The question comes out of nowhere, catches Marlowe and Haskell off guard. They aren’t even sure they’re expected to answer. They stare at him, but he’s not looking at them. He’s just gazing out that window.
“The color,” he says. “We imported all of it. It wasn’t there before us. It’s scarcely there now. Glare and black comprise that sky. Endless greys make up that ground. It’s a fraction the size of Earth. It seemed so much vaster. Even with that shoved-up horizon. Perhaps because it was such utter desert. Such endless mountains. Such a way to go, too: you carry that oxygen on your back like it’s some kind of god. The kind that dwindles as you worship. You measure all distances with that air: how far, how long, how much. How many times I wondered if I’d ever make it back. How many times I wished I hadn’t.”
“Seems strange that they’d make such a habit of putting an envoy in such danger,” says Marlowe.
“But I wasn’t an envoy then,” says Morat, turning back to face them. “I was like you. Don’t you see? I’m not the one that rewards loyalty. I’m what we offer the loyal. Promotion for those who can stick with it. Graduation from the endless runs. I’m real. I’m not just some blurry creature half-remembered from your sleep. I was like you once. I still am.”
“Is that a fact,” says Haskell.
“It is,” says Morat. “And sarcasm never did become you, Claire. I offer you sincerity and you meet it with a cynic’s tongue. How imaginative. We’re not so different, you and I. A decade ago, I rode my prime. I was as perfect as I’ll ever be. I fought our battles on the Moon, in space, on Earth, beneath the waves. I was Sinclair’s go-to man. I know how strange it is to have one of my number stand before you and confess these things. But what you don’t know is how much I envy you.”
“That’s bullshit,” says Haskell.
“Is it now,” says Morat.
“Of course it is,” says Haskell, and it’s as though something in her is finally giving way. Her voice is rising now. “So you made it. So you lived. So fucking what? You sit there and you reminisce, and you expect me to be empathetic? I don’t care what you’ve been through. I don’t care what your life’s been like. You’ve just told me that I’ve got no future save becoming you, and now you ask me for my sympathy? Are you insane?”
“Easy,” says Marlowe. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Let her finish, Jason,” says Morat. “It’s important that she says the things she’s never dared to. It’s one thing to confide it within reach of a microphone or rant it through the canyons of the sleep. It’s quite another to put it to a waking face. Past that anger, and I promise she’ll be as flawless as I once was.”
“What kind of game are you playing?” asks Marlowe.
“I’ll tell you what kind of game he’s playing,” says Haskell. “He’s playing the game that everybody plays when they get a rung above you on the ladder. The game of spitting on those who stand where you once stood. The game of false nostalgia. But don’t get carried away, Morat. You haven’t climbed above the point where you don’t have to deal with the likes of us directly. You’re not so exalted that you can never leave your bunker. Face it, Morat: you’re not a handler. You can’t sit at the old man’s feet just yet.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” says Morat. “Where else could I gaze at the likes of you but out in the shit of the field?”
She extends her middle finger.
“Item six,” says Morat. “The president has made it clear to Sinclair that he’s counting on him to eliminate the Rain. We’re going to hit them before they strike again. If that means this whole thing is over before you reach the Moon, so be it. We’ll just have to take the chance. There may be nothing but mop-up by the time you get there. I hope you can handle such knowledge.”
“I’m sure we can,” says Marlowe.
“Good,” says Morat. “Because I’m not sure I could. Think of it—the most dangerous foe we’ve ever faced, and you don’t even get to face it? The critical hour comes and you’re caught in transit? History passes you by, leaving you watching it receding? I stand in awe at your detachment.”
“In which case maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a runner after all,” says Haskell. “If you ever were one. We’re not hell-bent on action. We’re just doing what the old man tells us. If you’re to be his mouthpiece, then so be it. I’ll accept that. But adventure’s not something I seek. Still less history. Get with it man—don’t you know what year it is? Don’t you know we’ve figured history out? She’s nothing but a whore. She spreads her legs for the strongest. You want to be her backdoor man? Fine. Me, I couldn’t give a fuck.”
“Exactly,” says Morat. He nods approvingly. “Very good. No better attitude upon which to launch a run.”
His head dips slightly. His eyes lose a fraction of their focus—or rather, seem to focus somewhere within him.
Though only for a moment.
“And now I take my leave. This time for good. Let me offer up some final thoughts. Claire: the lunar portion of our zone is different. It moves just as fast. But it was built by those who were much lighter. Who weren’t quite as weighed down. It shows in its design. Remember that. Jason: your bullets move even faster. But hand-to-hand is different. Keep solids close at hand for bracing. Keep your air away from others’ hands. Keep on cutting until you leave the lungs of others nothing upon which to feed.”
He pauses. He looks them up and down. He smiles. He turns toward the door. It opens to receive him. He starts on through.
