The Last Good Man

Transitions

True’s afternoon is consumed by reports and research and brief discussions. Lincoln calls to let her know that Fatima Atwan and Ryan Rogers are both back home in the United States.

“I talked to Rogers,” he says. “The State Department grilled him on Hussam’s operation but there wasn’t much he could tell them. Fatima probably witnessed more. I’d like to interview her, but Yusri doesn’t think she’s ready to answer questions.”

“Do you think it’s okay if I call her?” True asks. “Just to check in?”

“Do it. Keep the lines of communication open.”

Yusri answers her call. He expresses his gratitude, but he’s hesitant to let her talk to Fatima. “She is distraught,” he explains. A worried father.

“I understand, sir. I just want to let her know we’re on her side, we’re thinking of her.”

“I’ll ask her,” Yusri agrees, and soon Fatima is on the phone.

She sounds distant and tired. “I cannot sleep,” she admits. “Every time I do, I’m back there again.”

“It’ll get better,” True assures her. “Give it time.”

“My mother says the same thing. She insists I am stronger than this.”

“You are. You’re brave and brilliant, Dr. Atwan, and you have so much still to give to the world, so much life ahead of you.”

Maybe this is the wrong thing to say because Fatima responds in a despondent whisper. “It is my obligation, I know. A debt I owe to all those women who will never be free. I am the lucky one.”

Maybe there are no right words.

Fatima does not mention her pregnancy; True does not inquire, recognizing it as a private matter.

Afterward True loses herself for a time in banal tasks, so that it’s close to 1700 when she tries Miles again. This time a message says his voicemail is full.

She leans back, thinking about him, about Fatima. Thirty-six hours ago both were captive; they’d seen other captives murdered.

For Miles, the prospect of his own gruesome death was never far away.

Now he’s safe at home, but the sudden transition from captivity to conventional civilian life, with no chance to decompress, can’t be easy.

Restless, she stands up, stretching stiff joints, sore muscles—minor aftereffects of the mission and easy to dismiss. It’s the anxiety like a slow-drip amphetamine in her blood that’s got her on edge. She’s not sure Requisite Operations has the financial depth to survive the loss of the Hai-Lins. Worse, she’s no longer sure of her own loyalty.

Fuck this day anyway.

“Hello, Friday,” she says aloud. “Is Tamara still in?”

The office AI answers over her earpiece. “Yes, Tamara is in her office.”

True grabs her shoulder bag off the desk and walks out. Lincoln, Jameson, Renata—they all want to go hunting. Tamara’s was the lone voice of caution in the meeting today. Tamara is still an ally.

It’s late in the day. The air is cold, the sky cloudy. Wind rustles in the evergreens as True walks down the concrete path to the Robotics Center. She finds Tamara in her office.

“Hey,” True says, dropping into the guest chair. “Thanks for backing me up today.”

“I didn’t like the mood in that meeting,” Tamara tells her. Her brow creases with concern. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look good,” Tamara says. “You look exhausted.”

“Heh. Thanks.”

“Come on. We’re past the age of vanity.”

“Speak for yourself, ma’am.”

Tamara smiles. A thin cover for her disquiet. “Any more alarms go off at your house today?”

“Not so far. Maybe it was a mediot and they pulled out rather than risk their fancy tech.”

Tamara doesn’t argue but neither does she agree. “I sent video of the mech deer to some colleagues. No one recognized it, but Li Guiying said she’s worked on similar quadrupedal systems.”

“Is she still private-sector?”

“Mostly university now. Splits her time between China and France.”

True says, “I didn’t tell you my new theory about her.”

Tamara leans back, crossing her arms. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“I think she has an AI handling her correspondence. I got a note from her yesterday, minutes after news of the mission went public. ‘You are a hero among women.’ That sort of thing.”

Tamara’s eyes narrow. “You just told me you’re not past the age of vanity. Surely you’re not going to argue with that?”

True refuses to be drawn off point. “Who would write an email like that? She’s got to be using an AI. It probably tracks a list of correspondents, generates hundreds of congratulatory emails a day.”

Tamara rolls her eyes. “She likes you, True. I can’t imagine why, but she does. She admires you. She mentions you all the time. She thinks of you as a friend.”

True shakes her head. “Everything about her feels fake to me. Always has.”

“You’re really standoffish, you know that?”

True cocks her head in wry acknowledgement. “Safer that way.”

On the drive home, True finds herself pondering the obsolete nature of the laws of war. The QRF’s actions in the TEZ could be considered an act of war—if ReqOps was a sovereign nation. “Which we’re not,” she says aloud. Neither is Variant Forces. Both are private military companies—but does that matter?

If this conflict is allowed to escalate, each company could designate the employees of the other as enemy combatants, making them legitimate targets—for an adaptive definition of “legitimate”—even here, within the sovereign borders of the United States of America.

If someone with Shaw Walker’s experience and resources decides he is going to target and kill an individual, it will happen, and it won’t require a human hand. A sniper drone, a bomb in an autonomous car, a crab mech carrying explosives, a mayfly with a toxic payload. Lots of ways to get the job done. That’s the reality of their situation. It’s why Jameson wants a preemptive strike and why Chris wants a peace treaty.

Requisite Operations is not a sovereign nation, but it’s starting to act like one.