The Last Good Man

At the Research Desk

In Rabat the day has just started, but it’s late night at ReqOps’ headquarters when Tamara’s phone chimes a scheduled alarm. She’s been asleep two hours on a sofa in the dimly lit lobby—just long enough to leave her feeling disoriented and imbued with dread.

She sits up and dismisses the alarm, then checks her phone for messages. Nothing, of course. Friday would have woken her early if any important updates had come through.

She lets the screen of her phone go dark. The only other light in the lobby comes from the glass exhibit cases. Her gaze rests on them, taking in the flags, the historic weapons, the worn equipment. She’s startled to realize that several of the old battlefield photos have fallen over. Knocked down by the concussion wave of the car bomb that killed Renata?

Maybe.

She stands, stiff and sore and disheveled, feeling mildly nauseous from the lingering stink of burning metal that’s still present in the building despite the installation of new air-conditioning filters. Or maybe she’s imagining the smell. Maybe it’s not in the building. Maybe it’s in her head.

Maybe it’s there to stay.

Getting too old for this, she thinks as she hobbles on swollen feet through the security checkpoint. “How am I doing, Friday?” she asks as she exits the body scanner. “Anything suspicious?”

The AI’s voice answers in its consistent, calm tone. “No, Tamara. You are clean.”

She washes up, then heads for the break room, where she meets Juliet Holliday coming out. Juliet is on call for any security incursions on the upper campus. She’s wearing ReqOps combat fatigues, an armored vest, and a MARC visor that links her to Friday and the security alert system. An assault rifle is slung over her shoulder and a pistol is belted to her hip.

Nasir Peters is on duty at the lower campus.

“Hey,” Juliet says. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Bless you, my child.”

Tamara pours a cup, then returns to the mission command post, where she’s spent most of the last day and a half. Hayden is asleep on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket beneath the wall monitor. Tamara’s assistant, Michelle, is at the research desk. She looks up as Tamara comes in. “Hey, boss.”

“Anything?” Tamara asks.

Michelle purses her lips. “Not really. Sun’s up. A lot of early-morning traffic. But our copters haven’t picked up any sign of True or of Shaw Walker.”

In a city of over a million people, this is no surprise. True could be anywhere in it—or she could be gone, traveling on some dusty road, bound for an ungoverned area beyond the Atlas Mountains.

“Thanks Michelle. Why don’t you head home, get some sleep? I’ve got this.”

Michelle departs and Tamara takes over the research desk. She sends a text to Lincoln to let him know she’s back on duty. His response comes in a few seconds: Roger that. We need to shake a lead loose today.

Tamara replies: Find your friend Dove. He’s got to know something.

Lincoln: It’s on the agenda. The text doesn’t convey gruff irritation but Tamara hears it anyway.

There are other regional PMCs he could call who might be able to provide insight or leads on Jon Helm, but he doesn’t want to advertise his presence in Rabat or risk word getting out to Shaw Walker.

Tamara has assigned her digital assistant to search for references to True Brighton, Shaw Walker, Jon Helm, Variant Forces, and to search for murders, kidnappings, assaults, weapons crimes, vehicular crimes, and incidents involving biomimetic robots within the city of Rabat.

She skims the results as she sips her coffee. Several assaults, but none involve anyone of True’s description. A double murder in a manufacturing district—gruesome, involving small explosives—but the victims were male.

Her phone beeps with the arrival of a text message. Lincoln, she assumes as she picks it up. But there is no message. The beep repeats. She realizes it’s not her phone. It’s a cloned phone left on the desk, set up to receive Lincoln’s incoming communications so she can filter them, and forward only the mission-centric items to the field phone he’s carrying.

The message is from True. Her chest tightens as she reads it. Her heart booms in her ears: Stay out of sight. Don’t go about. Don’t text me. Don’t call. I have an ongoing operation and any competing mission you launch will endanger me. You need to stay clear.

“Damn it, True!” she swears, loud enough that Hayden stirs in his sleep. Tamara wants to grab True and shake her—or hug her. Both maybe. The message confirms she’s alive because her phone has a biometric lock which means no one else can operate it. And it implies she’s still in the city, with the freedom to operate under her own volition and sufficient intelligence resources to know that Lincoln has come. All good signs.

But True does not want Lincoln around. She doesn’t want him for backup.

“You’ve found him, haven’t you?” Tamara murmurs. “Now what? What the hell are you up to?”

True isn’t saying and she’s not entertaining any questions. Don’t text me. Don’t call.

Tamara forwards the message to Lincoln.

It’s nearly a minute before he responds and when he does all he says is Got it.

“Not good enough, boss,” Tamara murmurs, worried over what he might do. She dictates a follow up text. You need to give her time to work this out.

You need to find her, he replies.