“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I just mean you’re familiar.”
“How would you know?”
Because she saw his moves under pressure. Because she was inside his head. Because the whole time she’s been fighting for her life she’s been fighting the realization that the man she’s with is more than a stranger. She wants to tell him all this. She wants to tell him that he’s the living ghost of memory. But she’s not sure.
And she needs to be.
“Because I’ve seen you before.”
“This has been tough,” says the mech. “You need some rest.”
“But first I need your name.”
“My real one?”
“No,” she sneers, “just one of the ones you’ve discarded.”
“You’re asking me to break regulations.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It is if I comply.”
“Did regulations stop the sky from tumbling? Did regulations save that city from dying?”
“They might yet see us through this mess.”
“They’re what caused this mess,” she says. “They’re the root of the fucking problem.”
“Heads up,” he says.
A shape is looming out of the night above them. It’s hundreds of meters in length. It blots out the stars. It blots out afterglow. It’s hauling in the remainder of the tether.
“We’re here,” he says.
Rough hands grab them, haul them inside a room on one level of a much larger gondola. Haskell and the mech watch while the soldiers who’ve just pulled them in pull in the remainder of the tether. They stare at each other while a burning city floats through the dark several klicks below.
“You’re Jason Marlowe,” says Haskell.
“And you are?”
“Who do you think?”
She removes her mask with one hand, brushes brown hair back with the other. He stares at freckles and sweat—pulls off his own mask to reveal black hair and a bloody nose.
“Hello,” says Haskell.
“Fuck’s sake,” he says—and steps forward to embrace her. But she just steps away, leans back against the window.
“I knew it was you,” she says.
“They didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t tell me either.”
“Guess they’ve got other things on their mind right now.”
There’s a pause. Soldiers continue to move around them, closing the trapdoor through which they’ve just come, storing away the tether. One of them turns to Marlowe and Haskell.
“You’re both wanted in the medbay,” he says.
“In a minute,” says Marlowe.
“Now,” the man replies. “We need you out of this room so we can lock it down.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” says Marlowe. “It’s the reverse.”
The man stares at him.
“We need you out,” adds Marlowe.
“Don’t take it personally,” says Haskell.
The man stares for another moment, comes to a quick decision. He snaps orders to the rest of the soldiers. They stop what they’re doing, exit the room in haste. Haskell and Marlowe hear them muttering among themselves. The words razor and mech feature prominently in the conversation. The door shuts behind them.
“As direct as ever,” says Haskell.
“Some things never change,” replies Marlowe.
“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they send someone down.”
“They can send away,” says Marlowe. “I doubt anyone on this ship outranks us. And I’m willing to bet none of the handlers are anywhere near this.”
He gestures at the window. She gazes at the colors rippling across the heavens, at the fires burning down below. Powered craft are starting to move through the skies once more, their lights flickering here and there amidst the dark. She takes it all in, glances back at him.
“So what is it you wanted to say?” she asks.
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
She looks at him. There’s a long pause.
“Look,” he says, “I just wanted to be able to say something. I hadn’t expected this.”
“Well,” she says, “sorry to surprise you.”
“I’m rolling with it.”
“Are you?”
“Trying to.”
“You and me both.”
“They’ll bring the wall back down between us,” he says. “We’ll be debriefed, tossed back into the mix. We didn’t see each other in ten years of runs—”
“Which was deliberate.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s what I’m saying. We’re only here right now because of pure chance.”
“They’re going to think we’re trying to sneak away like we used to.” She tries for a mischievous smile but just ends up looking as tired as she feels.
“We should get you to the medbay.”
“Me?” She laughs. “You’re the one wiping blood off your face.”
“Small price,” he says. He smiles sadly. “You know, I’d like to see you before another ten years have passed.”
“You will,” she says, though she’s not sure if she believes that. “They owe me after this. I’ll see you again. Or at least be in contact.”
“In contact,” he says.
