And it’s all the Operative can do to keep up with them. Especially when those of Sarmax are coming in over another line. Lynx has hacked into the middle of the speakeasies. But Sarmax maintains a dedicated proprietary line between the room and his own residence. And the Operative’s guessing that’s not the only one that leads into this complex from the world that lies beyond….
“But that’s the beauty of this wilderness of mirrors,” says Lynx. “No one’s what they seem. No one’s showing all their cards. Though I confess to having looked at a few hands since we got here. That one there—Copernicus insurgents. Strictly bush-league, but still, good enough to get in here. And over there—one of the more virulent strains of Imbrium mafia. They’re trying to divert a couple items from a convoy or something tedious like that—but who can admit to anything save admiration for the way in which institutions adapt to the times? The ones who built this place did so when it looked like the last cold war would be the only. A time when rugged individualism was king. When the one thing that everyone could agree on was that the only real off-world crime was putting the brakes on commerce. Such a quaint notion. Yet those who now rule the farside of this rock found the whole setup to be the very height of convenience. How else could they co-opt the black market in a single stroke? Where else could they keep an eye upon so many? Though of course there are always those who seek to turn the tables….”
The structures atop those tables are stacking ever higher. Their representations are getting ever more abstract. The time horizons with which the Operative’s now playing are moot for all purposes save that of profit. The options he’s hedging stretch out beyond the point where the third planet gets swallowed by expanding sun. But far closer to the present a shadow’s stealing over all those fanciful projections. The markets expect war at any moment. They see the day of judgment lurking around the corner. They don’t know how it’s going to start. They only know that it will place all fortune in the balance. They’re placing their bets accordingly.
“And therein lies the dilemma,” says Lynx. “There’s no scenario out there that lacks an angle. If the Coalition wins…well, someone has to do the collaboration. But if Uncle Sam manages to pull it off once again—you’d better believe the big guy won’t emerge unscathed. Which is why the Moon is looking so good these days, Carson. The smart money says the farside won’t be touched no matter how bad a drubbing the rest of the place gets. But I say the smart money’s forgotten about the very factor that set this whole shit train rolling in the first place. Now, on my mark, execute the following transactions—”
The Operative realizes that all of Lynx’s inquiries are converging. He suddenly discerns the object that Lynx has set his heart upon. He wonders how he could have been so blind. He wonders if he’s ever going to have the strength to see.
“I see you’ve noticed what we’re after,” says Lynx. “I see you’re finally opening up your eyes. Which I take to be a positive sign. The careless won’t survive what’s coming, Carson. And the Rain will get everything they’ve courted. We’ll take them apart, man. We’ll make them wish they’d died back when they should have.”
It’s a rock that almost nailed the planet fifty thousand years ago. It’s Near Earth Object #59789. Now it’s got a relay station that beams communications to the prospectors scattered farther out. And in the middle of that station…
“A little piece of private zone,” says Lynx. “Ingenious, no? This data-cache’s been separated from all networks and shorn of all wireless nodes. Whoever put it there uploads it only by a certain set of orders to the station’s robots—gets them to establish the necessary physical linkage. Talk about out of sight and out of mind. But congratulations, Carson—because one of the hundred million things you’ve just done was to get a ninety-nine-year lease on that dump. And a series of never-before-used loopholes in off-world property law mean that the owners aren’t even aware of a new source of rent. And now, on my mark, you are going to execute the following transactions—”
And the Operative’s getting in there. He’s going to town. His mind’s a blizzard of data and he can scarcely feel his body. He feels like he’s lived all his life to be the instrument of Lynx as that man closes in on what will surely be his greatest triumph. He wonders if what Lynx is after is the Rain or merely the gateway to them. He wonders if the frenzied trades he’s making on behalf of Sarmax will ever amount to anything at all.
But mostly he wonders what’s going on in the unmanned recesses of the station out on the edge of deep. He pictures servants who neither see nor know their master. He pictures silent uploads occurring—pictures signals speeding back into the heart of the Earth-Moon system. He pictures Lynx’s face as the transmission kicks in—
“We’ve done it,” says Lynx.
His voice cuts out. The door to the room in which the Operative sits opens. Two figures stand there in full armor. The weapons they’re pointing at him aren’t small.
“Don’t move,” says one.
“You’re under arrest,” says the other.
T hey’re wearing light armor. They’re crawling along a bridge. That bridge is meant for trains, but the trains have stopped running. Explosions keep on shaking the rails beneath them. The air’s alive with screams and shots. It’s been a long while since they heard any sirens.
“Picking up radiation again,” says Marlowe. “Another dirty bomb.”
“That makes ten in the last hour.”
The fracturing of the zone has set in motion a fracturing of all else. The city’s government has collapsed completely. Sensing apocalypse, the people have become a mob. Authority’s become a function of what block you’re standing in or who could set themselves up as local warlord. There’s fighting all across the street and net.
“How much can you see in there?” says Marlowe.
“Probably got half a klick of range,” she replies.
