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.