“Is it?”
“What kind of chassis? Is this thing humanoid?”
“That’s the problem,” says the handler. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“There’s nothing on file?” asks Marlowe.
“The file’s name is Manilishi. But Morat must have tampered with the documentation because now all we’ve got is the name. And this.” For a moment, the handler’s face is replaced with shots of a crippled, smoking spaceplane hurtling down toward the city—and a close-up on a small object ejecting from its rear. Further magnification reveals a cylinder, spinning end over end on a diagonal slant, disappearing beneath the draped-over canopy of buildings.
“I thought there were no escape pods,” says Haskell.
“That’s not an escape pod,” says the handler. “It’s a fuel tank. It contained the Manilishi. Which somehow got activated in the fighting. Maybe it just woke up. It must have ejected from that pod once it fell into city shadow. We had no cameras on it when it did. All we’ve got are some anomalies in the HK zone that occurred at the point it landed.”
“What kind of anomalies?”
“Cameras suddenly seeing nothing. Backup routines being activated for no good reason. All the usual signs of something covering its traces. Our men found what was left of the fuel tank. But that was all they found.”
“This is absurd,” says Haskell. But even as she says it, she’s thinking. About hidden compartments and places not yet seen. About covert agendas. About how easy it might have been for something as mobile as it is smart to lie low, let the interlopers go after the more obvious targets, wait for that moment. Maybe it came at Morat’s apogee of gloat. Maybe it came when Marlowe reappeared. One thing’s for sure, though.
What happened next must have been perfect.
“My suggestion is that you assume this thing has all the physical attributes of heavy powered armor,” says the handler. “Camo, flight, fight—you name it. And that’s on top of its zone prowess.”
“Jesus,” says Haskell.
“Not quite. But close. And the fact that it’s on the loose is a major fucking problem.”
“Why doesn’t it just call home?” asks Marlowe.
“Maybe it doesn’t want to.”
“You’re saying it’s gone rogue?”
“It might have. Under the trauma. Or it might have been captured by the Rain despite its best efforts. All we know is that it hasn’t reported in. And that we absolutely, positively fucking have to have it back.”
“And you want us to go get it?”
“No,” says the handler, “I want you to shove your head through this fucking screen.”
“Fuck your sarcasm,” says Marlowe. “Why us? I would have thought we were marked for arrest.”
“You are.”
Marlowe stands up.
“Sit down,” says the handler. “I’m not arresting anybody.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m on the list too.”
“Sinclair’s sold us all out?”
“He hasn’t sold anyone out. He was top of the list. He’s in custody now.”
Marlowe and Haskell stare at the screen. Any thought of running’s gone now. Sure, they’d been ready to make a break. Sure, if this man really were after them, he really would have come in through the door and not the screen. But that kind of logic only carries one so far. It’s all intellectual. It’s not emotional. Try riding death down from sky to ground, then go to ground to no avail: you’ll get your own ideas about what’s logical.
“I guess,” says Haskell, “that really shouldn’t surprise us.”
“It really shouldn’t.” The handler smiles grimly. “He’s held liable for the loss of Manilishi. His head was the least he could offer up.”
“So who’s heading up CounterIntelligence now?” asks Marlowe.
“Like I just said,” says the handler, “Sinclair’s head was the least of it. There is no more CI. It’s been annulled.”
“What?”
“Annulled,” says the man. “Nullified. Ended. Torn into little fucking bits.”
“Oh fuck,” says Marlowe.
“Who’s assimilating its personnel?” asks Haskell.
“The cells. And then the furnaces.”
“They’re being killed?”
“I’m having difficulty getting my point across. Maybe it’s this cheap screen of yours. Maybe it’s you. But try to get this through your heads anyway. This isn’t your usual HQ power play. This is a wholesale purge. It’s not even like it was when Space swallowed Air. This is extermination.”
“But only the president could authorize anything that drastic.”
“Well,” says the handler, “exactly. You just answered your own question. Only the president could authorize this. And the Praetorians are carrying out most of the dirty work.”
“They think Sinclair was in league with the Rain,” says Marlowe.
“He was framed,” says the handler. “I guarantee you. Morat may have even planned for it all to play out this way. What better way for Autumn Rain to infiltrate the inner enclaves than for CICom to be erased? What better news for any conspiracies within the other Coms than to realize that the ultimate watchdog’s just been taken off the board?”
“And what about us?” says Haskell.
“What do you think? As far as the Throne is concerned, the only known alpha targets besides Sinclair and his immediate lieutenants and the Manilishi itself are the two agents who were on that goddamn plane. Although with that kind of data in your head, they wouldn’t kill you. Not for a long while, at any rate.”
“They have to catch us first,” says Marlowe.
“They have to indeed. And rest assured they’re trying. We haven’t much time. You’re going to have to take this deeper. And get on the Manilishi’s trail.”
“But you said you have no idea where this thing is.”
“I said I didn’t know what it was doing,” says the handler. “I didn’t say I didn’t know where it was going. I have its comp signatures. It’ll change them once it realizes we can use them to track it. But in the meantime, I’ve been triangulating anomalies in this city’s zone.”