She finds it strange to see so much more in real than zone. They’re almost at the top of the Owen-Stanley Range. They’ve almost reached Seleucus. The city stretches out below them. Smoke’s rising from a number of places within it. Flames cover most of the city center.
“Not looking good,” says Marlowe.
Haskell says nothing. They turn from the scene, reach the bridge’s end, enter a tunnel. People are huddled along the walls. Many are wounded. Marlowe and Haskell stalk between them, conscious of the stares. But as they approach the tunnel’s other end, the people on either side start to try to tell them something.
“What language is that?” says Haskell.
“Burmese,” replies Marlowe. “I’ve done runs in South Asia.”
“Can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Only a few words.” He’s leaning forward, hands resting on thighs while he seeks to find some common ground between the languages he knows and whatever ones they might. Haskell keeps an eye on the people behind him. Marlowe switches through several Indian dialects, throws in a little Chinese, keeps his voice loud enough to engage a few more people in the dialogue without letting the whole tunnel in on the conversation.
He turns back to Haskell.
“Well,” she says.
“They’re refugees from Seleucus.”
“And.”
“They talk of fleeing their homes. They talk of an evil unleashed.”
“No shit.”
“No,” says Marlowe. “They’re quite specific. They aren’t talking about the collapse of zone. They’re talking about what’s happened since. They say a demon rules the Flats now.”
She stares at him.
“That’s the word they use,” he says. “They say it feeds on human souls. They’re begging us not to continue.”
“They’ve just confirmed that we go on.”
“Pretty much.”
“Try to learn more about this thing. Ask them what it’s like.”
Marlowe does. But the people on the tunnel floor are getting increasingly upset. They’re getting ever louder. They�
��re trying to shut each other up. Marlowe quiets them, turns back toward Haskell.
“They’re saying that Seleucus has been sealed off. That anything living is forfeit. They’re saying this thing’s the devil.”
“This thing’s Manilishi.”
“Or the Rain themselves.”
“Or both.”
“So let’s get in there and join them.”
They steal on out of the tunnel.
M anaus is the largest city upriver from the sea. It’s the junction of the Amazon and several feeders. It’s been on a roll since Belem-Macapa took the sky’s own fire. Business is booming. U.S. soldiers are everywhere. Spencer and Linehan try not to look that interested. They’re busy getting one with dockland culture.
Which consists largely of bars. And drinking. Not to mention conversation that creeps slowly in toward negotiation. Control’s contacts are good. Control’s money is even better. Spencer does most of the talking. Linehan concentrates on looking menacing. It’s an effective partnership. They initiate contacts, get referrals, make payoffs. They do their utmost to make progress without attracting attention. It’s a tough balancing act. Several times they break off budding dialogue, leave venues in a hurry. Once they get jumped by locals smelling a quick mark—who live just long enough to realize their mistake.
But eventually they get out of the bars and into the back rooms. Which is where they pick up steam. Because now they’re dealing with people for whom Swiss bank accounts are simply standard procedure. People for whom this transaction is just one among so many others. Terms are reached in relatively short order.
Spencer’s not taking them at face value, however. One more reason they’ve gotten so far so quick: he’s been riding shotgun on the Latin zone the whole while. About three-quarters of that zone is under lock and key. A lot of those barriers are pretty recent too. He catches virtual glimpses overhead anyway—U.S. ships on the ascent, and he knows better than to put them to a close inspection. He reserves that treatment for the networks of this underworld—and in particular with the particular outfit with whom he’s dealing. He can’t see everything. He’d be worried if he could. But he can see the data they’ve got on him and Linehan—can see that it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere besides the folder that they’ve marked revenue. He can see the plan they’ve got for shipping south one particular cargo.
And all the while he’s making other plans. Because he knows all about the intangibles that confront those who close in upon a border. He knows, too, that his reliance upon multiple suppliers isn’t just a matter of contingency. It’s also a question of portfolio management.
“Meaning what?” asks Linehan.
They’re in another ship, hauling out of Manaus in a fast river skimmer. This time they’re well below deck. They’re cloistered in a cargo container. The soybeans that fill all of that container’s neighbors are lined along the side of theirs in layers held in place with plastic. The resultant space contains water, food, pistols, a portable waste holder, and a conduit for oxygen. Spencer’s made a couple side deals, arranged for a wire to be slotted through that conduit as well—and from there into the ship’s comps. The presence of that wire makes it all the more likely that the container wouldn’t survive a close inspection.
But that’s just one more calculation in this numbers game.
“Let me put it this way,” says Spencer. “We’re not going to sit in this box and get predictable.”
“So what’s the next stop?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“You’re still what?”
“Actually, to be more precise—I haven’t started.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”
“Proximity,” replies Spencer.
And closes his eyes.
Open your eyes,” says a voice.
The Operative does. And closes them immediately.
“Turn off that fucking light,” he says.
“Don’t make me ask you twice.”