“In contact,” she repeats. “At least. It’s the least the old man can do. He almost got me killed tonight.” She looks at Marlowe. “Thank you, by the way.”
He waves that aside. “You shouldn’t be so hard on Sinclair. I hear he hears of nothing but your exploits. You’re CI’s rising star.”
She forces herself to smile: nods, mumbles something.
“What was that?” he asks.
“I said, I’m feeling faint. Let’s get to that medbay. See that?” She gestures at a light approaching out the window. “Probably a ’copter to offload us.”
“And then they’ll send us on our separate ways.”
“They already did. Here we are again. It’s just a matter of waiting.”
He stares at her.
“Everything is, Jason.”
“Not for them.” He points past the approaching ship at a night that continues to flare colors. The city’s conflagration continues apace. Faint dots are aircraft swarming over it in renewed fury. Explosions and tracers are flying into the air. They’re kilometers below, barely visible. But it’s clear enough that the fighting’s still going on. That the dying’s continuing.
“They’re already there,” he says.
The Operative and Riley arrive back in the cockpit to find Maschler still sitting in his chair. He’s staring out the window, holding what looks to be a small telescope up to his eye. He glances around.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“He’s deaf,” says Riley.
“But he can read lips,” says the Operative.
“You didn’t tell me that,” says Riley.
“You didn’t ask,” says the Operative. “And I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Besides, I don’t need to read shit to know that the first thing you’re going to say when I emerge from a live rocket engine with blood dripping from my ears is jesus man are you okay. Maschler: any sense as to how far off the ramp we are?”
“Hard to say with this kind of crap at my disposal,” says Maschler, setting aside his instrument to float in front of him. “But it doesn’t look so bad right now. We’re only off by a few degrees.”
“That’ll grow,” says Riley.
“So what?” says the Operative. “The point is that we’re a hell of a lot less likely to get impaled by anything now. We launched within the window, brothers. That’ll be enough until we get rescued.”
“Rescued,” repeats Riley.
“Rescued?” asks Maschler.
“What the hell else are we going to do?” says the Operative testily. “I’ll admit I find the thought distasteful. But I’m fresh out of ideas. It’s not like we can land. It’s not like we can dock with anything. In fa
ct, it’s not like we can do shit except cruise through space until we either hit something or the engine conks out for good. We’re flying deadweight, gentlemen. Besides, a med scan wouldn’t be such a bad idea right now anyway. I’m sure we all could use it.”
“He’s right,” says Riley.
“Of course I’m right,” says the Operative. “It’s over.”
“Good,” says Maschler.
“But what was it,” asks Riley.
“How about if we agree to call it the end of the beginning?” asks the Operative.
“You mean there’s more?” Maschler asks.
“I would assume so,” replies the Operative.
“So what happens next?” says Riley.
“If I knew that, I’d be giving orders instead of carrying them out,” says the Operative. “But with any luck, yours won’t be more than a bit part. Just keep your head down and keep on hauling freight, okay? That should suffice to see you through. Doesn’t matter what’s going down or who comes out on top: they’re going to have a need for people like you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Riley.
“You should,” says the Operative. “That’s how I intended it. Survivability’s the ultimate praise. You guys should be fine from here.”
“And what about you?” says Maschler.
“What about me,” says the Operative.
“What’s this all mean for you?” asks Riley.
“I’m still figuring that one out,” says the Operative. “But for now, the same as you. We get picked up, we get checked out, we get a new rig, we head on toward our destination.”
Riley starts to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” says the Operative.
“What’s not?” he replies. “I’d forgotten all about that fucking rock. Strange, eh?”
“Strange indeed,” agrees the Operative. “How about we get some brakes before we get there?”
But Riley just keeps laughing.
PART II
INCURSION
O f course,” says Matthew Sinclair, “the whole thing’s a joke.”
