The Last Good Man

by Linda Nagata

  “But you called me late yesterday,” Lincoln says. “Am I wrong to think you called me to talk about True?”

  “You are correct. I was concerned. To see her here on her own so soon after your operation in the TEZ. There are those who would not look on her kindly if they knew. But later, I knew it was a mistake to contact you. My clients need to know I will not discuss their business.”

  “Is she your client?” Lincoln asks.

  Dove smiles, not in a friendly way. “No, she is not my client. She asked only a simple favor. But it’s not so simple now.”

  Lincoln nods. “She asked you to put her in touch with Jon Helm. Did you?”

  “No. I told her I could not do that—and that is all I will tell you about what we discussed. I have not seen her or heard from her since her visit yesterday. I do not know where she is.”

  ~~~

  Later, in the car, as they drive back into the city, Lincoln recounts this short interview.

  “Someone threatened him,” Miles concludes. He’s in the backseat between Felice and Rohan. Officially, he’s an embedded journalist. The terms of their warrant don’t allow him to carry a weapon, but he’s armed with a phone and wears a protective vest over civilian clothing. “He called you to let you know True had been by. But you didn’t pick up, and sometime after that he was told to mind his own damn business.”

  “That’s how I read it,” Lincoln agrees. He’s turned around in his seat to talk to the crew in back while Khalid does the driving. Lincoln brought Khalid along as an interpreter. He put him behind the wheel because he’s the most adept at reading Arabic traffic signs. But like Miles, he’s unarmed. He doesn’t have a security license yet, and if he did it wouldn’t matter. The terms of their warrant are very specific, allowing only three soldiers to enter the country.

  “A simple favor,” Lincoln says. “That’s how Dove put it. I think he got charmed into passing the word that she’s here. When the word got to Shaw, he reacted.”

  “That doesn’t tell us jack about where she is now,” Rohan says. He’s carrying a pistol strapped to his chest, mostly hidden by his protective vest.

  Felice is armed the same way. “True’s running an op,” she says irritably. “When she needs backup, she’ll call.”

  “I don’t think we can count on that,” Miles says. “You weren’t in Manila. She doesn’t see him for what he is and she’s not looking at bringing him in. He could be gone before—”

  “Hey!” Khalid says, leaning over the steering wheel to look up at the blue midday sky. “Lincoln, what is that? You see it? Streaks of smoke, like something’s falling in pieces out of the sky.”

  Lincoln does see it. Thin smoke trails descending over the city. Three or four of them. No. More than that. Everywhere he looks—over the harbor, over suburban neighborhoods, he sees more.

  “Crap!” Felice swears. “We just lost contact with one of our copters. The channel’s showing no signal.”

  “The other one still sending?” Lincoln asks, feeling his phone buzz. He glances at the screen. A message from Tamara, confirming the dead starburst copter.

  “Clear signal on the other one,” Felice confirms. “No problem.”

  Yet, Lincoln thinks. A light wind tears at the first lines of smoke, but more are appearing, trailing out of the sky. “Khalid, pull over. Pull off the road. I want to get a look at this.” He turns around. “Rohan, you got binoculars?”

  “Yeah, in the back.”

  The truck bumps and lurches onto the shoulder.

  “Dammit!” Felice says.

  “Second one down?” Lincoln asks as he takes the binoculars from Rohan.

  “Yeah, what—?” She looks up from her tablet, looks at the sky, really looks, for the first time. “Uh-oh,” she whispers.

  Lincoln does not get out of the car. He stays in his seat, using the binoculars to search the sky, achieving a crisp, clear view by using his right eye only, keeping his imperfect artificial eye closed. But there’s nothing to see. Nothing. “Not even a municipal drone,” he says out loud. “I think something just knocked down every UAV over the city.”

  Civil defense sirens begin to wail.

  Street Fight

  The wail of the siren claws away the sediment of years, releasing dormant memories of rockets incoming. True crouches in the passage and uses her data glove to direct the sparrow into flight. A quick turn above the street, a survey of a bright blue empty sky. Nothing to note, so she sends it spiraling higher, a sacrificial bird offered up to the laser-armed marauder.