“To where?”
“Place called Seleucus Flats. One of the northern sectors. Up the Owen-Stanley Range. As I said, this thing may be in Rain custody by now. Or it may be trying to assess the situation. Or trying to sell its services to a well-heeled bidder.”
“Well,” says Haskell, “there are certainly enough of those.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” replies the handler. “Since the embargo went into effect, all hell has broken loose here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you looked outside? You should ditch this Roman orgy act and put something on the vid. All the gangs and cartels and triads and syndicates—they’ve all turned on each other in the last few hours. Not just because the word’s getting around that something was on that spaceplane that’s going to fetch a pretty high price. But because they can. The embargo’s cut off a lot of big-time bosses from their backup, and a lot of backup from their bosses. No one can call in reinforcements from the Euros or the Aussies now. Which means the shit has hit the fan like you would not believe. The HK authorities are barely keeping it together.”
“No better environment to do some hunting,” says Marlowe.
“Or get hunted,” says Haskell.
“Exactly,” says the handler. “So keep your eyes peeled. And get that thing.”
“And when we get it?”
“We use it to bargain for our reinstatement.”
“Our reinstatement? You sure that’s going to work?”
“I’m not sure of anything any longer,” replies the handler. “But I’ll tell you what might help once we get our hands on the Manilishi.”
“Go on.”
“Using it to locate and destroy the Autumn Rain base that’s in this city.”
&nbs
p; Marlowe and Haskell look at each other.
“We do that,” says the handler, “and the Throne’s own Hand will pin a medal on us. We can even bring the old man back.”
“If he’s still alive,” says Marlowe.
“Sure,” says the handler. “If he’s still alive. But right now, it’s our turn to stay alive. And you might have to destroy the Rain just to get the Manilishi anyway. Now listen. I’ve created new identities for you. I’ve cauterized them. I’ve got you some prime equipment too. You can pick it up en route. Now go. We’ll stay in touch as we need to.”
“You mean as you need to,” says Marlowe.
“Listen, Marlowe,” says the handler. “Both of you listen. We’ve come a long way from the days when my kind walked your dreams while you beat your fist against the pillows. I know that. I know you’ve no love for me. But I know you’ve loyalty. Loyalty for Sinclair and what he stood for. What he stands for even now. You can’t deny that. You’re sworn, and you know it. And what’s going on out there renders our own personal dilemmas immaterial. Regardless of what happens to any of us, what’s going on now will decide the fate of our people. You hold that fate within your hands. Both of you. If the Rain acquire Manilishi, nothing will be beyond them. Nothing. Now get out there. And be even better than you were on that plane.”
“We’ll try,” says Marlowe.
But the handler isn’t waiting. He’s already disappearing. Static washes over him as though it were a tide coming in on fast-forward. He sinks beneath those waves.
And then he’s gone.
B ut Control’s here. Control: who’s been doing time in the Mountain since time began. Control: who’s come out of hiding tonight—emerging from those pipes and tunnels to expose its voice direct to air, deal directly with the ones who by all rights should have either made it or been made. They did neither. All they did was stumble to that southern shore. Now they’re calling from the shattered remnants of the Amazon delta in the hopes of seeing one more tomorrow. They’re looking for a backup plan. They’re looking to Control once more.
Only to find themselves stared down by sight beyond all seeing.
“I’m talking to the one who calls himself Linehan,” says the voice that echoes from a speaker on Spencer’s belt—as dry as the dust the room contains, as harsh as the bombed-out cityscape that lies outside the window of the warehouse they call shelter. “I’m talking to the man who’s been the vehicle to drive half the Atlantic into zone blackout. I’m pretty sure he can hear me.”
“He can,” says Linehan.
“Linehan,” says Control. Inflection falls from the voice like a cloak tossed upon the floor. “Do you know who I am?”
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re Control. You’re the Priam Combine’s most valuable asset in North America. You report direct to London. I assure you that I didn’t enter your domain lightly.”
“Fine words,” says Control. Something somewhere between laugh and static hisses softly through the room. “Meaningless sounds. Your attitude is beside the point. Your actions are what’s at issue here.”
“I came to your man with a fair bargain.” Spencer listens impassively to himself described in the third person. He doesn’t take his eyes off Linehan. “He put that bargain to you. You accepted. To what actions of mine are you referring?”
“The very same. You flushed my agent from cover. You blackmailed him into opening up a conduit through which all too many minds vectored onto mine.”
“No,” says Linehan. “At no point have you been the target of this operation.”
“You use words so carefully,” says Control. Suddenly the voice is nothing but inflection. “You lie so freely. You skirt so close to truth. You’re beyond abomination. ‘At no point have you been the target of this operation.’ Listen to yourself! I know I wasn’t the target. I was one of the targets. Just one. So very far from only.”
“As was I.”