The Operative opens his eyes fractionally, gazes out through narrow slits. The lights are so full in his face that he can see almost nothing of the room beyond them. “Keep them open,” says the voice. And the Operative doesn’t need to be told why. Retinas are just one more opportunity for the body to yield up its secrets. And as for all those others: he can feel needles buried in his flesh. His arms and legs are strapped to the chair in which he’s sitting. He can’t remember how he got here.
But he can guess what’s going to happen next.
“Strom Carson,” says the voice.
“Who’s he,” says the Operative.
“A traitor,” replies the voice.
“Where’d you learn such a big wor—fuck!”
Fire’s pouring through the Operative’s veins. He contorts against his straps, cuts off all sound from his mouth as flame becomes freeze and burns him through with cold. Ice thrusts up through his skin. Half-melted blood dribbles from a hundred phantom wounds.
But then it all subsides.
“Strom Carson,” says the voice. “Praetorian agent assigned to the Moon. Active at Agrippa, Shackleton, and now Congreve. What have you been up to, Carson?”
“That’s classified.”
“We’re SpaceCom intelligence, Carson. Don’t talk to us about what’s classified.”
“Then how about telling me why I’m here.”
“Treason.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Participation in the conspiracy called Autumn Rain.”
“What?”
“Where’s their fucking base, Carson?”
“Give me a fucking break,” says the Operative. “How high up are you guys? You’ve apprehended a fucking Praetorian. We’ll take you apart for this.”
“The only thing that’s about to get taken apart is what I’m looking at. The Throne’s been getting so careless lately. So delinquent it makes me sick. No wonder all its investigations managed to get themselves rat-fucked.”
“Only rat who’s getting fucked is you. We know the Rain’s inside you. I’m probably speaking to them even now.”
“That’d be every time you look in a mirror, Carson. Who was giving you your orders?”
The Operative says nothing.
“Who’s your fucking razor?”
The Operative’s waiting for the knives to burn back to life inside him. He wonders if this is all some virtual construct. Or one of Lynx’s tricks. But now a face appears before him. It’s a hologram floating in the air. Oversized ears. Antique opticals. Silver hair.
And grinning mouth.
“Ever seen this man before?”
The Operative tries to look unsurprised. He tries to blank his mind.
“That’s what we thought,” says the voice. “We know this is the man who was feeding you orders in the speakeasies. A real piece of work.” Data starts to swirl around the Operative’s head. Data speeds up. Six lines of symbols freeze amidst the myriad rush, spring in toward the Operative.
“I could explain the significance of each of those transactions to you, but we both know you already know what they mean. And if you don’t, then you just won the patsy of the fucking year award. So let’s just talk about the sum total of those moves. The detonation of a fission device in downtown Congreve would have wrecked everybody’s day. Except, apparently, yours.”
“Listen,” says the Operative, “this is a setup. It’s bullshit.”
“Oh, it’s bullshit alright. What the fuck is your problem, Carson? What in Christ’s name possessed you to lift your blade against the common cause? What did the Rain offer you that was worth your turning your back on everything?”
“You may as well get back to what you were doing with my nerve endings.”
“It’s not going to be that simple, Carson. I’m just the warm-up act.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re taking you upstairs.”
“To L2?”
“I said upstairs. I didn’t say al
l the way to heaven. Do you think we’re stupid? You’re not getting near that fleet. One of the LunaMechs will suffice. Put you in orbit around the Moon, let you spend your last days staring down at rock while we reduce you to nothing, a brain cell at a time.”
“Bringing me right down to your level,” says the Operative. “I can’t wait.”
But the voice says nothing. The lights diminish. They leave the Operative in darkness. The seconds tick by. They start to make inroads on the minutes.
“Hello?”
But there’s no answer. The Operative sits there. He wonders if they’ve bagged Sarmax. He wonders if they’ve bagged Lynx. He wonders if either of them set him up. He wonders if he really was helping to bring about Congreve’s melting. But mostly he just wonders when the hell something’s going to happen.
The needles slide from his body. The straps around him unfold. He’s unimpressed.
“You know what, guys? You’re fucking boring me.”
But there’s no answer. The seconds tick by. The Operative pulls himself to his feet. As he does so, dim lights spring to life along the walls. A door on the one opposite opens. The Operative walks to it, goes on through.
Now he’s in a corridor. Lights blink along the floor. They’re running from right to left. So he turns that way, walking carefully. He has no idea what the hell’s going on. But he figures he may as well make the most of it.
A door opens on the wall to his left. Simultaneously, the lights on the floor change direction, blink toward it.
So he stops. He peers carefully inside. It’s a storage chamber. It’s full of compartments. All are open. All are empty.
Except for the one that holds the suit.
The Operative walks in. The door slides shut. He goes to the suit. It’s civilian, bereft of armaments and markings. It’s open in the back. He takes the hint: climbs in, activates it. It closes in around him.
“About fucking time,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“What’s going on is jailbreak. You drive, I’ll navigate.” The door slides open. “Make your first two lefts and make it snappy.”
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