  How many seconds will it take for the aircraft’s AI to lock on to the tiny target?

  As the sparrow climbs, she gains a wider view of the streets. She sees people on the roofs with cameras, children being waved inside from the streets, people rushing to their cars, or from their cars, and more cars jockeying for the right of way at every intersection.

  Colt says, “South. Five blocks. SUV. Driving way too aggressively.”

  “I see it.” A tall expeditionary SUV, with grill guards, racks, water containers, and dark tinted windows, bulling its way through an intersection as a smaller sedan accelerates to get out of its—

  The video feed winks out of existence. True doesn’t even hear the crack of the laser strike.

  “Bird’s gone,” Colt says, stating the obvious.

  True wonders if it’s Lincoln coming in that SUV, but she doesn’t think so. She tells Shaw: “We’ve got possible ground troops. Five blocks out and fighting traffic. Estimating five to six individuals.”

  “Roger that. The Arkinson is on the runway.”

  “How long to take off?”

  “Too long to help with our new friends.” He leans against the passage wall, the Triple-Y balanced in the crook of his arm, no sign of worry yet. He looks at her past the glittering screen of his visor and asks, “You ready for a street fight?”

  “Fuck, no. How many rounds are in this pistol, anyway?”

  He nods. “Good point.” He lets his daypack slide to the ground. “I’m kind of busy. Could you dig out an extra magazine for me?”

  She scrambles to do it, asking, “You got remote access to your SUV?”

  “Won’t work. If I move it up here, that laser—”

  “Just move it far enough to block the lower end of the street,” she says, getting his pack open. “Make them drive around.”

  “Yeah, I can try that.”

  She finds the full magazine, pulls it out, and leaves it on the ground where he can get it easily.

  A startled squeak from Guiying draws her attention. She turns to see motion in the courtyard. She goes to one knee, drawing her pistol, ready to shoot before she has any idea what’s there.

  It’s a cheap little quadcopter, a toy with a thirty-centimeter diameter. True can’t hear its hum over the wailing siren, not even when it accelerates up and out of sight. “We just got our picture taken,” she warns Shaw. “And Kai Yun must have mapped the layout.”

  Guiying has her phone out. She’s huddled against the wall. “I will talk to someone,” she says in a hoarse, desperate voice. “I will make this stop. I want no one else to die.”

  A nice thought, but True suspects momentum is against her.

  “You got an update on those ground troops?” Shaw asks.

  “Negative. Laser took out my flyer.”

  “Roger that. My truck’s moving. Let’s see how far it gets.”

  Colt speaks in her ear: “Any chance that place has a hidden back door?”

  “I’ve been through every room,” True whispers to him. “No chance at all.”

  She hesitates, running through a mental inventory of her equipment. “I can at least get some eyes on the street.”

  The beetle is in her pocket. She gets it out, uses the data glove to direct it in a quick flight out of the passage. It glides into sunlight—and an explosion shakes the street.

  Guiying screams and drops her phone. It skitters across the tiles. True watches it, huddling against t
he wall, hunched over at the sharp concussion.

  The beetle, out in the street, gets taken out by the shock wave. Its video feed goes dead.

  The siren continues to wail.

  “They hit my truck,” Shaw says. “It’s reporting damage.”

  Panicked cries come from surrounding buildings as people realize the danger.

  “That wasn’t a laser,” True says.

  “Grenade,” he agrees. “You got any eyes left out there?”

  “Let me try again.”

  She drops her pack, rummages in it, whispering to Colt at the same time. “You still there?”

  “I’m here. Tell me what I can do.”

  “I’m dumping a new feed into your channel.” Her voice covered by the ongoing siren.

  She’s got one more surveillance beetle, but the little mechs are fragile. She doesn’t trust it to survive in the street long enough to be useful. She selects the snake biomimetic instead. It’s the size of a standard writing pen, brown camouflage coloration, no flight capabilities, but it can roll on the tiny wheels in its belly, and by rearing up on its segmented body, it can get over curbs and stairs.

