“I mean that you didn’t have to show up in the first place,” says Sarmax. “Just start your run and contact me later.”
“Would you have listened?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, that’s part of the reason then. But the basic issue’s a little more simple: anyone who makes a break too early’s meat. Only hope now is to get you out of here in such a way that they think you’re dead, and then set you loose as rogue. Rogue, but in contact.”
“With you.”
“With me.”
“With anyone else?” asks Sarmax.
“No.”
“What about your razor?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You’d tell your razor I was dead when I was still alive?”
“I’ll tell my razor whatever he wants to hear.”
“Your razor being Lynx?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The fact that this run bears all the hallmarks of that sick fuck.”
“I can’t say I disagree.”
“What precisely does he want to hear?”
“That you’re not breathing. That your systems are ours. That we can move on to the next phase.”
“Of course,” says Sarmax. He pauses. He smiles. He shakes his head.
“What’s so funny, Leo?”
“You, Carson.”
“So let me in on the joke.”
“I’d rather you let me in on whatever the fuck’s going on. C’mon, Carson. You’re a bullshit artist through and through. But you can’t bullshit me. You never could. There’s something else going on.”
“I would have thought that was obvious.”
“Sure. It’s obvious. So why don’t you tell me what the fuck it is?”
“Because you’re doing so well on your own.”
“This isn’t just about the elimination of variables, is it?”
“No,” says the Operative. “It’s not.”
“They want me dead for a specific reason,” says Sarmax.
“Of course.”
“What the fuck do they think I’ve done?”
“You sound so righteously indignant, you ought to be a case study.”
“Level with me, Carson. You know I can take the truth.”
“The truth,” says the Operative, “is that it’s not a matter of what you’ve done. Not a matter of who you were. It’s a matter of asset mobilization.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about why they sent me here, Sarmax. I’m talking about harnessing your holdings in the service of the Throne.”
“All the Throne has to do is ask!”
“You forget,” says the Operative, “that this is how the Throne asks.”
Sarmax shakes his head. “Those stupid bastards,” he whispers. “Those stupid. Fucking. Bastards.”
“Maybe,” says the Operative. “Maybe not. But at any rate: now we’re getting to the proposal I’ve come all this way to make. See, Leo, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking while I sat in that truck for two days and ran that deep. I’ve been thinking about what I’d do when I got here. Thinking of what it’d be like. Lot of folks watching now, Leo. Lot of folks waiting too. A lot of people are getting very nervous. So I knew the pressure would be on when I got here. I knew I’d better be ready with some fancy footwork. I knew I’d better be ready with a plan. Which you’re the key to making happen.”
“This plan’s yours?”
“If you even have to ask that, then you aren’t thinking. Or you haven’t been listening. Or you never knew me in the first place. I think the endgame’s upon us, Leo. I want to be ready when it starts to break. I want you ready too. I want you to listen to what I’m going to say.”
And Sarmax does. Nor is the telling short. It stretches out over the lunar surface, leaping to places far afield of the south pole. The exposition unfolds across the temporal too, weaves in whole series of events both real and hypothetical, spins out the web of permutations that link those events…and thus the larger structure is laid: possibilities, contingencies, all made manifest in the plan that the Operative now proceeds to outline.
When he’s finished, no little time has passed. The dome hangs heavy overhead. The artificial stars twinkle. And Sarmax is silent.
“Well?”
“You can see,” says the Operative, “why I decided that you were more useful alive than dead. To both of us.”
“I can see that,” says Sarmax. “All too well.”
“Then—?”
“I can’t do it.”
“What do you mean you can’t do it?”
“I mean I can’t do it. I accept everything you’re saying, Carson. Believe me, I do. You’re right on all counts. You’re right on the implications too. But I can’t get involved.”
“Can’t get involved?” says the Operative. “You can’t stay out of it. You’re already in it. Don’t you understand that?”
“All I understand is who I am.”
“But this is your chance to put all that behind you.”
“I already did put all of it behind me, Carson.”
“But it’s going to keep coming back, Leo. Unless you deal with it once and for all. Out here in these cold hills—you’re not dealing with it, man. Nor are you dealing with—”
“Don’t say it,” says Sarmax.
“Her death.”
“Are you trying to provoke me?”
“It’s not just trying,” says the Operative.
“What’s your fucking point?”
“My point is that she’s dead. She died long ago. But even all this time later, she’d want you to stay alive.”
“Funny,” says Sarmax. “I always assumed she wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re still separate this way.”
“The way things are going, you won’t have long to wait.”
“You already told me that.”
“No, I mean you’re not going to have to wait more than thirty seconds at the rate you’re going. I’ll make it easy for you, Leo. We’re walking out together or not at all.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I assure you I’m not.”
“This is fucking nuts.”
“Call it what you want. What’s it going to be?”
“You’re a fool, Carson. I could say yes just to get out of here.”
“No you couldn’t,” says the Operative. “I know you, Leo. I know that the only reason why you’d say yes is if you meant it. Because I also know that you seriously believe you can kill me.”
“I believe that because it’s true.”
“So put us to the final test.”
“Carson, this is crazy. We walk out of here together, then head in separate directions.”
