The Last Good Man

Dangerous Ground

By the time they land at JFK, the news about the mission is out. Emails have started to arrive. Most are congratulatory but True knows that’s only because her digital assistant, Ripley, files away the toxic missives—the insults, ill wishes, and death threats from digital terrorists, half of them generated by passionless trolls working under the direction of propaganda bureaus, the rest the irrational rants of awkward kids, or of narcissistic farts who imagine they can command the world from behind black curtains. Ripley forwards redacted copies of the toxic stuff to a nonprofit troll-hunting service with an AI that tries to engage the senders, while analyzing patterns and clues in their emails that get cross-matched to billions of forum posts until anonymity melts away. True scans the weekly reports, but otherwise she doesn’t waste time on it.

As their plane taxis from the runway, she types a quick, smartass answer to a gruff note from her old man:

A new email comes in. True grimaces when she sees it’s from Tamara’s too-friendly colleague, the roboticist Li Guiying. She endures a flush of embarrassment when she reads the subject line: You are a hero among women!

For fuck’s sake.

Eyes narrowed in irritation, she skims the congratulatory note, confirming that it contains the sort of flattery she’s come to expect. In an uncharitable turn, she wonders if Guiying has trained a simple AI to write her correspondence, teaching it basic rules of echoing and praise. An easy project for someone with her skills, and it would let her maintain pseudo-friendships with thousands of potential colleagues.

True decides she likes the idea. It’s a neat explanation for what she’s always regarded as the inexplicable amount of attention Guiying has paid to her ever since they met at a London seminar… five or six or seven years ago? True’s presentation at that seminar had been a brief, informal talk on the potential lethal impact of autonomous combat systems. She’d argued for the moral necessity of a human decision-maker in the kill chain.

Li Guiying—a stranger at the time—approached True afterward, a rosy blush coloring her face as she awkwardly introduced herself as a robotics engineer formerly employed by the Chinese firm, Kai Yun Strategic Technologies, but working now for a French corporation.

Guiying was in her late twenties then, a petite, finely dressed woman who seemed ill at ease despite her sterling credentials. “I very much agree with this fear you have expressed,” she told True in crisp, Chinese-accented English. “I believe you are correct that some tragedy of machine error could occur. I have nightmares of such a thing.”

Then she went on to counter everything True had said:

“You are an experienced soldier, a brave patriot. You are wise, and know a combat situation could demand a least-worst option. There must be contingency in the decision-making process for times when communications are disrupted. Then, the choice is to withdraw robotic weaponry and concede the battle, or to proceed, knowing there is risk, and the algorithms could be in error. But all war is risk. It is my experience that those who have the power to make such choices will choose to proceed.”

This sounded to True like a well-rehearsed argument. She acknowledged its merit but added, “Command might back such technology, right up until the first time something goes terribly wrong and our frontline troops, along with those of our allies, have to pay the price.”

At this, Guiying’s flush deepened, her gaze drifted. Watching her, True felt as if the conversation had changed in some critical way, so that it was no longer theoretical but had somehow become personal. She was left puzzled and deeply uncomfortable, a feeling reinforced when Guiying said in a quiet, almost guilty tone, “Most often, advancing technology demands to be used. I think Command would say to fix it… but maybe it is different in America?”

Not so different, True thinks, taking off her reading glasses and rubbing her eyes. The plane has come to a stop, so she turns off the tablet’s screen without bothering to reply to Li Guiying’s email.

Looking back, it’s clear to True that the roboticist regarded the rise of autonomous systems in the military as a given. She probably knew it would be only a few more years until True was out of a job but had been too polite to say so. Hell, maybe what True sensed in that long-ago conversation was the inevitable end of her own military career—but whatever the cause, she has never forgotten the odd, awkward feeling of that encounter. Ever since, she’s looked on Guiying with a wary eye.

She puts the tablet away. Chris is already standing in the aisle. “Gather everything,” he reminds them. “And make sure all the storage bins are open to inspection.”

Every muscle in True’s body has gone stiff. She’s not the only one. There’s a general groan as the team stands up to collect their gear. They exit the plane with their hand-carries and present themselves to US Customs. Passports are logged. Biometrics are cross-checked with database records. They queue up for the scanners: one to inspect for contraband and another seeking signs of infectious disease. Automated interviews follow, conducted individually in soundproof booths. True sits, facing a video screen, maintaining eye contact with a generated female persona in a customs officer’s uniform. The persona projects an aura of stern suspicion as it asks in its synthesized voice, “What was the purpose of your travel, ma’am?”

“Business,” True answers, aware that the AI behind the screening procedure is analyzing her voice and facial expression.

The persona follows the standard question tree: “What is the nature of your business?”

“Paramilitary activity.”

“Do you have a license to conduct paramilitary activity?”

“Yes, I do.”

A brief pause while the AI cross-checks government records. Then: “How long were you away?”

“Two days.”

Another pause. This time the persona turns its head to look off-screen. True has seen this behavior before. She suspects the AI is awaiting results from the swarm of fast-moving, fist-sized robotic crawlers used to inspect all incoming aircraft, and from the baggage scanners, which will be logging the presence of their weapons.

After a few seconds the persona returns its gaze to True. “Confirming all necessary permits and licensing. Welcome home, Ms. Brighton.”

The team gathers outside of Customs. Miles is the last to be cleared. He’s looking shaky as he explains, “They weren’t expecting me, so they had my profile flagged. It took a call to the State Department to confirm I’m legitimately me.”

They return to the plane. Chris and True work with the flight crew to inventory the contents of the cargo hold, confirming all their gear has been returned to them. Then they take their seats.

Six more hours in the air and they’ll be home.

True doesn’t sleep on this last leg of the homeward journey. In the intervals between banal conversation and phone calls with Treasure and Connor, she stews over what she’s learned. She turns it over and over in her mind—the implications, the possibilities.

This is dangerous ground, and not just for the reason she cautioned Miles. Shaw Walker might be a threat, yes, but that’s a remote fear, something for the future.

Many times since Diego’s death she has fallen into a pattern of obsessive thoughts, reliving over and over what was done to him, what he was made to go through. She appears quiet as she sits gazing out the window of the plane at the patterns of farmland far below. But as her mind walks that path again, there’s panic at the cellular level. It’s a frantic metabolic reaction, very real. It kicks up her core temperature and sends heat flushing through her as she considers his terror, the agony he must have known, all the while haunted by her own helplessness to intercede.

She shoves her sleeves up, presses a chilled bottle of water against her cheeks.

Don’t go back there, she thinks.

“Hey, True,” Juliet says, popping up to look at her from over the back of the next seat. “What’s the best time you ever ran the mile?”

“It’s your three-mile time that matters,” True says, striving to keep her voice steady.

Juliet grins and drops back down into her seat to continue some inconsequential argument with Rohan.

Did Lincoln lie to me? True wonders.

She wants to hear his side, his explanation, but she doesn’t call him. No chance of a private conversation on the plane. She schools herself to patience. She wants his raw reaction to this news of Shaw Walker; she wants to give him only a little time to prepare. So she waits until they’re twenty minutes out from Paulson Field. Then she emails him the photo Brooke sent, with Shaw’s face circled. Her accompanying note is terse:

His answer comes in less than a minute:

Her reply goes out just as quickly:

He doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t follow up.