He looks at Marlowe and Haskell. They look at the face upon that screen: the face of the man who heads up CounterIntelligence Command. They wonder what the hell he means. It’s been two days since the Elevator was blown from its orbit. Two days since the greatest man-made object became the greatest piece of wreckage. Tens of thousands are dead. Fission has ruptured the atmosphere so badly that the sky’s still glowing.
For the life of them neither Marlowe nor Haskell can see what’s so funny.
“This manifesto,” says Matthew Sinclair. “It’s a joke. They know it. And they know we know it too.”
“Then why did they write it?” asks Marlowe.
“Because,” says Sinclair, “they wanted people to talk about it.”
Looks like they got their wish. People can’t shut up. Information’s traffic flows like light and quenches like water. It’s never the same thing twice. When you think you’ve caught it in your hands, it’s already changed forever. But here’s the thing about information.
It can’t compete with rumor.
“Wiping out the Elevator would have accomplished that,” says Haskell.
“Right,” says Sinclair, “but this way they lay claim to an identity.”
Some identity. Some name. Autumn Rain: do those words contain the keys to the mind that’s set all this in motion? Does this manifesto lay out their real agenda? It hints at utter madness. It suggests the outlines of something all too sane.
“Yet the population of this country hasn’t read it,” says Marlowe.
“Not officially,” says Haskell.
“Exactly,” says Sinclair. “Keep in mind, too, that what’s said is a lot less important than the fact that something’s being said.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this document’s words don’t matter. Not in the slightest.”
“I don’t know,” says Haskell. “Those words might sound pretty inspiring to someone who’s looking for a reason to hate the government.”
“Not inspiring,” says Sinclair, “insipid. Read it again. ‘For too long have those you call leaders mortgaged your future’? ‘All of history has waited for this moment’? It’s one big joke. On us. Claims of nomenclature notwithstanding. It means nothing. Nothing at all. Which isn’t to say there aren’t meanings hidden within it. Invert comedy, you get tragedy. We’ve got both now. So we’re looking at it from every angle. We’re parsing every phrase.”
He goes back and forth, thinks Haskell. She looks at the face projected on that screen and wonders at the contradictions it utters, contains. She looks at that face, struggles to contain herself. She feels her heart overflowing: looking at that man right now, beard sharpened to a fine point, shaved skull extruding metal, metal walls behind him.
Just like she always dreamt him.
“But we haven’t succeeded in finding anything yet,” says Marlowe.
“Ever the practical one, Jason,” says Sinclair. “No. We haven’t. We’ve deployed specialists to calibrate the minds behind these words. They can’t tell us anything. They can’t even tell us if it was written by human or machine. They’re useless.”
Haskell shakes her head. “Then why are we talking about it?”
“Because,” says Sinclair, “it’s not their minds I’m interested in right now. It’s yours. The Rain?—they’re out there somewhere. Assuredly. But you’re right here.”
“And where are you?” says Marlowe.
“Exactly where you see me,” replies Sinclair.
“On that screen,” says Haskell.
“Yes, Claire,” says Sinclair. “On this screen. But right here with you all the same. For the first time among so many times, you’re not recollecting me in the trance. You gaze upon me in the moment. We’ve got no time for anything else.”
“How can we be sure you’re really Matthew Sinclair?” asks Marlowe.
“How can you ever?” says Sinclair. “I like you, Jason. I like your verve and butchery. But I also like Claire. She’s so different from my others. Truth to tell, I can’t decide which of you I like more. That’s why I’ve brought you here.”
“To find out?” asks Haskell.
“If you like,” says Sinclair. He seems amused. “You sit and watch me on this screen. You think I pull your strings. It’s an easy illusion to subscribe to. But what you must understand is that you’re the ones who hold the power. Because you’re the ones who go out into the world.”
“To be tested,” says Marlowe.
“To be sure,” says Sinclair. “And these times test us as never before. Jason: Claire will be your razor. She’ll pull your strings. Claire: when you first met Jason, he was just starting out. Now he’s one of our best mechs. You’re going to have to work to keep up with him. I think the two of you are going to like working together. But even if you don’t, you’re going to have to act like you do if you want to survive where you’re going.”
