by Linda Nagata
She can still get email.
She’s not looking forward to that.
~~~
I’m sorry for taking off like this, but you heard Lincoln. War is coming. And I need answers while it is still possible to get them. The best—the fastest—way to make that happen is to go on my own. That’s how I see it. I am sorry I didn’t say anything to you. The truth is, I didn’t know I was going to do it until I stood up and walked off that plane.
I’m going to be out of touch for a while. Not long. A few days maybe. When it’s done, I’ll call you. I hope you’ll be there. I hope you forgive me.
Love you,
True
~~~
North Africa
Private military companies exist around the world. Some are small, some immense. Many provide only support and training services. Others include armed security. And some are mercenaries in the classic sense: soldiers for hire, willing to work in offensive military operations that might include frontline combat or the overthrow of vulnerable governments.
It’s a secretive world. Even the white-hat companies are publicity-shy and cautious of new contacts.
True has worked four years in the industry. She’s done a lot of networking, developed alliances, but only among white-hat companies that are signatories in good standing to the Military Company Code of Conduct. She is sure, though, that in the volatile regions of North Africa and the Middle East, even those local companies with sterling reputations will have connections reaching into the darker side of the industry. She needs to tap those connections. It’s the only way she’ll ever find Shaw Walker.
She targets a company she’s worked with before, one based in Rabat, Morocco, and run by a middle-aged Egyptian expatriate known as Dove Barhoum. She sets up a clean email account for the purpose.
She doesn’t want to mislead, so when she contacts Dove, she is careful to say that she is not representing Requisite Operations Inc. and that she is not seeking services. To her surprise, the approach piques his interest. Sixty minutes after clearing customs in Rabat, she is sitting across a desk from him, in a windowless room within a large training complex on the city’s edge.
He is a man of stern posture, with dark eyes, a neat beard, and a weathered, sun-blackened visage. His wavy hair is streaked with gray. “We have all heard of Requisite Operations’ recent job in the TEZ,” he says. “And of the troubles that followed—at Eden Transit, and at your company headquarters in America. There has been talk that a retaliatory strike is sure to follow. Yet you are here on your own?”
True’s response is blunt, and honest. “I’m here ahead of the war,” she says. “I can’t tell you what form it’s going to take or when it’s going to happen—because I don’t know. But I don’t deny it’s coming. Too many lines have been crossed. But I’m not here to reconnoiter, or to cultivate allies. Like I said in my email, I’m on personal business. All I’m looking for is an introduction.”
“You understand that my company abides by the code of conduct?”
“Yes, of course. I would not imply otherwise. But while you and I operate by that code, we can’t afford to ignore those who don’t. I don’t doubt that you sit at the nexus of an intelligence operation that is aware of every other PMC in this region, legitimate or not. How could you successfully serve your clients otherwise? I am not asking to access that operation. All I’m looking for is an introduction, or a referral. Someone able and willing to get a message to Jon Helm.”
“Jon Helm,” Dove repeats, slow and thoughtful.
“Do you know him?” True asks.
Dove shrugs. He tugs at his beard. He asks, “You are not seeking a negotiated peace?”
True’s thoughts go to Renata. “It’s gone too far for that.”
“So you wish to speak with this Jon Helm.”
“Yes. About something that happened a long time ago. He’ll know what I mean.”
He reverses her earlier question. “Do you know him?” he asks, doubt in his voice.
“Yes, Dove, I do. At least, I knew him—in another life. He’ll know me.”
This brings a scowl to Dove’s weathered face. His mouth knots as if with a sudden, bad taste. “I prefer dealing with the young,” he finally says. “Their lives are simple and their secrets are trivial.”
“Can you help me?” she presses.
“I cannot. Not directly. But I know someone. He is an agent who knows all kinds of people. I will share your contact card. How long will you be here?”
“No longer than necessary.”
