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 all 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.”
The Operative gets moving. He goes out the door, turns left.
“Lynx.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve had it with this. What are you up to?”
“Telling you to shut up.”
The Operative makes the next left. As he does so, Lynx gives him more directions: a right, another left, a stairway up. More passages. More stairs. He gets stopped on more than one occasion, downloads ID from out of nowhere. He arrives in a garage. He moves to the vehicle Lynx indicates, gets in, drives away into what turns out to be Congreve. A map appears on the dashboard next to him. A route traces through grids.