“I can’t let you walk after what I’ve just told you. I can’t do that. And I gave you your chance.”
“If that was my chance, then you’ve already made your choice.”
“I already had made my choice. To offer you yours. Get it through your head: you’re a wanted man. Without someone to fly you federal cover, you’ll be nailed. And then they’d nail me.”
“But out of everybody, you just have to be the one to try to nail me.”
“Starting to look that way,” says the Operative.
“You don’t want to do this,” says Sarmax.
“What I want doesn’t matter.”
“Then what does?”
The two men move suddenly, on the same instant. Both go for the jugular right off the bat. They fire all jets, charge in spraying bullets—cannon into each other with a noise that sounds like they’ve both been shattered. They haven’t. They’re just ricocheting off one another—and pivoting, turning, boots hitting ground, gloves gripping armor as they start to grapple. Through his visor, the Operative can see the eyes of Sarmax staring straight into his own. Next moment, that view is replaced by Sarmax’s fist as—augmented b
y wrist-mounted jets—it slams into his face. The Operative feels the force ripple through his helmet. He grabs Sarmax’s arms, feels the other grab his. For a moment the two are locked there, fire lighting up the night, muscle and machine straining for the slightest advantage while shadows play in unholy combination all around them. Their thrusters scorch their armor as each tries to power the other off his feet. Their helmets are locked up against each other. And now the voice of Leo Sarmax echoes through those helmets.
“Knew they would send someone,” he says. “Hadn’t dared to dream it would be you.”
“Looks like you got your wish without even asking,” says the Operative. He tries to bring his shoulder gun to bear. But Sarmax is just too close.
“I’ll get my wish when I rip your corpse from what’s left of that armor,” says Sarmax. “I’ll know my heart’s desire when I consign your body to the ice. You’ve no idea just how fucked you are, Carson.”
“Talk’s cheap,” replies the Operative. He leans his head back suddenly, lunges forward, headbutts Sarmax while firing all his thrusters on maximum. Sarmax doesn’t move. But his suit’s being plowed into the ground. Dirt and flame fly everywhere. Yet now Sarmax is firing all his jets too. The Operative’s being forced inexorably backward. He’s starting to realize that he may not be able to win this quickly. He’s starting to suspect that Sarmax might still be stronger….
“Think you can teach the man who taught you everything?” says Sarmax. “Think you can stay alive long enough to receive one last lesson?” His jets intensify. Now the Operative’s being pushed back toward the trees. His feet leave furrows behind him in the dirt. “Well, here it is: I’m going to wrap you around that wood.” More jets come to life atop Sarmax’s back. The Operative crams more fuel into his own motors. He’s urging them beyond their safety threshold. They’re starting to overheat. He and Sarmax are starting to pick up speed. The trees rush toward them. The Operative feels his course change slightly as Sarmax steers him straight toward what looks to be the nearest and biggest of them. He feels his suit vibrate as Sarmax feeds still more power to his own. He hears Sarmax muttering about how easy this is going to be. He’s got a nasty feeling that the man is about to be proven right.
Yet as that tree fills his own rearview, he reverses his own jets’ thrust, adds his power to Sarmax’s own—but at a slightly different angle. The two men suddenly speed up, whip past the tree, shoot into the depths of the grove. Sarmax keeps trying to run the Operative into something solid. The Operative keeps managing to avoid anything other than a glancing blow. They crash together through the woods, leaving a tunnel of broken branches behind them. They rush out over the water. They charge headlong into the fungus garden, tear through it, bear down upon the larger woods beyond. The Operative knows he’s got to put some distance between himself and his opponent. His smaller weapons aren’t going to be a factor. His larger weapons are too close.
But he opens up with them anyway.
The only thing he can think of: sow the road ahead with pitfalls. He starts using up all the hi-ex in his bomb-rack, flinging grenades forward. Some of them arc upward toward the roof. Some of them lance off into the trees. All of them are aimed not that far ahead. The forest is about to get pummeled into driftwood. Sarmax can achieve the Operative’s death in there but only at the price of his own.
So he does what the Operative thought he would. He changes course—hard to the left. But the Operative’s not buying it. He’s just careening on forward. The two men strain against one another. Their path starts to curve to the left. But not at a sharp enough angle to avoid the impending blasts.
And Sarmax knows it. He does the only thing he can do. He lets go of the Operative, hits the brakes, lets the Operative blast onward into the kill zone. The grenades start to detonate. The Operative steers in among the explosions. He knows where they’re going to occur. He knows where they’re not. He hits his camo, turns off his own jets. He gets as low as he can, and moves into the undergrowth.
He’s not a moment too soon. Because now flame’s cascading down from on high. The Operative quickens his pace. On his screens he can see Sarmax behind him and fifty meters overhead, almost touching the roof’s moon, lighting up the artificial night with his jets, not bothering to camouflage himself as he rains rockets and flame down upon where he thinks the Operative is. The Operative feels himself bombarded by Sarmax’s sensors. He realizes he’s being hunted down like a dog.
