“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.
And resumes inside Spencer’s head.
“Spencer,” it says, “this will be our last conversation.”
“What do you mean?”
“My ability to inflect this situation is approaching its limits. As is the risk to my position.”
“The risk to your position? And mine—”
“Has never been stronger. How much higher can a pawn get than to be the object of so much attention? What could be better than knowing that I’m going to wind you up for one last try?”
“And while I run you’re going to watch.”
“And while I watch you’re going to blame me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But now I need you to focus on the larger picture. A major power struggle is going down in the Inner Cabinet. CICom has been dismembered. Something’s stirring in the depths of SpaceCom. This man is just one fugitive among many now. So join the ranks of the refugees, Spencer. It’s time to travel rough. You made it through the southern tunnels. You’re sitting in the city they call Belem-Macapa. You’re ready to make the run straight up that river.”
“What else would you suggest?”
“I wouldn’t. I’d take it all the way.”
“The Latin run.”
“Exactly. Go west along the Amazon and then turn south. At this point it’s probably the only hope you have.”
“Upriver’s insanity, Control. If even half the stories are true—”
“All the better for you if they are. It’s all in the map that’s hitting you now. Along with the numbers of some neutral bank accounts. My last gifts to you.”
“And you’re really cutting contact with me.”
“Only way to play this, Spencer. Whatever happens, I’m all we’ve got in here. I like you, Spencer. But like’s not the same as programming.”
“You can say that again,” says Spencer.
“Try to remember that I’m here forever. Or until they bring me to bay for good. That I’m more than sworn to postpone that day as long as possible. As I said, one conversation more. This one. And this is the end between us.”
“Why are you rationalizing this?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to focus you one last time. Don’t look backward. Only forward. Now go.”
The connection terminates. Spencer rips the jack out of his head, tears the wires out of the wall. He shoves past Linehan. He staggers over to the window, presses his face up against the plastic. He exhales.
“So what else did your imaginary friend have to say,” says Linehan.
“He’s not my friend,” says Spencer. “He never was.”
“It’s an overrated concept anyway,” says Linehan.
But what’s not overrated is your first sight of Congreve. The first city built by man never to know the Earth—the city above which false stars cluster into strange zodiacs that denote the fleet that sits sixty thousand klicks out. Somewhere in those swarms are the SpaceCom flagships. Somewhere in that city two men gaze out a window.
“Nice place you got here,” says the Operative.
“I know,” replies Sarmax.
The geometry of off-world rooftops stretches before them. Distant mountains loom through a translucent dome. The sky’s alive with lights. Shadows play within the darkened room.
“Lot of activity,” says the Operative.
“Yes,” replies Sarmax.
“They’re moving onto war footing.”
“After major incidents in two oceans, they have to.” Sarmax turns from the window. The curtains swing shut behind him even as the interior lights come up. The room thus revealed is ornately furnished. A crystal globe of the Moon sits within one corner. Sarmax walks to it. Regards it. Shrugs.
“We have to assume free agency,” he adds. “Until we can prove otherwise, we have to assume that those who are supposed to be in control still are. The East has reason enough to hate us already. Lord knows we’ve got enough reasons to hate them.”
“But all that’s just context,” says the Operative.
“Right. It’s all just context. One that the new players are exploiting. We have to remember who we’re dealing with. They aren’t just assassins. They’re takeover artists. They burrow from within. We have to assume that as soon as they succeed in either East or West, they’ll initiate a preemptive strike—if they come to the conclusion they’re not going to be able to pull off a doubleheader.”
“The worst case of all,” says the Operative.
“Believe it. They may be able to do this quietly. They may not need war at all.”
“But they’ve got far too many reasons to press for it.”
“Meaning what?”
The Operative stares. “Come on, Leo.”
“I want you to say it.”
“Okay,” says the Operative. “I’ll say it. Everything they’ve done is calculated to drive up tension. Why else down the Elevator? Now neither side can trust the other. Talk about taking an axe to détente. And whatever it was they wanted in that spaceplane—they did it in a way that winds the noose ever tighter. They know what they’re doing.”
Sarmax twirls the globe absently. “That’s what concerns me most. They’ve learned new tricks. They’ve developed an uncanny talent for street theater that frankly scares me shitless. They’re using it to drive the world toward the brink. Which makes it even easier for someone who’s got the moves to creep in toward the center. All those alerts, all those special clearances, all those doors being slammed shut: to a world-class infiltrator, those things are just goddamn tools. The closer to the edge the world gets, the more the Rain enable the very conditions that will underpin their triumph.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“You’re going to do what your boss told you. Hit the speakeasies. And I’m going to start some transactions you can keep an eye on.”