“We know this,” says Marlowe suddenly.
Morat stops. He stands in the doorway. “Excuse me?”
“What you just said: we know it. We’ve had the training. And I’ve been in space before.”
“Yes,” says Morat, “but never when so much depends on it.”
He leaves them without looking back.
Two men conversing within a suit of armor. One man’s physically present.
The other’s just dropping by.
“I didn’t say you were going to like it,” says Lynx.
“You knew damn well I’d hate it,” says the Operative.
“Mechs don’t have to be enamored of the plans they execute.”
“Razors don’t have to make that a prerequisite for the plans they configure.”
“The only prerequisite is that it succeed,” says Lynx. “Given that requirement, I’m hoping that now you can see why I’ve planned it out the way I have.”
“Don’t talk to me of why,” says the Operative. “It connotes reason. It connotes sanity. Your plan’s neither.”
“Deliberately so,” says Lynx. “You want sanity? You won’t find it in this world. I offer you measures precisely tuned to the temper of our times. Look around you, Carson. Look what’s in ascendancy. Everything that’s sane is going under.”
“And you can add me to that list when I initiate this run.”
“Initiate? It’s already been initiated. You’re already in it. You’re two days off Earth, man. You’re hanging off the bottom of the Moon. You’re way too late to back out of it now.”
“It was too late long before it started,” snarls the Operative. “Long before I got here. Long before you snuck into those tunnels with the most convoluted stratagem any razor ever devised brewing in your fucking head. It’s as brilliant as it is mad. Jesus Christ, Lynx. All the players and angles up here, and you really think Sarmax is the key?”
“Not the key,” says Lynx. “The back door.”
“The back door to what?”
“Our salvation.”
“You’re crazy,” says the Operative.
“I’m an artist,” says Lynx. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure. It’s called the need to proclaim it.”
“I’m long past any need,” hisses Lynx. “Save that which my orders stipulate. You know the rules, Carson. We’re on our own up here. We’re left to make our way as best we can. We have so little time. The Rain’s next strike could come at any hour. Th
ink of us as standing in the floodplain, Carson. The only thing that can save us now is high ground.”
“But are you sure that’s what Sarmax’s domain is going to furnish?”
“We’ve got no choice but to take that chance,” says Lynx.
“Not now we don’t,” says the Operative.
“I’m glad you see that.”
“You’ve got me boxed in.”
“Myself as well, Carson. Don’t forget that.”
“But I’m the one who has to get in there and do this.”
“Yes, Carson. You’re the one. As I’ve been saying all along.”
“Don’t think of this as a victory,” says the Operative. His teeth are gritted. His eyes are closed. “I’m going to live through this. I’m going to defy whatever odds are being spat out by your comps. And then—so help me God—I’m going to have a say in the next phase of this abortion of an operation. You reading me, Lynx?”
“Loud and clear,” says Lynx. “But once you’re inside his world, you’ll get it. You’ll understand. You’ll realize just what it is I’ve bought us.”
“I already know,” says the Operative. His voice is weary. “I’m the coin. I’m the instrument of the demise of one of the great ones.”
“Fuck him,” says Lynx. “He outlived his purpose.”
“You mean his purpose is about to outlive him.”
“Tell me what higher calling a man could have.”
“Ours,” says the Operative.
“Exactly,” says Lynx. “And you should thank your lucky stars for that. As I do every day I survive in here. Agrippa Station eats the weak. It crushes the careless. It can’t touch me. They’re probing everywhere, Carson. They’re searching all around my body. Their eyes are never shut. But they can’t see my flesh. They can’t see my mind. They can’t see me. And they won’t see you either. As long as you do exactly what I say.”
“I understand, Lynx.”
“I hope you do, Carson. Believe me, beneath these pointless doubts of yours, I know how eager you are to get out there. To find out if you’ve got what it takes to make that run. To determine if you’ve got the guts to pull that trigger. Out there in those cold hills—it’s all going to blur against your visor. That man: you’ll put him in your crosshairs. You’ll put one through him. You’ll give me access to what he knows. I know you, Carson. I know what makes you tick. Not loyalty. Not faith. Certainly not honor.”
“What then?”
“Being a professional. Obeying orders. Doing your fucking job.”
The voice dies out. Static fills the Operative’s suit. The Operative turns it up to the point that it’s deafening. He lets it roar through him. He roars out curses against Lynx—against the fates, against everything.
And then he whispers to his suit.
T hey sit around. They pace. They sit around some more. It’s not easy to kill time when it’s you who might not survive the seconds’ passing. It’s not easy to ride out the moments when it’s you those moments might soon be rid of. But all you can do is wait. So you do. You resist the booze. You resist the urge to strangle the one you’re with. As for conversation—that’s no temptation. It can only hurt you now. Because there’s nothing left to say. It just comes down to what comes next.
