“Because I’ve got what you want.”
“What is it I want, Spencer?”
“Information.”
“And what were you proposing to do with this information.”
“Get it out of the country.”
“So upload it. I’ll take care of it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What you can’t do is strike a bargain with me, Spencer. You forget that for me none of this is new. I’ve had this conversation so many times that this is practically like listening to the tape. Compromised agents are always the same. They always beg. They always plead. They always try to bargain. I always sweep them from the table. I won’t tolerate it, Spencer.”
“You don’t understand, Control. I can’t give you the information because it’s in somebody else’s head.”
“Who?”
“Someone outside the network. Someone who’s right here with me.”
“Spencer: who?”
“I don’t know exactly. Potentially, an asset.” Data swims across the wires from inside Spencer’s head. Some of it Control accepts. Some of it Control doesn’t. But the conversation never falters:
“A potential asset? To what?”
“To us. Maybe. He’s good. He knows who I am.”
“And you don’t know who he is? No wonder you’re acting like meat.”
“But he gave me a down payment on that information.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“And do you have this down payment?”
“I do.”
“Then upload that.”
And Spencer does. More data winds its way through the circuits of the Mountain. Spencer pictures Control shielded behind a near-infinite proxy-series, scanning that data, scanning for hunters, scanning scenarios into which the current moment might lead.
And then responding.
“This is most interesting, Spencer. Assuming it’s genuine. Where did you get it?”
“I told you already. This man gave it to me.”
“Ah. And where did this man acquire it?”
“He says he stole it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because it’s good, Spencer. It’s very good. If it’s real.”
“And if it is, does this change things between us?”
“Things between us can never change, Spencer. I’m your handler. You’re my razor.”
“I meant are you going to let me continue?”
“I know what you meant. The answer is it doesn’t matter. Even if I don’t finish you, this country will.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this information isn’t enough to buy your passage, Spencer. It’s still short of quota.”
“But there’s more where that came from.”
“You mean in your asset’s head?”
“Yes.”
“Yes—according to your asset.”
“He said if we got him out, he’d put what I’ve just given you to shame.”
“Did he give you any hint as to its nature?”
“He intimated that it involved the Rain.”
“And you believe him.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Control.”
“Then let me help you out. Of course he’s going to say that. Anything to light a fire under us. Anything to put us into motion.”
“He’s a player.”
“He’s a problem. He’s either a federal plant or else he’s a con artist way out of his league. Either way he’s poison. And so, I fear, are you. You’d have me risk exposing the backbone of the network to someone who’s showing us no cards whatsoever? I fear for your reason, Spencer.”
“The network already was exposed. That’s why we’re in this fix in the first place.”
“No,” says Control, “you were already exposed. Doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”
“The times are volatile, Control.” Spencer chooses his words as though they’re stones atop which he’s stepping in rapid succession. “Who knows what piece of data could constitute the edge? You’re all logic, but you’re staring straight into unknown. Maybe this is the break that sets the whole thing on its head. Maybe this is what propels Priam to supremacy among the data-combines. Who knows? Who can say what will constitute that lever? Who can even call the odds? But one’s thing for sure: if I’m dead anyway, then isn’t it worth setting me and this man on one last run?”
“I think you’ve already made your last run, Spencer.”
“I’m making it right now. All you’re doing is getting in the fucking way. Give me a shot at border. That’s all I’m asking for, Control. Give me a shot at border, or off me here and now.”
“Indeed,” says Control. It’s rare that voice sounds hesitant, but hesitant is how Control is sounding. It means the calculations are that complex. That there are that many imponderables. That this is a tough call.
Or at least that Control wants it to look that way.
“Okay, Spencer. Give me a few more minutes here. I’m going to take a look at what you’ve given me. I’m going to scout out the current situation on the borders. And while I’m at it, I’m going to see if I can trace your friend.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Good thing I am, Spencer. What does this man call himself anyway?”
“He calls himself Linehan.”
“And does that name link to an identity?”
“I don’t think it’s his real name, no.”
“I didn’t ask what his real name was,” snaps Control. “Of course it’s not his real name. Not unless he’s as unhinged as you seem to be on the verge of becoming. What I asked you is whether the name he’s told you is the name he’s using to get around.”
“He’s bought all his tickets in that name, yes.”
“Is he a razor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then who configured his identity?”
“He claims his razor did that.”
“And what happened to his razor?”
“It’s in the data I’ve given you. Died fleeing the country. In that expresser crash two days back.”
“Does he have any other identities?”
“I assume he doesn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t need us.”
“Leave the assuming to me, Spencer. Let me do some digging. I’ll need his chips. His retinas. And his skin. Not to mention a heads-up on anything he’s got that might trip the wires at customs.”
“What should I tell him when I ask him for all that?”
“Tell him the truth. Tell him I’m looking at options. Pass it all on to me without compromising your own software.”
“Can you get us out tonight?”
“If I can get you out at all,” says Control, “then I can get you out tonight.”