  She sets it on the ground and, using her data glove, she activates it and links its camera to the channel she’s sharing with Colt. Then she guides it out of the passage and under the nearest car. From there she eases it forward just far enough so that, as its camera swivels, it can get a clear view up and down the street.

  She tells Shaw, “Your truck’s blocking the end of the street.”

  “So at least it got that far.”

  “Looks like they decided to finish it with an incendiary.”

  “Give me a headcount.”

  “Zero. No one in sight.” She swivels the tiny camera to look up the street, but sees only parked cars. “No one up the hill.”

  She flinches as a small hand squeezes her shoulder. It’s Guiying. She speaks quickly in a voice laced with dread. “True, please. No fighting—”

  “No choice,” True growls, turning the worm’s camera to look again toward the burning SUV. In a louder voice she tells Shaw, “Here we go. Three on foot, carrying some kind of submachine gun. The others must be driving around the block. No civilians in sight.”

  “Got it.”

  True looks up in time to see his gloved hand slice through air, clearing his AR screen as he moves to the end of the passage.

  She gestures impatiently at Guiying. Move back! Then a whisper to Colt: “Keep watch. Both sides. Let me know when the rest of them show.”

  “I’m on it.”

  True draws her pistol.

  “No, True,” Guiying pleads. “I will go to them and—”

  “You can’t stop this,” True tells her. “They’ll kill you. They’ll kill us too. No witnesses.”

  Staying low, she moves to back up Shaw. He’s got his Triple-Y braced against his shoulder. Peering down the sights, he leans out just far enough to fire.

  Three seconds, three shots. True’s ears are ringing. From the end of the street, a human howl of pain to rival the siren.

  “Top of the hill,” Colt says.

  “Top of the hill!” True shouts. Still bent low, she swivels, pistol ready, and sees the expeditionary SUV rocking on its suspension as it finishes a hard turn into the street. She is in motion and vulnerable when Guiying shoves her, sending her reeling into the smooth wood of the open door.

  A thump of impact. A jolt of pain in her shoulder. She draws a sharp breath acrid with the taste of toxic smoke.

  Guiying steps past her. Steps out of the passage shouting, “Do not shoot!” The command swiftly repeated in Chinese, and then in Arabic.

  True’s gaze connects with Shaw. She shares his shock, but only for a fraction of a second, and then he’s in motion. It’s instinct. His inherent nature. A remembrance of who he used to be. With the Triple-Y in his right hand, he steps after Guiying, hooks his left arm around her waist, and hauls her back toward shelter—a heroic effort interrupted by a blast of heat and steam.

  True’s eyes squeeze shut against the shock wave. Her brain registers a wet popping noise, easily audible over the wail of the civil defense siren. And Shaw starts screaming.

  Fuck, she thinks, smelling a stink of burned flesh even before she opens her eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She doesn’t need to look to know the laser tagged him. Colt is talking to her but she’s not listening.

  She grits her teeth and thinks, Do what needs to be done.

  She hasn’t forgotten the expeditionary, charging down between the parked cars. She swivels again toward the street, fires two shots at the windshield to discourage it. To her surprise, white stars of damage appear in the glass. Not bulletproof? The driver brakes hard. He looks as surprised as she is. The assholes probably bought the damn thing thirty minutes ago from a used car lot.

  So she’s gained a few seconds. She pockets the pistol and goes to her knees, letting the parked cars hide her from the soldiers in the truck. That’s when she sees Guiying—and realizes Shaw was not the laser’s only victim. The blast must have hit both of them, but Shaw didn’t take the worst of it. He’s still alive, still screaming.

  Shock stops True cold as she stares at what’s left of Li Guiying. The roboticist’s upper body has been disintegrated by the laser’s fierce energy. Her lower torso and legs are all that’s recognizable.

  Questions crowd True’s brain: Did Kai Yun hit her on purpose? Did they mean to erase her existence? Or was Shaw the target and Guiying’s death a mistake?

  Process it later, True chides herself. No choice.

