Marlowe realizes that the attack of the drones is subsiding. They’re still pressing him hard. They still mean business. But they’re giving way in front of him and closing in behind. They’re herding him in one particular direction, which is fine by him. He’s being driven toward the very place he’s been trying to get to. He’s down to a single heavy pistol now. But it’s still got ammo. His shots are still crashing home. His boots are still crunching over what’s left of things he’s shot. He picks one up and flings it—scoops up another, uses it as a club against its live brethren. He gets through one more wall. He smashes through one last door, charges through into the main cargo chamber.
It’s completely bereft of cargo. All it contains is the elevator, set within four pylons that rise to the ceiling and end in the corners of a shaft. The trapdoor to that shaft is open. Marlowe can’t see where it leads.
But he can see Morat, standing suitless in front of that elevator, surrounded by several larger drones. He’s smiling.
Marlowe isn’t. He whips his arm up, opens up. But as he does so, the drones around Morat fire. They all hit in the same place. Pieces of Marlowe’s pistol fly through the air. Marlowe snarls, starts toward Morat. But the larger drones are forming up between him and his quarry. They form a wall. They train their weapons on him.
Marlowe stops. He brandishes his makeshift club. He stares at Morat.
“I’m not done yet,” he says.
“Well,” replies Morat, “that makes two of us.”
Marlowe steps toward him.
“That’s far enough.”
Marlowe lines his target up. Even though he’s got neither guns nor screens. All he’s got is a visor so cracked as to be useless. He pulls off his helmet, tosses it aside.
“Right here. Let’s settle this once and for all.”
“We already have,” says Morat. “Didn’t you notice?”
“I haven’t noticed shit.”
“Funny, neither has your bitch.”
“She’s not my bitch.”
“No,” says Morat. “She’s mine. Or at least, she will be in a few more minutes.”
“She still hasn’t blasted off?” Marlowe can’t keep the dismay from his voice.
“Strangely enough, she hasn’t.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Marlowe.
“I don’t know if she thinks that highly of you,” says Morat. “And yet I get the feeling there’s something down here she doesn’t want to leave without.”
“She’s crazy,” mutters Marlowe.
“For once we agree on something,” says Morat. “But give her some credit. She’s quite the feisty one. She’s up there waging all-out siege warfare.” He gestures at the roof. “She’s got one hell of a crossfire going, Marlowe. She’s racked up quite a score. Anything that I put in that shaft gets toasted. I’m starting to have my doubts that I can break through before we land.”
“You’re planning on landing this thing?”
“No,” says Morat. “I’m planning on circling the Earth forever.”
“You’re a fucking riot, Morat. Just where the hell do you think you’re going to down it?”
“Stick around long enough,” says Morat, “and you might find out. Have you tried to contact Claire since we emerged from reentry?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I can’t get through.”
“And you know why that is?”
“I presume it has something to do with that hack of yours.”
“More than just something.”
“Who’s running it? You?”
“Look around you, Marlowe.”
And Marlowe looks. And stares at Morat.
“You mean the drones?”
And Morat just laughs. “It’s tempting to think of them as plural. But it’s the same mind that spans them. I built them to the specifications furnished by the Rain. I uploaded their activation codes scant minutes ago. Brought to life with the Rain’s own essence—and your little strumpet couldn’t stop me. She’s been trying to slice her way into their circuitry ever since. She can’t make it happen. Nor will she. She thinks she’s the razor to end all razors. She has delusions of such grandeur. Now she’s learning just how pathetic those delusions really are.”
“So how come she’s still up there raining shit down on you?”
“Well,” says Morat, “that’s why you’re still standing there talking shit to me.”
“Oh really.”
“Yes. Because you’re going to persuade her to surrender.”
“The hell I am.”
“And that’s exactly where I’ll put you if you don’t.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
“You’ve got it wrong. I’m talking about a different kind of pain. I’ll blow the whole top plane. I’ll toss her ass into the fucking slipstream. I already rigged it. All I want to do is talk to her. That’s all. You don’t even have to say a word. You’ve got her life in your hands, Jason. All I want is conversation. Just a little chat.”
“And what are you going to say to her?”
“How foolish she’s being. Among other things. And how I don’t have time to fuck around. Five seconds, Jason. Four. Three. Two.”
“Fine,” says Marlowe. He sends out the one-on-one. It’s answered almost immediately.
“Jason. Where are you?”
“Right below you.”
“What’s—”
But now her voice cuts out. “I don’t want you talking with her,” says Morat. “I just want you telling her that she should tune in to the following frequency.” He names it. “You’ve got time to tell her that, and that’s it. Otherwise I cut you off again. You got me?”
“Sure,” says Marlowe.
“Good.”
“—son? Are you there?”
“Claire,” he says. “Morat’s got me down here. Tune in to this frequency.”
“Jesus,” she says—and her voice cuts out. Marlowe tunes in to the frequency in question.
“And now we’re all here,” says Morat.
