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:
Identified by Miles as Jon Helm. Brooke confirms. Have not shared with team yet. We need to talk.
His answer comes in less than a minute:
This is bullshit. Shaw is dead. And Dushane is mistaken. I’ve got over fifty family members here, half of them kids, waiting for your plane to arrive. Do not throw a flash-bang into the middle of this reunion, True.
Her reply goes out just as quickly:
I’m not planning to make an announcement. But when I step off this plane, you and me are going to talk.
He doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t follow up.
Reunion
Their chartered jet touches down in early evening. They deplane down a stairway and cross the tarmac to a ground-floor terminal where their families and coworkers wait behind a glass wall, waving enthusiastically. No media are present. No journalists. This is a private airfield and a private reunion, though of course there are plenty of cameras.
Juliet reaches the door first. A cheer goes up when she pulls it open. Cries of greeting, hoo-yahs. The rest of the team crowds in. All but True. She lingers, watching through the glass, waiting for everyone else to get inside, giving Lincoln a chance to greet them.
Juliet throws herself into her husband’s arms. Miles is met by his weeping parents and his grinning sister. Cameras flash amid a swirl of kisses and hugs and handshakes and small children lifted joyously over the crowd, and teenagers on the periphery, hanging back with embarrassed half-grins. True slips in behind it all.