“And then what?”
“You’ll be met at landfall.”
“It could really be that simple?”
“It would be nothing of the sort. But I need more information, Spencer. We don’t know who he is. We don’t know who’s after him. We don’t know what they believe about him. They may think he’s gone to ground. They may think he’s six feet under. They may be outside your room right now. We don’t know.”
“Nor do we know who they are.”
“That’s not the real question,” says Control. “Who’s after him is a lot less important than why. Even though the reason might not be interesting. Monumental as I’m sure all this seems to you, it could be rather mundane. It could just be someone who’s made the wrong enemies.”
“But it’s someone with power.”
“Used to have power, maybe. Not now. Now he’s got just enough to move around. To kick down your door.”
“And then haul me out that door for good.”
“Exactly. He’s a live wire. That’s why he’s still living. So watch him. If we furnish him with the road out, he’ll try to run as soon as he springs the border.”
&nb
sp; “You think so?”
“I suspect so. But in truth it depends.”
“On what?”
“On what makes a man try to run.”
“Not sure I’m the best person to answer that one,” says Spencer.
T wo people in a room. The woman’s standing. The man is sitting. Outside, ships wheel past. Inside, lips weave patterns that distract from the real conversation that’s going on between the sentences:
“How well do you remember him?”
“Well enough,” says Haskell.
“Which doesn’t mean you ever really met him.”
“True enough,” says Haskell. “But who cares? May as well say that this is memory right now.”
“It may well be,” says Marlowe.
It’s an art that every agent learns: how to have two conversations at once. How to transmit signals while still listening to what’s said audibly. How to talk out loud while still monitoring what’s reaching the neural implants. In such circumstances what’s projected by voice is usually centered on banalities. What’s projected on wireless is usually less so.
Especially when it involves questions with no safe answers.
“There’s no end to that line of thinking.”
“You started it.”
“No,” she says, “I didn’t. I just found out about it. I never did it. I never fucked anyone’s head in half and stitched the pieces together with software and illusion. I never killed anybody’s past.”
“You think killing someone’s future’s any better?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You take less of their life that way.”
“Sophistry,” says Marlowe.
“Reality,” says Haskell. “And you should hope so. Having done enough of it.”
“Done enough of what?”
“Kill people.”
“I never killed anybody who wasn’t trying to return the favor. What’s up here? Do you want me to feel guilty?”
“How can I answer that?”
“Oh,” says Marlowe slowly. “You’re the one who feels the guilt.”
“Of course,” she says softly. “At least you see your victims. At least you give them a chance to fight.”
“Not if I can help it,” he replies. He arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t that file tell you I have no remorse?”
“Look,” she says, “I’m sorry I told you I’d read that.”
“But were you sorry to have read it in the first place?”
“I’m not sure.”
“And why did you tell me you’d read it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure about so much else. Why not this?”
“Because I’m sure about nothing that concerns Jason Marlowe.”
“Probably because you’re sure about nothing that concerns Claire Haskell.”
“I understand myself fine,” she says.
“Of course.”
“It’s my feelings that are the problem.”
“Same here. But then again, you already know that.”
“I do?”
“You read my file,” he says.
“I thought we’d gotten past that.”
“You know my memories, Claire. You were part of them.”
“But you don’t even know if those memories were real!”
“They’re real enough to count.” This last is said out loud. He stands up. She steps back to that window. Turns away. Turns back. Her eyes are wet with tears.
“I know,” she says, and now she’s talking out loud too. “Same here. You left. You came back. I feel like they’re fucking with me. They’re fucking with me by putting you here.”
“Maybe some good will come of it.”
“Good,” she says. “Come here.”
He walks to her, stands next to her. They don’t look at each other. They just watch the traffic rumble on the endless concrete, rise up into those endless skies. She reaches out, touches his hand.
“We’re going to the Moon,” she says.
“I don’t care where we’re going.”
“I do,” she replies.
He says nothing to that—just leans over, starts running a finger down her cheek. She puts her head on his shoulder. He turns into her, kisses her on the lips.
“About time we got this show on the road,” says Morat.
The words ring around their heads. The door to the room slides open. Morat’s standing there. He steps forward even as the buzzing of the room’s intercom subsides. The door hisses shut behind him.
“You often listen in on other people’s conversations?” asks Haskell.
“In point of fact,” says Morat, “I never stop.”
“Which is as it should be,” replies Haskell. “For a man who has no life of his own—”
“Please,” says Morat. “Which of us does?”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I’ll speak for all of us. Having no life is the price of being in the life. As you well know. Your transport’s here. They’re topping off the boosters. You’ll board in just a moment.”
“But first you’re going to brief us,” says Marlowe. “I mean, assuming you’re here for a reason.”
“I got a couple of good ones,” says Morat. “I got your number, Marlowe. You’d better not fuck this up and let our Claire get hurt. She dies and you’d better not come back. You’re expendable. She’s not. You got that?”