“What the fuck do you want out of all this?” says Haskell.
“You,” says Morat.
“That’s not enough. That can’t be.”
“How about letting me be the judge of that?”
“You’d go to all this trouble to capture two runners?”
“I’d go to all this trouble to publicly expose the superpowers for the impotents they are.”
“By taking us to HK?”
“Taking us where?” says Marlowe.
“You heard her,” says Morat. “And yes, Claire: exactly. Look at that procession we’re leading. Look at all those ships arrayed out behind us. It’s all going down on camera. Hundreds of millions are watching. It’s almost as good as the Elevator. And when we get ready to land, it’s going to get even better.”
“That’ll never happen,” says Haskell. “They’ll blast us from the sky before they let you put this down in the city.”
“Spoken like a true servant, Claire. You don’t know your own masters. I do. There’s no reason for them to shoot us down—if they think they can recapture us as we land.”
“This doesn’t add up,” says Haskell.
“Did I ever claim it had to?”
“There’s something you’re not telling us.”
“There are many things I’m not telling you,” says Morat. “That much will never change. Truth to tell, I’m not sure I could tell the whole truth even if I wanted to. Even if I knew it. But I’ll tell you this much: unless you want to give up all hope of seeing Marlowe again, you’d better give it up and get down here right now.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“What you believe is beside the point.”
“I thought you said you wanted us alive.”
“I exaggerate sometimes,” Morat replies. “It’s a bad habit of mine. And here’s another: I was never any good at negotiating. So I won’t even try now. The Rai
n want you alive if possible. They’ll take you dead if they have to. Now are you going to come on down or am I going to scratch one mech?”
“Just try,” says Marlowe.
“Just you wait,” says Morat. “Claire. What’s it going to be?”
“Don’t do it, Claire. He’ll have us both.”
“He already does, Jason.”
“He doesn’t have to.”
“Oh,” says Morat, “but I do.”
“Fuck you,” says Haskell.
“Maybe,” says Morat. “Maybe. It might be fun. Although I have to confess that the animal ceased to turn me on some time ago. I get off in my head now, Claire. I get off on twisting yours—to the point where you’re about to violate all your training in order to save someone who might not mean a thing to you. Even though you know damn well that all you’re really doing is condemning both of you to the claws of the Rain. They’re waiting for you, Claire. So am I. So come on down and join my party.”
“No,” says Marlowe.
“I have to,” she says.
“You’re right,” says Morat.
“You’re dead,” she says.
“Wait long enough,” he says, “and you’ll be right. But I’m going to live long enough to see this world go into the grinders of the new one. What’s it going to be, Claire? Are you going to open that airlock? Or do I have to count this down?”
“No,” she says, “you don’t. Forgive me, Jason.”
“There’s no need,” replies Marlowe.
But Haskell’s already sending signals from her mind that have nothing to do with that airlock. They’ve got a different destination altogether. They flit past the outer plane’s hull, stop at the lower’s. They trigger circuitry. Which triggers chemistry.
The bomb that Marlowe planted on the B-130 detonates.
The voice of Leo Sarmax is sounding in the Operative’s ears. It’s almost like the first time he heard it. Back before anyone saw all this coming. Back when the world was young. It’s lost none of its intensity in those intervening years. In fact, it’s gained a new edge.
Though that may be just a function of the circumstances.
“You’ve got something I want,” says that voice.
They’re just words. But they surge like waves within the Operative’s skull. He feels himself struggling not to be swept under. He feels so gone he can’t imagine being anywhere else. He waits for all eternity.
And then he speaks.
“More than just something.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m Carson.”
There’s a pause. Then audio’s joined by another set of signals. A face appears before the Operative’s retina. He reciprocates even as he takes it in: nose, sharply sloped cheekbones. Those eyes. That half smile.
“Carson,” says Leo Sarmax. “Been a long time.”
“Long time for sure.”
“Didn’t even know you were up here.”
“That’s because you’re slipping.”
“I doubt it,” says Sarmax. “When did you get in?”
“About twelve hours ago.”
“And what do you think?”
“Not much. Expected your security would give me more of a challenge.”
“I’m not talking about my defenses. They weren’t intended for the likes of you. I’m talking about this rock.”
“Oh,” says the Operative. “In that case, I like it.”
“You should,” replies Sarmax. “It suits you.”
“Likewise.”
“Well,” says Sarmax, “I like this place for different reasons. I’m different than you, Carson. I always was. We both always knew that.”
“We always did. That’s why you left.”
“And why I’m staying.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything else.”
“Good, Carson,” says Sarmax. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. You know why? Because I’ve carved out a bit of a niche for myself up here. Used to be that the Moon could guarantee you some isolation. No longer. Now you have to work for it even here. And that’s what this place is to me. Those mountains you saw coming in—they’re mine. The valleys—mine. The horizon in between—mine too. It’s all mine. And so are you.”
The Operative doesn’t reply.