  Praying the laser will need time to recharge, she reaches out over the blasted remains, reaches into the sunlight, far enough to scoop up Shaw’s Triple-Y from where it’s fallen into the street. She scrambles back and stands up, bringing it to her shoulder. The expeditionary is retreating fast. She hits it anyway with a double burst across the windshield as it reaches the top of the block and backs out of sight.

  “What do we got, Dad?” she murmurs as the siren continues to wail.

  “Street is clear for the moment. It’s not going to last.”

  “Roger that.”

  Dreading what she will find, she turns at last to look at Shaw.

  He’s down and writhing on the threshold. His AR visor is cast aside along with his earpiece. Guiying’s body must have shielded him but he’s still hit bad.

  His left shoulder is burned to the bone. True can see the shoulder joint past a two-inch-diameter gouge where a bite has been taken out of his thin protective vest and the flesh beneath vaporized. But the wound is much bigger than that, much worse, because the surrounding muscle has been cooked by the heat. The damaged tissue is already swelling and weeping fluids. The gouge continues across his chest. It burned through his shirt, leaving it smoldering, and scarred the lightly armored vest underneath. The vest’s cloth covering is smoldering too.

  She locks down her revulsion, her horror. No time for it. Assess the situation.

  He has fallen over the threshold, partway outside, and is surely visible from overhead. Yet the laser hasn’t fired again. Possible the UAV is out of position or the laser might still be recharging, gathering power for a direct strike. Or maybe Kai Yun has decided they want to recover him alive, question him on his relation with Li Guiying.

  They better hurry up, she thinks.

  Already his screams are subsiding into an inarticulate bleating growl. True thinks maybe it’s a fatal wound, whether he gets help or not.

  Two seconds have gone to observation and assessment. Seconds she regrets, and tries to make up for now.

  She slings the Triple-Y, digs her fingers around the waist of his pants, grabs his good arm at the elbow, and drags him back into the shelter of the passage so he can’t be hit again. He’s got to be at least a hundred eighty pounds, but the smooth floor tiles and her adrenaline let her do it.

  He fights her. He claws at the floor with his right hand, kicking, sputtering syllables that might be parts of curses
.

  Meanwhile, from up the street, competing with Shaw, competing with the siren, competing with the ringing in her ears and the cacophony in her head, a voice shouts in Arabic-accented English that she needs to come out. And another layer of sound beyond that: the fierce roar of a jet engine growing rapidly louder, closer.

  The Arkinson? Maybe. She hopes Shaw wasn’t piloting it. She hopes it’s autonomous.

  Shaw goes still—they both do—as a jet streaks in, so close its roaring engine overwhelms the siren and shakes the building’s masonry. True drops belly-down beside Shaw as an autocannon hammers the street, kicking up concrete chips that pelt the passageway. Then the jet sweeps away.

  True sits up again, shoulders heaving as she catches her breath. Sweat salts her skin. She registers these sensations along with the smell of burned flesh, and the dust-dry odor of broken concrete, and the acrid taste of jet wash. She turns to look at Shaw. He’s on his back, eyes half open. His breathing is rapid and shallow. He’s not moaning anymore.

  Bad signs, she thinks.

  “Dad, if you’re still there, give me a sitrep. What’s out there?”

  She reaches for Shaw’s pack, thinking she saw a med kit in there when she was getting the extra magazine.

  Colt says, “Street’s still clear.”

  “Can you see the Arkinson?”

  “I’m a fucking worm on the ground! I’m lucky I can see anything.”

  She tries to sound soothing. “I know.”

  She finds the med kit. Pulls out the wound packing. He’s not bleeding much, but she’ll need to stabilize the joint, cover the injury to keep it clean.

  Colt says, “Girl, this might be your only chance to run.”

  “Not going to happen,” she tells him. She makes that promise to Shaw, speaking into his ear to ensure he hears: “You were there for Diego. I’m here for you. I won’t leave you.”

  To her surprise, he speaks, gruff words forced past his pain. “She dead?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I saw what you did. You tried to save her.”

  “Fucking stupid,” he whispers. “What the fuck was I thinking?”