Thinking out loud, she says, “It must have just been released. It shouldn’t have allowed itself to be seen from the road. That suggests it hasn’t had time to learn the terrain.”
“Or it’s lost.”
If so, it won’t last long. Personal drones aren’t supposed to wander through or fly over private property. In rural areas, those that do tend to disappear. Over the past year, True shot down three that flew too close to the house. No way to know if they belonged to hobbyists, mediots, or an enemy. Hostile intent is assumed.
She and Alex keep their own menagerie, of course. Gargoyles—low-slung like crabs, with a carapace designed to shed the force of the wind—inhabit the roof, watching over the house and the surrounding sky. They have enough locomotive ability to keep themselves above any snow accumulation and to keep intruders in sight. The rest of the five-acre parcel is patrolled by two sets of fairy godmothers. The first are squirrel mimetics that can stealth-glide or -crawl in the forest canopy, and the second are turtles—ground-based devices that move faster than their name implies. As a rule, only three devices of each type are active, while a fourth recharges at the house. All are linked to a security AI.
True designed the system, selecting high-end components. Now she feels a sting knowing that none of her devices is as sophisticated as the deer mimetic.
Alex turns the car onto the long driveway. The gate is already open for them as the house senses their proximity and prepares for their arrival. Gravel crunches under the tires. Most of their land is forested in a tangle of regrowth that’s come up in the thirty years since the area was last logged. Dark evergreens mix with alders and maples that are mostly bare this late in the year. The house is a neat two-story skirted by a wide lawn with trees beyond to screen them from their neighbors. True means to plant azaleas and rhododendrons at the forest’s edge, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Amber lights are already on in the house as they drive up. The garage door is open. Alex pulls in, parking next to True’s SUV. They bought the place when she retired from the army, and both hope they never have to move again.
True retrieves her gear while Alex unloads his pistol and returns it to the trunk. She drops her pack in the mudroom, sits down to take off her boots, and then carries her gun cases into the kitchen, leaving them on the table.
She takes a moment to listen, but the house is quiet. Too quiet. It’s like no one lives there.
“We should get a dog,” she says as Alex follows her in.
“When you’re ready to retire, we will.”
She turns, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, eyeing him, taking in his dark eyes, his high forehead, his lean weathered features. A handsome man, still. She fell so hard that night they met. After she knew she was pregnant, she told her parents, “It was meant to be. We share the same birthday.” God, what a ridiculous tangle of passions she’d been, so defiant, so in love. She let the pregnancy happen, maybe in part to show Colt that her life was her own.
Not the smartest move she ever made, but not one she regrets.
“So tell me all of it,” she says gruffly, brought low by the heartache of fractured trust.
His gaze is stern. “You heard what Lincoln said. Shaw wasn’t the hero you imagine.”
“So what happened? What did he get Diego to do?”
“He got him to cover up a war crime.”
“Ah, fuck.” True turns away. Diego’s time in Kunar Province had cast a shadow over him, but she attributed it to combat’s horrific reality. It doesn’t take a war crime to affect a man that way.
“Wait,” she says, puzzled by a new thought. “Lincoln was there. He must have known.”
Alex meets her troubled gaze. “Yes.”
A Presentiment of Danger
Lincoln is alert, scanning both ground and sky as he crosses the dark parking lot with his daughters—but it’s Anna who spots the threat. She’s chattering with her sister, a step ahead of him, when she stops, hand up, hissing at Camilla for quiet.
Lincoln is hit with a presentiment of danger.
He’s coached his girls to be alert, encouraged them to always be aware of their surroundings. He’s trained them how to recognize potential threats and how to react. It’s a game for them. Not for him. He shifts both collection bags to his prosthetic hand. His skin prickles, puckering around his scars as he tries to figure out what’s wrong.
Anna is partly on his blindside, cast half in amber by the building lights, half in black and white. She turns to look at him. He’s confused to see her smiling—proud, excited—not scared at all. When she’s sure she has his attention, she points—using just her finger, not extending her arm, exactly the way he’s taught her. She indicates the unlighted access road that leads to the highway. Then she flattens her hand, wobbling her palm. It’s their sign for a drone.
He sees it then, painted in light from the highway. It’s gliding on meter-wide membranous wings, engines off as it drops in a long, slow arc toward the parking lot. He recognizes the model—a Coriolis PR30. It’s not much more than a toy, incapable of carrying a payload beyond the tiny camera that comes standard, but it’s quiet and capable of stealth surveillance.
It’s probably recording the thunderous pounding of his heart.
“Mediot?” Anna whispers.
All of them jump, and Camilla screeches, as a squadron of three defensive starburst copters shoots from hutches on the roof of the single-story terminal building. It’s illegal to fly private drones this close to an airfield and the perimeter on this field is strictly enforced. It’s one reason Lincoln uses it.
“Don’t worry,” he tells Camilla. “Those are just going to chase the mediot away.”
He’s wrong. The squadron’s lead copter streaks toward the PR30. The winged drone tries to turn but it’s slow. There’s no way it can outrun the copter. There’s a pop. The PR30 drops, disappearing into an open field. The starburst copters circle the site, moving with manic speed, then shoot back to the terminal building.
“Holy hemlock!” Anna exclaims, and Camilla immediately echoes her.
Holy hemlock? Lincoln wonders, but he knows better than to ask.
He scans the parking lot, the nearby fields. He’s on edge, wondering what else might be out there. The airfield’s defensive copters offer protection from aerial intruders, but would they detect a ground-crawling mech? An ambitious mediot might try both approaches in an effort to get first pictures of the team. An Al-Furat hired gun might choose a ground crawler too.
Anna fails to hold her position. Without waiting for permission, she starts for the truck, waving her hands to make sure the sensor sees her. Lincoln almost panics. He jumps after her, grabs her shoulder with his free hand.
“Stay put,” he warns.
His grip is too tight. It makes her squirm. “Dad!”
He ignores her, heart racing as he eyes the truck suspiciously. He’s picturing the kamikaze crabs True used in Tadmur. It’s easy for a crawler to carry a payload, to get up into an undercarriage, and from there into the engine block… or the gas tank.
No. He rejects the idea with a sharp shake of his head. This is not Tadmur. It’s not the TEZ. Don’t get paranoid. The worst threat his girls face is mediot harassment.
“Dad,” Anna protests, “you’re hurting my shoulder!”