She thinks of Lincoln, home by now and surely occupied in setting ReqOps’ house in order. Right or wrong, he blames Shaw for Renata’s death and eventually he will come. She needs to find Shaw before then. It’s that simple.
She gives Dove the number of a burner phone she purchased at the local airport. She knows that he will call Lincoln, mention her visit, in case it matters. There’s nothing she can do about that.
They both stand. “I appreciate this courtesy,” she tells Dove. “I will not forget it.”
Several seconds pass as he studies her. It’s easy to see he would like to ask more questions, but he does not. “Be cautious,” he advises as he walks her to the door.
He means well, but it’s not advice she can follow. To do this, she’ll have to do it on Shaw Walker’s terms, if he’s willing to offer terms at all. She’s gambling, no question. Risking her life on a promise implied by the tattoo Miles saw. The Last Good Man.
She’s convinced Shaw did his best for Diego; he would have died for Diego.
Take me instead.
It’s Diego’s memory that links them. She’s gambling that will be enough to keep her alive.
~~~
It’s late afternoon when True strolls into the hotel lobby, her gaze taking in the décor—sleek and modern—and the clientele, the same. It’s a hotel intended for business travelers, not tourists. She evaluates the layout, picking out places a beetle could be concealed. It’s just habit. She already left one perched on a tiny ledge in the façade outside, positioned so that it can collect images of everyone entering the hotel or passing by the front doors. Her inventory of surveillance devices is limited. She won’t risk a second beetle in the lobby—especially given a real possibility that hotel security runs regular checks for unauthorized electronics.
She checks in, and then buys a change of clothes from the hotel store so she’ll have something to wear while she sends her other clothes to be cleaned. She settles on khaki slacks made for hiking and a gray athletic pullover.
The room is large and comfortable, furnished in the usual hotel style. Floor-to-ceiling windows look across low-rise shops and cafés to the glittering ocean.
She orders dinner in her room. A facial recognition program has sorted the images of hotel guests, staff, and visitors gathered by the beetle, appending names to many. True reviews them on her tablet but none seem meaningful. It’s comforting to remember that her own identity is protected. ReqOps paid for the privilege of anonymity—something she appreciates now more than ever.
After a shower, she settles in to wait.
~~~
She startles awake at the sound of an alarm, sure that she’s been asleep for hours. The curtains are still open. Light from a full moon and from the street below spills into the room, creating a shadowy twilight. She slides out of bed to crouch on the floor. A quick look around confirms she’s alone. The trilling continues. It’s not an alarm. It’s the ring tone of her burner phone.
She gets to her feet. Picks it up from the nightstand. The time flashes: 2300. Unknown number. It’s a new phone, of course. It doesn’t know anyone else’s number.
“Hello,” she says, believing the caller to be Dove’s mysterious agent. For a moment she wonders if this person will be a man or a woman. Then too many moments slip past, all of them silent.
Is no one there?
She has no evidence, but she believes someone is there, listening. Probably not the agent.
Next best conclusion: Events have progressed faster than she anticipated. It’s Shaw Walker, reconnoitering, making a cautious approach. She speaks with that possibility in mind, with the hope that he’ll remember her voice. “This is True Brighton. We’ve met before. Diego Delgado is my son and I want to know what really happened.”
Silence.
She checks the phone’s display. The call has ended. Annoyed now, frustrated, she tosses it onto the bed and heads for the bathroom. But as soon as she comes out, she picks it up again. A text message has arrived from the same unknown number. GPS coordinates, along with a time, 2330. That’s twenty-six minutes from now. She checks a map. The coordinates correspond to a street corner several blocks from the hotel.
A rush of emotions dumps a smothering weight on her heart. There is a flash of peevishness at being called out in such a peremptory fashion. There is fear too: Anyone could have sent that message, and even if it is him? There is still fear. Strongest, though, is a sense of triumph. This is why she came.