So he turns at bay: flicks his wrists, sends micromissiles streaking upward from both arms and back even as his gun-rack fires on auto spray. He lets rip with his flamers too. What’s left of night vanishes. The Operative doesn’t wait to assess the damage—he dives back into the fungus. And makes haste through the water while the fires roar overhead. Most of his view’s blotted out by smoke. He wonders for a second if Sarmax has been caught within the blasts. He wonders if he’s going to have to try to recover the necessary software from what’s left of a charred skull. Maybe he’s going to have to tell Lynx he got a little too eager. He stands there on the island, looks out into the conflagration, sights his scopes, waits for something to move into one of a thousand crosshairs. But nothing does.
The ground starts to shake.
At first the Operative thinks it’s more explosions going off on the other side of the dome. But it’s not. Because the fires out there don’t seem to be rising. They seem to be sinking. It’s as though the dirt itself is getting burned away. What’s left of the tangled mass of vegetation is disappearing from view. The Operative feels the shaking beneath his feet intensify. The ground upon which he’s standing is very definitely tilting. He watches as the fungus garden starts to slope away from him. He can see exactly what’s happening. The floor of the place is collapsing. The foundations must have been burned or blasted away. But the blueprints show nothing beneath the dome save rock.
Which is beside the point right now. The Operative starts making for the other side of the island. Water sloshes beneath his feet, runs through channels where his and Sarmax’s boots carved trenches in the ground. There’s water pouring from the ceiling too. Sprinklers are going all out. The Operative stumbles toward the gazebo. It’s leaning to one side. But it’s still standing. The Operative pulls himself past it.
Which is when Sarmax strikes once more.
Tracers whip through the air. Rocket-propelled grenades streak in. The Operative hits his jets, shoots upward. Explosions tear at him from every side. He can hear Sarmax broadcasting to him. He’s not hearing anything coherent. He returns fire with everything he’s got.
For about a moment. But then something strikes him on the head. Hard. Concussion sweeps against him. He feels himself being shoved downward. He realizes that what’s left of the dome’s inner roof is collapsing. That the outer roof might be coming with it. He hears Sarmax laughing. The ground’s folding up beneath the Operative. He feels everything above him bearing him down like an avalanche. He’s riding that debris, running downward over it, fighting for consciousness all the while. And now he’s through into more space—charging through underground corridors that undulate as the landslide that contains the garden’s contents piles down into them. Somehow he keeps moving. Somehow he’s not crushed.
And at last those vibrations die away behind him. He figures that he’s chosen the right way by virtue of the fact that he’s still breathing. He figures that Sarmax is one step ahead of him—figures, too, that the man has more defenses down here. He reaches a fork. One passage slopes up, the other down. He chooses the latter, starts along it.
As he does so, he hears a rumbling. A large section of rock is descending behind him. What’s driving it is clearly mechanical. He almost hits the jets on reverse to try to beat it. But he doesn’t. Instead he charges forward, racing down the tunnel, using his hands and feet at intervals to push himself off the walls, floors, ceiling. He’s trying to stay unpredictable. He’s scanning every centimeter of those surfaces. When he starts to notice nozzles here and th
ere, he isn’t surprised. They could be sensors. They could be weapons. Either way, he’s starting to feel like he’s getting warm.
And when he hears the voice of Leo Sarmax, he knows it for certain.
“Carson, Carson, Carson,” says the voice. “Did you miss me?”
It’s broadcast from the nozzles. It echoes in the Operative’s head. He doesn’t speak. Just listens. Just keeps rushing forward. Just keeps watching every centimeter of the walls…
“That’s good,” says the voice. “Real good, Carson. Had to ask, you understand. Even though you won’t answer. Let me assume, though, that answer’s the same as it was before: no and yes.”
The Operative just stares. He’s beyond blinking now. He’s gotten to the point where reflex and intuition blur. He reaches another fork. He doesn’t slow. He makes his choice, accelerates.
“Yes and no,” continues Sarmax, “no and yes. Can’t say I blame you. It was bad enough when I got here. It’s much worse now.”
Half fall, half dive: the Operative tumbles down a stairway in one motion. He vaults off the last step, roars down the new corridor like some avenging angel. He pours fire in his wake. He gets ready to pour fire out before him.
“Because the truth,” says Sarmax, “is that this whole game is going up for grabs. This whole scene is getting out of hand. And we, old friend, are right in the middle of it.”
Now the Operative comes shooting out into a wider space. It’s still a corridor but it’s twice as wide and twice as deep as any of its predecessors. It harbors far more choices, too: openings of every size and shape hewn into every one of its surfaces. The Operative feels like he’s been here before, like he’s in a dream.
But he isn’t.
“So we got to change it up,” says Sarmax. “We got to take you off the fucking board.”
All the nozzles in the space open up on the Operative. He’s getting it from all sides. Lasers sear against him. Bullets are right behind, albeit a little slower. Too slow: for now he’s charging down a side corridor, smoke churning off his armor, his own weapons flinging countermeasures back into the passage he just exited. But this new passage has its own defenses too. They open up on him. They flail against him at almost point-blank range. They carve deep into his armor, sending screens into static, comps into overload, fail-safes into action—and all the while the man who’s killing him keeps on telling him all about it.
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