“And where are we going?”
“To stop the Rain, of course,” says Sinclair.
“And we really know nothing about them?” asks Haskell.
“Of course we know something about them,” says Sinclair. “We know that they got onto the biggest thing our species ever built and turned it into junk.”
“Right,” says Haskell. “Thanks.”
“You don’t understand,” says Sinclair. “They didn’t just destroy the Elevator. They got on it. They got into its core stations. And they didn’t want us to know they’d done that.”
“How do we know that?” asks Marlowe.
“Surely your minds are sharper than this. The Rain was clearly hoping to use proxies to do their work. And to destroy the Elevator at a distance rather than reveal to us just how thoroughly they’d penetrated its security. They gave the Jaguars hypersonics. Ground-to-grounders that knocked out almost ten percent of our equatorial launch architecture. And yet those were a mere diversion from
the ground-to-spacers those Jaguars were firing simultaneously. They almost got the Elevator.”
“But they didn’t,” says Haskell.
“What makes you so sure the Jaguars and the Rain aren’t one and the same?” says Marlowe.
“Please,” says Sinclair. “The Jaguars are formidable. Both of you did well to face them. But don’t let your emotional involvement distract you from the fact that they’ve never manifested spacefaring capabilities. We don’t even think they have the expertise to build hypersonics on their own. So we’re pretty sure that someone gave them those weapons. Someone who also rigged seventeen neutral satellites with space-to-spacers. Think of it—someone infiltrated the ground-to-space supply networks of two of the Euro combines. Someone sent up rockets instead of spare parts. Someone configured robots to rig those rockets. Someone did all that right under our noses.”
“And it didn’t work,” says Haskell. “Which forced them to play their ace.”
“Indeed,” says Sinclair. “As hard as it was to rig the neutrals—as difficult a feat as that might seem—getting onto the Elevator was even harder. And getting fission devices into its control centers should have been impossible. Which is why they didn’t want us to see that they could do that.”
“What makes you say they themselves were on it?” asks Marlowe. “Maybe they just hacked it.”
“Right,” says Sinclair. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Let’s break down the events: 18:20 local time—the Jags unleash hell on heaven and earth; 18:22—rogue space-to-spacers rigged on the satellites of the Lvov and Wessex Combines bracket vacuum. But nothing touches our behemoth. The def-grids of its escorts take down everything that even comes close. Now. What happens then?”
“It blows up,” says Marlowe.
“Fourteen minutes later,” says Haskell.
“Without warning.”
“From the inside.”
“True enough,” says Sinclair. “True up to a point. That much you know. Now let me tell you what you don’t. The official record says that nothing happened on the Elevator before the blasts that finished it. But that’s not quite accurate. T-minus twenty minutes: we get a tip from some of the workers coming off shift that some of the workers who’ve just gone on shift aren’t really workers. We move in on one squad in particular. We start busting people. One of our ships gets taken out. We take out everyone in sight. T-minus sixteen minutes: the Jaguars open up. T-minus fourteen: the rigged neutrals follow suit. T-minus thirteen: the Bridge goes offline, along with its entire garrison. Offline as in not responding to anything whatsoever. T-minus twelve: all the Elevator’s engines fire in reverse on full throttle. The thing starts slowing down. Not gently either. Hundreds of construction workers start getting knocked into space. Pieces of construction start flying off too. SpaceCom marines scramble from nearby orbital platforms. The Elevator’s starting to drag atmosphere. Nadir Station’s starting to get warm. But structural integrity’s still intact. Zenith Station is still reporting in. They’re seeing nothing. They’re evacuating. Marines from east and west are closing in. A DE cannon rigged just aft of the Bridge opens up on them, gets some of them, gets itself blasted into powder. The marines get in there. They land. They enter the Bridge. And then—nothing but white light.”
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