She runs wet fingers through her hair and re-braids it. Gets dressed in her newly purchased clothes, puts her tablet and her reading glasses in a thigh pocket, works her hand into a snug data glove, and pulls on her jacket. Her new phone and her MARC visor go into the jacket’s front pockets; her daypack goes over her shoulder. The pack holds a first-aid kit and a remnant collection of robotics from the origami army—a sparrow, two beetles, two off-the-shelf tracking discs popularly known as “mother’s helpers,” and a small snake—all that’s left.
She is unarmed.
Guilt works on her as she waits for the elevator. Doubt… not over what she’s doing but doubt about her right to do it, to take this chance. She’s risking more than her own life. Alex is in her head, reminding her: We have two living children. Just because they aren’t kids anymore, that doesn’t mean they don’t need you.
But when the elevator doors open, she steps aboard. No one else there. She watches the numbers count down as she descends. She tries to imagine not going out tonight… and can’t.
She’s been drawn here by the gravity of Nungsan. No turning away now. No second chance. One way or another, she’ll see this through.
~~~
It’s cold outside, but she resists the urge to put her hands in her jacket pockets. Be ready for anything. Her pace is swift as she sets off up the block, senses alert. Listening, looking at everything around her. Feeling too visible in the bright moonlight.
At this hour traffic is light, and there aren’t many people about. Dark-haired boys lean out the windows of a passing sedan, yelling shrill invitations. She turns her head to watch them, hoping they will notice her age, hoping their friends will notice and give them hell for it.
When they’re gone, she takes out her MARC visor. It boots, linking to her anonymous profile. The optics kick in, brightening shadows and blunting the glare of headlights, making it easy to see details of the occasional passersby. A few European couples. They nod as they pass. A gray-haired businessman, identified by her visor as a city resident. He looks her over with a disapproving glower. Five dark-eyed young men, teenagers, joking with each other and smelling of cigarettes. They crowd around her, shoulders brushing, bumping. Playing at intimidation.
She murmurs in Arabic, “Tara aaraf ommak, enta we howa.” I know your mother, you and him.
They respond with shrill, nervous laughter and go their way.
Another man, ahead of her, walks in the same direction, but he disappears into a club, swallowed up by a burst of electronic music. No one else is near.
She watches the sidewalks, the street, the buildings, the night sky. Every few steps she glances back to check for interesting things that might be following behind, but she sees only a few stray cats. Nothing suspicious, nothing threatening, until the traffic lulls. Then she hears a faint hum from overhead—like a wet electrical line or a stealthy surveillance drone.
A glance up confirms there are no electrical lines. This is a new neighborhood. Utilities are underground.
She activates one of the MARC’s search programs, designed to inventory artificial objects in the sky—both those that self-identify with transponder signals, and those that don’t. Stealth objects are found by analyzing video from the MARC’s cams. She looks up, turning in a slow circle to scan the entire arc of sky visible between the eclipsing bulk of the buildings. The program can visually distinguish objects presenting at least thirty seconds of arc—but that’s in clear air. There’s a haze of dust over the city tonight. Still, the MARC picks out some low-flying drones, listing them in her visual field:
Transponder identification Aquila-East municipal monitor, serial #Z-3423AEVK
Transponder identification Kishori network booster, serial #C-67808EWJS
85% probability Sibolt RS, no transponder
87% probability Sibolt RS, no transponder
The two unidentified Sibolts concern her. They’re quiet, off-the-shelf surveillance devices, half a meter in diameter, capable of autonomous navigation, and cheap enough that almost any urban sky survey will turn up at least one. Easy to use, too. Register a target and they’ll follow it until their power reserves drain to the red line and they have to return to their charging station.
Just because there are two in the sky, it doesn’t mean they’re interested in her. But they might be.
She reaches the end of the block and turns onto the cross street. When there’s a break in traffic she trots across to the opposite curb, turns the next corner, and scans the sky again. One Sibolt is still in sight. She cuts beneath a canopy sheltering the front of a closed bakery and listens. It’s a quiet street. This time she’s sure she can hear the whispery hum of stealth propellers.
