purely by her skill set, but both
True and Renata live in the real world and they accept that looking good—in a way that is powerful and feminine, with no affectation of weakness or vulnerability—is an effective asset. True’s ideal is a polished but relaxed look, mature and coolly competent. Faux military is a favorite and she’s wearing that today: slim ankle boots, form-fitting slacks, silky shirt under a cardigan jacket, all in understated colors. Minimal makeup.

  Renata is more flamboyant. Like True, she’s taller than most women but where True is slim, Renata has curves, and dresses to enhance them. Today she’s wearing gray slacks, a dusky-rose sweater, and heels of a height that True would never go near. Her honey-blond hair is pinned and braided in complex patterns.

  True says, “That was one intense exit from Tadmur. I knew the technicals wouldn’t be a problem for you, but when those Arkinsons showed up… we all sweated that one. Nice job holding them off. Spectacular fireworks when you took that one down.”

  Renata wrinkles her nose, shakes her head in disgust. “That wasn’t me on the stick. I turned it all over to the AI when the Arkinsons showed up. Fully autonomous mode.”

  True stops at the edge of the terrace, disturbed, and a little angry too. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear it.” She shakes her head. “We really have ceded the battle space to programmers and engineers.”

  Renata answers this with a wry smile and a dismissive wave. “Inevitable. It’s what we’ve been training the AI for and thank God it performed, or you wouldn’t be here, sister. You and me, we were lucky we got into it when we did. Lucky we had a chance to fly. And now?” She shrugs. “I still get to be air force chief and you get to play commando, so what the fuck.”

  “What the fuck,” True echoes agreeably. “And regardless, you’re a great air force chief.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  The door opens ahead of them. Hayden is at the reception desk. His cheery good morning is immediately countered by a gruff audio message from Lincoln, piped in through her TINSL: Conference room. Now.

  Her gut clenches. Something has changed in the twenty minutes since his terse phone call. “Got to go,” she tells Renata. “Lincoln’s in a mood.”

  Renata lifts an eyebrow and taps her own TINSL. “I got the same message. Come on. I’ll walk with you to the conference room.”

  Chris is there ahead of them, sprawled in a chair, a cup of coffee steaming on the table in front of him, his cheeks flushed like he’s just finished a run. They crosscheck and confirm: None of them knows the topic of the meeting.

  Swift, clattering footsteps in the hallway. Tamara enters, looking harried and impatient. She plops into the seat at the head of the table, rocks back, and says, “Someone want to tell me why we’re here?”

  Lincoln must have just stepped out of his office, because Tamara’s question is still hanging in the air when his chiseled figure looms in the doorway. “I’ll tell you,” he says in clipped syllables. He slams the door behind him with a concussion that makes True jump. His artificial eye overlooks her. Overlooks Chris and Tamara, too. Fixes on Renata. “I just got off the phone with Eden Transit. They’ve been hit. A pair of Arkinsons carried out a precision strike against the hangar where our Hai-Lins were housed—”

  “Fuck!” Renata says. Her fist bangs the table, causing True to flinch again. She meets Chris’s stunned gaze across the table’s expanse as Renata rises to her feet. “What the hell kind of security—”

  Lincoln holds up his right hand, his living hand, palm out. Renata breaks off, but her pretty face has darkened with ominous anger.

  Chris speaks into the silence. “We got anything left?”

  “Not a damn thing.” Lincoln passes behind True’s chair. As he does, she feels the prickling current of his anger on the back of her neck. He says, “The Hai-Lins are a total loss. They were being serviced, prepped for a move to Tel Aviv when an anonymous warning was called in, ninety seconds ahead of the strike.” He reaches the end of the table, turns his scarred face to take in his senior staff. “The hangar is still on fire, but all Eden Transit personnel got out and are accounted for.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Tamara says with conviction. “It was Variant Forces, wasn’t it? It had to be. Thank God they had the professional courtesy to call in a warning—”

  “Professional courtesy?” Renata echoes, contempt in her voice. “We took out one of theirs, so they take out three of ours? That’s not courtesy. It’s a declaration of war.”

  True is thinking the same thing. She remembers what Alex said, that Shaw Walker is not above revenge. “We didn’t just take down one of his Arkinsons,” she says. “We hit his reputation.”

  Chris asks Lincoln, “Do we know it’s Jon Helm? Has there been a claim of responsibility?”