Which turns out to be a beeping noise. It’s emanating from the wall. It’s the line. Spencer picks it up, takes it the same way he did before. Pulls the wire out, slots it into his skull. Hears the clicks as the switches run the simulations of nonexistent calls, shutting out any listeners from what’s really being said: the words that Spencer’s forming in his mind, the words he’s letting the software in his head download through those wires, out through the streets of the Mountain. Out to where Control is.
Wherever that might be.
“Okay,” says Control. “We’re going to try this. He’s got a new name. So do you.”
“Those names being?”
Control tells him.
“And?” asks Spencer.
“And what?” asks Control.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you mean, is that all I’ve got?”
“The data I gave you checked out?”
“Of course it checked out, Spencer. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be talking now. Top-quality product, Spencer. I owe you my thanks.”
“Thanks isn’t all you owe me, Control.”
“Actually, to be precise—it’s you who still owe me.”
“For the rest of the quota.”
“Exactly. But I’m going to give you a little advance, Spencer. Let’s hope for your sake that whatever’s in this man’s skull turns out to be enough to justify it.”
“Great,” says Spencer. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tonight.”
“On an expresser?”
“I think that’s ill-advised.”
“We’d be there in under an hour.”
“Linehan’s colleagues left two days ago and haven’t made it yet.”
“Any mode of transport carries risk, Control.”
“Why pick one that’s already seen a major incident?”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Slight variation. Go for the Atlantic.”
“Sail it?”
“Hardly. Even the fastest ship available would take you the better part of a day. That’s way too long. Gives them way too much of a chance to vet their cargo.”
“So what’s that leave?”
“The tunnels.”
A pause. Then: “Jesus. You really think that’s safer than a flier?”
“Nothing’s safe these days, Spencer. But the eastern part of the Atlantic Tunnels belongs to the Euro Magnates. Which gives me a few more angles to play. I’ve configured your identities around a couple passengers on the ten-fifteen haul out of Kennedy.”
“That’s two and a half hours from now, Control.”
“Sounds like you’d better hurry.”
“And those passengers against which we’re configured—what’s going to happen to them?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to them,” replies Control. “Ever again.”
“Who were they?”
“Not important, Spencer. The point is that now they’re you.”
“So about downloading me the new identities?”
“Already done,” says Control. “And your descriptions are now tied to the ones I’ve taken. You’ll have to pass on the new codes to Linehan. Unless he wants to get on the line with me.”
“He’s not that stupid,” says Spencer.
“I’m sure he isn’t,” says Control. “Particularly given that he’s almost certainly U.S. intelligence gone rogue.”
Another pause. Then: “Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“You’ve been digging.”
“As I promised. As I thought, Linehan is no ordinary data thief. I traced him backward from Minneapolis to Chicago. I lost him there. He arises from that city’s eastern districts like a man walking out of mist.”
“So?”
“So twenty hours ago, Washington put out an APB on all Midwest priority channels for someone important gone missing in the Chicagoland vicinity. Get high enough on those channels, and it becomes pretty clear we’re talking senior intel.”
“How senior?”
“Very. His name isn’t Linehan, of course. But he’s within plus/minus physically. Nothing a little disguise couldn’t take care of. Nothing a little daring couldn’t hide.”
“Do they say why’s he’s on the lam?”
“They claim he’s trying to defect.”
“Defect? To the East?”
“That would be the presumption. It doesn’t matter. The point is he’s trying to get out. The word is he’s gone south. To try his luck at the Latin run.”
“And you think he hasn’t.”
“I think he’s right beside you.”
“Which Com does he belong to?”
“They don
’t say.”
“Surely they would?”
“Usually they would. It may be out there. But—assuming he really is federal—there’s also the possibility that the reason they don’t say is because he doesn’t belong to any of the regular Coms at all.”
“How so?”
“He could be Praetorian.”
“Jesus.”
“Oh yes. It would make this positively radioactive.”
“Do these lines you’re tapping into say anything about accomplices?”
“They imply it. They don’t confirm it. Which may not mean much. Official investigations in this country are so compartmentalized that using them to generate the complete picture is always an exercise in extrapolation. Regardless, I’ve got enough. This operation is a go, Spencer. Move out as soon as you can. Watch him like a hawk. As I suggested earlier, it’s a safe bet that as soon as you’re on the farside of border he’ll try to bolt. Maximum vulnerability is when you hit Cornwall Junction.”
“That’s hardly the most immediate problem.”
“Which hardly renders it inconsequential. Back to first principles: if all you’ve got lined up is what’s right in front of you, you’re as good as dead already. I’ve done my best to prep you, Spencer. I’ve done my best to take you to the next level. I’m going to give you one last piece of advice. Get it together, or get taken apart. Your good standing with us—your fulfillment of your quota—depends on your bringing this man all the way back. Consider him indispensable luggage. Is that clear?”
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