“Carson,” says Sarmax. “You really shouldn’t have come here. All you’ve done is dig your own grave.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Much as you might deny it. Much as I might deny the hand that strikes you. You’ve stuck your nose into one rabbit hole too many. Took you a long time do it. But you’ve finally managed to pull it off. And now I’m going to pull apart your skull and use whatever’s inside to reverse-engineer the lockdown you’ve put on my comps.”
“Not so,” says the Operative.
“In that case,” says Sarmax, “climb out of that suit. Walk me back to the control room. One chance, Carson.”
“Listen,” says the Operative, “you’ve got it wrong. If they wanted to rub you out, I wouldn’t be the instrument of their displeasure. Come on, man, don’t kid yourself with the hubris. Sure, you’re your own little Moon lord now, but if they really wanted you dead, face it: you wouldn’t be alive. And it wouldn’t be subtle, either. Some low-flying sat would just do a drive-by on your ass, and that’d be that. It’s not like there’d be an investigation worth the name.”
“So why did you come here?”
“Would you believe that I wanted to look up an old friend?”
“Cut the shit, Carson,” says Sarmax. “Don’t make yourself look pathetic by trying to worm out of it now. Just get busy thinking on the irony—you came out here on the cold run, but it’s going to be you who gets taken out instead. It’s that simple, old friend.”
“No,” says the Operative, “it’s not.”
“Then tell me what you’ve come to do.”
“To deliver a message.”
“To deliver a message?”
“To deliver a message.”
Sarmax laughs, a sharp short bark. “You’re damn right you’ve delivered a message, Carson. You carve through my inner and outer perimeters in nothing flat, you slice your way straight through my household staff, destroy my machinery, fuck my systems—you’d better believe you’ve just delivered a message.” He puts one glove toward the left side of his helmet. “Heard you loud and clear, Carson. Heard you loud and clear.”
“Sure,” says the Operative. “Had to do that. Had to make it look convincing. Otherwise the message wouldn’t have been worth much.”
“So what the fuck is the message?”
“That I was sent to kill you, but I’m not going to do it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t take you down, Leo. I’m this close to putting your body through the roof of this dome, but I’m not going to do it.”
“Hardly the one to make threats, Carson. So you’re having second thoughts? So you want to slink back out? So what’s new? A man can do a lot of soul-searching when it’s time to ride that ferry. Particularly when he’s lived so long a life as yours.”
“So come on over here and get it over with.”
“No,” says Sarmax. “First I want you to tell me who sent you.”
“Like you can’t guess.”
“You’re still working for them.”
“I’m still killing for them.”
“And I’m next on the list?”
“Something like that.”
“So why the fuck did it take them so long? They have cause now, they’ve had cause for a long time. Why now?”
“Because,” says the Operative, “things are getting out of hand.”
“And I’m stirring them up?”
“I don’t know,” says the Operative. “Are you stirring them up, Leo?”
“Apparently I must be.”
“Leo. Are you dealing with the Rain?”
“Jesus,” says Sarmax. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Answer the question, Leo.”
“No,” says Sarmax, “I’m not.” A pause. Then: “They really think that’s the game I’m playing?”
“I have no idea what they really think.”
“I thought you said—”
“You didn’t listen,” says the Operative.
“I’m starting to think there’s been a pretty big mistake,” says Sarmax.
“No mistake,” says the Operative. “No mistake at all. They’re calling in all the variables. Biggest manhunt in history. Anyone who might have dealt with the new player. Anyone who might be the new player. Anyone at all. It’s a long list. And you want to know something about that list? An ex-Praetorian now ensconced in his own private fortress on the Moon isn’t going to be near the bottom.”
“I see,” says Sarmax.
“I hope you do,” says the Operative. “Because that’s why there’s a termination order on your ass.”
“And they sent you to carry it out.”
“Well,” says the Operative, “in theory, sure.”
“In practice?”
“Like I said, I’m not going to kill you. Not unless you draw first.”
Sarmax doesn’t move. Static. Then: “If you really were sent to kill me, then what was that about how they’d be more likely to sic a sat on me instead?”
“Oh,” says the Operative, “that. I was just tossing things out there. Trying to get you to calm down a little.” He laughs. “But I tell you where I wasn’t bullshitting you, Leo: I meant it with the hubris. Like they see you as worth blowing that kind of hardware on…” His voice trails off in a dry chuckle.
“So you were talking bullshit?”
“It’d certainly be one way to off you. But I guess they wanted to make this one less overt. Maybe even save on some expenses.”
“But still eliminate a variable.”
“That’s it,” says the Operative. “That’s all. It’s nothing personal. They’re calling in the variables.”
“When did they start cleaning them up?”
“Two days ago. But they started calling in the ones on the Moon last night.”
“Carson,” says Sarmax suddenly. “Do you really want us both to walk away from here?”
“I really do.”
“So why didn’t you make a run for it? Why come here?”
“I’m not sure I follow your logic,” says the Operative.
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