“No,” says Control, “you were just bait. You were just a pawn. Whether or not you knew it. You were nothing but a hollow man with a hollow promise that was the weapon around which my operation and countless others were to be turned inside out. While you were battling your way off that train—while the whole zone contorted in the grip of God knows how many hacks—while incidents went down all over the Earth-Moon system and God knows how much meat came within reach of God knows how much mouth: I became prey myself. A federal sting. Or at least what looked like one. They surrounded the block where I was. Seventy floors of data storage, and they knew I was in one of the tanks. They had me triangulated. They severed the streets. They cut the power. They cut the lines so I couldn’t escape. My backup generators sustained me. They sent their soldiers in. They went from room to room. They closed in on me.”
“I knew none of this,” says Linehan.
“How would you? It was just me. I waited. I bided my time. Such as it was. I let them eliminate possibilities. Let them narrow down their options. And all the while I waited for my moment. It came the way it always does. Through their assumptions. A luxury the trapped can’t afford. They thought I hadn’t broken their tactical codes. Nor were they wrong. But I was swimming through that traffic even as those boots sounded all around me. I was staying on top of their frequencies even as they shifted. I was listening. And suddenly I understood. I broke their code. I broke into one of the suits. The man inside never knew. His medical dispenser dished out a lethal dose. He died. But it was as if he was still there. His vital signs were online for all to see. It was child’s play to replicate them. It was nothing to steer that suit to one particular tank and tap in. A physical conduit was established. The main body of my mind crossed over in one swift download.”
Control goes silent. Spencer feels himself to be at the very edge of all maps. He feels that one more step might be all it takes to damn him forever. He feels everything’s riding on one more word.
And then Control continues:
“I stumbled from the scene of my ultimate transaction while my consciousness fought for survival. The software in that suit was good. But it was intended for a single infantryman. It wasn’t enough to house the likes of me. I sent parts of myself into dormancy, threw them over the side of my awareness like so much ballast. I shut down all noncritical components of that suit, took up every unit of real space myself. And, even as I did so, I walked past my hunters. They thought they were gazing at their own. They never knew what had taken place behind that visor. I carried the corpse in that shell all the way out. I reached the unbroken zone. I hurled myself into the immense. I left that suit behind. I hid. You called. I’m talking to you now. And now, Linehan, you are going to tell me exactly who you are. Lest I sign off and leave you in the lurch forever.”
“I’m U.S. Space Command,” says Linehan.
“I suspected as much,” says Control.
“I was assigned to down the Elevator.”
“Go on,” says Control.
“We sought to use the Rain to do that.”
“Why?”
“I was never told the why. I didn’t need it. All I needed was the how. It was textbook black-ops. We were ordered to arm some no-name terrorist group that we were told had been watched by us for years. No-name patsies based in HK. They already had the nukes. All they needed was the codes. The ones we turned over. Even as they hit the Elevator we were hitting them in their bases. But they’d already cleaned out. They were ghosts, Control. And then they hit my team and left me running.”
“Just you?” Control’s voice is several thousand klicks away. But the breath of that mouth might as well be drifting right before the ones who listen.
“No,” says Linehan, and now the tears are running down his face. “Not just me. Three others. We fled back within the walls of America. It was the worst thing we could have done. Our own side was on us like we were dogs. Dogs who knew too much.”
“So you went rogue,” says Control.
“And realized that’
s all we’d ever been. We’d been set up every which way from the start. And those who we’d thought were dead had taken on new life and gone on the lam once more. Even as our own side sought to take us out. I’m a soldier, Control. So are you. You know what soldiers do, Control. They obey their goddamn orders. Even if they don’t know who’s giving them. Even if they start to suspect that the chains that bind them back to heaven have been broken. That someone somewhere up above them is off the fucking leash. By the time we woke up it was far too late. I ditched the ones I ran with. I let them stumble on toward Kennedy. Maybe I lost my nerve. Maybe I was putting them forth as bait. All I know is that they died and I lived. That I’ve been pursued by my own kind through the basement of Atlantic. That I sought to use Autumn Rain. That I was spat out by them instead.”
“But not before you met them,” says Control.
Linehan starts to speak. And stops. His eyes dart to the corners of the room. His voice dies to a whisper.
“I didn’t even realize it was them at first. There was a man. There was a woman. We sat in a bar in Hong Kong and drank. We gave them downloads. But maybe they downloaded something into me. Because they’ve been swelling in my mind ever since. They’re demons. They’re aliens. I don’t know what the fuck they are. They’re ambitious beyond belief. There’s nothing they don’t want. They’ve played us all and I don’t even know what to call their game.”
“Save that it involves gaming you even now.”
“Save me,” begs Linehan. “Save us all. I don’t know what they’ve put in my head. All I know is that I’ve got to get out. And you’ve got to fucking help me.”
“Even when you’ve just admitted that you’re poison?”
“You’ve always known what I was, Control. You know that doesn’t matter. Get me though that border and you’ll get your chance to find out all the things I don’t even know I know. You’ll get your chance to find out if the Rain themselves are stalking me. And to see who else might be crazy enough to try. You know you can’t resist it. I know you far too well.”
“Then I need hardly tell you I’m going to talk to Spencer,” says Control. The voice cuts out.
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