  “Not so far.”

  Chris says, “We need to be absolutely sure before we react.”

  “I’m not sure we can afford to react,” True says. She’s feeling sick as she runs a mental tally of their losses. “We had the Hai-Lins insured for accidents but not for acts of war, so there is no way we are going to be able to recover their value. We’ve also lost the income they earned flying as armed escorts.”

  “This is a major, major loss,” Lincoln agrees. “We are not going to be able to replace the Hai-Lins. Not right away.” He looks at Renata.

  She returns his gaze, hands on her hips. “Are you firing me?”

  “No. We might have to subcontract you out, though. We’ve proved our AI can fight. Maybe we can run the software on someone else’s machines.” He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Cash flow is an issue but the security of our people is a bigger concern.” He rests his arms on the table, the riotous colors of his sleeve tattoos enhanced by their contrast to the polished wood. True’s gaze shifts from those illustrations of dragons and koi and snarling lions to find Lincoln studying her. “True, why the hell didn’t you let me know the moment you detected an intrusion at your place?”

  Chris leans forward. “You had trouble?”

  “No trouble. Not really. It was just a surveillance device. Sophisticated. Not something I’d seen before so I sent video to Tamara.” She turns to Tamara with a questioning gaze. “Did you find anything on it?”

  “It’s a custom job,” Lincoln says coldly.

  Tamara nods. “You should have copied the boss on it, True.”

  Lincoln takes it a step farther: “You should have called it in.”

  True doesn’t like being put on the spot. She squares her shoulders, crosses her arms. “It was 0400. The thing had no weapons; it presented no threat. There was no reason to call it in.”

  “You think you’re safe here?” Lincoln asks her. “What if that device was sent to confirm your presence in the house before a strike was called in?”

  “This is not the TEZ,” she snaps.

  “What if similar devices were snooping around the homes of everyone else who just got back from the TEZ? Don’t you think they might have liked a warning?”

  True weighs this. It was just a surveillance device. Beyond that, the incident had felt personal—just me and Alex bonding over a common enemy—but she sees, in retrospect, that it was a mistake not to report the incident. “Okay, you’re right,” she says. “I’ve had surveillance drones fly over before but this was different. I should have called it in.”

  “I’d like to see the video,” Chris says.

  “I’ll forward it.”

  Lincoln stands up. “It’s 0800 and we’ve got a company meeting. Staff is already assembled in the auditorium. True, I want you to kick things off with an update on the status of the Hai-Lins. Chris, you’ll follow with a review of at-home security protocols. I’ll go over what not to say when we have our interviews with the feds. They’re due at 0830. We push them through as quickly as we can, and once they’re out of here we’ll meet again and consider our options. Let’s go.”

  Interrogations

  Are we at war?

  Lincoln asked himself that question only last night. The destruction o
f the Hai-Lins has answered it affirmatively, emphatically.

  He wondered as well where the warzone might be. Traditionally, wars have been fought along geographical fronts, but geography may not be a limiting factor in this conflict. Hit ’em where they live, Shaw Walker had said—even if they live seven thousand miles away.

  He is returning to his office from the auditorium when he gets an alert that a black SUV with government plates is waiting at the automated security gate. The driver holds up a badge for the camera to see. Two other agents are in the vehicle.

  “Let them in,” Lincoln tells Friday.

  By the time the trio walks in the door, he’s waiting in the lobby. Handshakes are traded, introductions made. Lincoln scans their badges, confirming their identities, but he’s disappointed. All three are young men, recent college graduates.

  Lincoln asks what they know about Hussam’s operation, about the security he had in place, and about regional military companies who might have done business with him—but they shake their heads. Their spokesman says, “We work out of the Seattle office, sir. Our focus is the Pacific. We’re here today as puppets for the department’s Middle East experts.” He slides a tablet out of his coat pocket and holds it up. “They’ll be looking in, overseeing the interviews.”

  “I’d like to talk to them,” Lincoln says.

  “You will be, when you’re talking to us.”

  “I like to see who I’m talking to. Why don’t we set it up?”

  “We can’t, sir. Security.”

  Lincoln considers this, staring down the young men, who appear increasingly uneasy under his half-mechanical gaze. He has his own questions to ask, but not of these kids. He considers refusing the interviews until he’s allowed to talk to someone more senior. But his business requires a cooperative relationship with the State Department.