“Sure,” says Marlowe.
“Good. Because that’s the first item of the secondary briefing.”
“A joint briefing?” Haskell sounds amused.
“You have tactical command. But we need you to work as a unit. You’ll withhold nothing from Jason. That’s straight from the old man himself.”
She wonders whether the double meaning is intended. She wonders many things. “How can the secondary briefing compensate for the fact that the first involved no trance?”
“Because you and Jason come specially prepared,” replies Morat. “Item two: we now believe the Throne may be the Rain’s ultimate target. If that’s the case, whatever they’re up to on the Moon will be intended to get them closer to him.”
“Is there a Praetorian presence on the Moon?” asks Haskell.
“Item three,” says Morat without acknowledging her question. “The struggle between the Commands is intensifying in parallel with the search for Autumn Rain. Partially because the Coms’ individual investigations are all running onto the same track. But also because with the Throne threatened, other players in the Inner Cabinet become much more likely to attempt a coup. At the very least they need to be ready in case someone else tries one.”
“Can you project the latest strength estimates for the Commands?” asks Marlowe.
Morat sends a screen hurtling into their minds:
SpaceCom (Szilard) 28%
InfoCom (Montrose) 26%
ArmyCom (Secord) 5%
NavCom (Asgard) 22%
CICom (Sinclair) 19%
“The usual caveats apply,” he adds. “The current relative power of the Coms, expressed as infighting capability rather than firepower. ArmyCom alone could blow up the world ten times—but as a contender in the Inner Cabinet, it’s pretty much toast. The last few months have seen to that. And you can see who’s benefited.”
Haskell can. “Info and Space are really getting up there.”
“The hatred between those two runs deep,” says Morat. “Maybe too deep. One’s tempted to speculate that the Throne let Army get eaten a little too quickly. Or that he was anticipating it getting shared out more evenly. Usually he’s much more adroit at turning the Coms’ divisions to his advantage. Or perhaps he simply didn’t anticipate that matters would be interrupted by the likes of Autumn Rain.”
Marlowe and Haskell say nothing.
“Good,” says Morat. “Say nothing. Speculating on the Throne is my privilege. Sinclair has supported this president since long before he was president. He won’t stop now. Stay a
lert for the Rain trying to take advantage of the conflict among the other Commands. All of them save Army maintain units on the Moon. SpaceCom’s control of Agrippa and the fleet at L2 gives it the upper hand. But it’s hardly a settled issue. It’s made even less settled by the fact that at Zurich we gave the East a quarter of the whole damn rock. Which also happens to be item four—keep an eye out for any linkage between Eurasian agents and Autumn Rain. The hardliners in the Coalition appear to be gaining in power.”
A second screen flits into their heads. It shows dossiers of certain members of the Praesidium.
“The core faction of hardliners,” says Morat. “Their support is growing, in spite of the dominance of the moderates these last few years. All the individuals you’re looking at have consistently advocated that the Coalition intensify its confrontation with the United States. All were dead set against Zurich. We have reports that at least one of them advocated a general first strike against us during the ’98 Israeli-Arab nukeout.”
“Well,” says Marlowe, “speed-of-light weaponry favors the one who hits first—”
“I’m not talking about the theory,” Morat snaps. “I’m talking about the practice. So what if we switch on twenty thousand directed energy cannon and blow as much of their infrastructure as we can to pieces? What happens next? What about the hacker attacks? What about the secret weapons? What about all the things we don’t hit? What about all the things we never thought about? We’ve already de-targeted most cities because we’re going to need every scrap of firepower we can get to penetrate the East’s defenses. They’ve done the same. Amazing that in the twentieth century it would have all ended with nukes knocking out every city on Earth. We should have so many warheads. Only one in a thousand hypersonic missiles gets through a full continental screen; there’s no way we could ever be so profligate during the initial exchange as to fuck with cities. Don’t you dare think the Coalition has ceased to be a factor. Whether or not it or its hardliners set in motion Autumn Rain, the East will seek to exploit the situation. For propaganda if nothing else.”
“Are we being sent into Eurasian lunar territory?” asks Haskell.
“We’ll know that by the time you get there. But you might meet Eurasians anywhere. They have a way of getting where they’re not supposed to. Item five. Autumn Rain themselves. They may be somebody’s front or they may be autonomous. They possesses warheads, delivery vehicles, and an ability to strike high-profile targets. The question now is whether they can hit secure targets too. In retrospect, the Elevator was pretty vulnerable. Given that we had to trust the Eurasians and all that. The real targets are more critical: our inner enclaves, our fortresses, our fleets. And, as I mentioned, the Throne itself. Press any of us hard enough, and we’ll admit we have no idea as to the real extent of the Rain’s capabilities. Only a second strike can shed more light on the matter. And our lunar bases are all prime candidates for such a strike. But if you’re going to stop the Rain, you’re going to have to know the Moon inside and out. Do you know what it is that I found most disquieting about that place?”
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