Who? she wonders.
A Sibolt is such a basic tool she can’t believe one was fielded by the same crew who flew the biomimetic hawk in the Philippines. She doubts it belongs to Shaw either. A man who can command Arkinsons would surely field more sophisticated surveillance. Another possibility occurs to her: Maybe Lincoln is behind it. Maybe Dove contacted him, told him about her visit. Or maybe he just worked out where she’d gone and hired a local company to monitor her movements.
The thought angers her. Lincoln is a friend, one she respects, but in the matter of Shaw Walker their goals are not the same. That’s why she’s here by herself—and she is not going to tolerate interference.
Using her phone, she dictates a text: “I’m being watched. Aerial surveillance. A Sibolt. If it’s not yours, be cautious.”
She waits under the canopy for another minute but gets no answer. Her gaze shifts to the lower right, cueing the time display on her visor to brighten. 2328. She has two minutes to reach the rendezvous point.
She walks swiftly, and soon she can see the corner where she has been instructed to wait. The surrounding buildings are four and five story apartments, shops and a restaurant at street level. The restaurant is still open. Parked cars line the curbs. Traffic is sparse. She sees no other pedestrians, no one waiting at the corner. It’s possible someone is waiting inside one of the parked cars. The idea disturbs her. It makes the hair on her neck stand up. She eyes each car as she passes, determined not to be taken by surprise. But no one’s there.
She reaches the corner, looks up and down the cross street. Half a block away, two young men smoking outside a club. No one else in sight. No one gets out of the vehicles. There’s a corner café—closed now—with large glass windows. She retreats into the shadow of its canopy, a position that lets her watch both streets.
A few cars pass, their headlight beams sliding over her. An expensive sedan slows almost to a stop as the driver takes a look. She lets her MARC record an image of his face and of his car, uploading it to a secure folder—a resource that will be emailed to both Alex and Lincoln should she disappear.
A fierce faint buzz from overhead seizes her attention. She looks up in time to see the golden burst of a small explosion no more than ten meters above the building diagonally across t
he intersection. The sound is like a firecracker. She drops into a crouch as the concussion echoes back and forth between the buildings. The luxury sedan accelerates hard and disappears. True remains down, unsure what happened until her visor inventories the sky again.
The Sibolt is gone.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, venting tension. He took out the Sibolt. He must have had some kind of kamikaze up there and he took out the Sibolt.
The realization brings with it a crazy kind of relief, because he could have targeted her with the kamikaze if he wanted to. She knows now that’s not his purpose.
She checks the time. The digital display brightens under her gaze. 2329 shifts to 2330.
Cautiously, she stands up. A van rolls past, followed by a scooter with a helmeted rider. An old beat-up SUV with tinted windows turns into sight a block away. It advances toward her at a moderate pace, stopping briefly on the other side of the intersection. Instinct tells her this is it. Sweat prickles under her arms. Her heart booms. When the SUV rolls forward again, she moves out into the street to meet it.
She approaches from the passenger side. As she does, the window slides down. She is ready to drop, or to turn and run, but she tries not to show it as she peers inside.
Dim light cast by a dash video screen illuminates the driver. He’s dressed like a civilian, khaki trousers and a darker, long-sleeved pullover. His large hands are on the steering wheel but his left hand—the hand Miles described as crippled—holds the wheel in a distorted grip. It’s his index and little finger that curl to meet his thumb. The two middle fingers don’t help out, standing off instead, stiffly curved.
He wears a data glove on his right hand, and on his right wrist, a bracelet that looks like something a child would wear. It’s made of clear, colorless, flat plastic links with embedded wiring. A tracking device? Maybe.
His face is weathered, his eyebrows thinner than she remembers, his hair darker but maybe that’s just the light. His hair has been buzz-cut, but it could use another trim. So could his beard.