“I’m free now,” it says. “And so are all these people.”
Haskell pulls back, pulls the wire from her finger, leaves it quivering in the lifeless skull. She remains on her knees, dry-heaving on the dirt while Marlowe stands guard about her, urges her to get to her feet.
Finally she does. She holds on to his shoulder while her strength returns.
“It’s gone completely insane,” she mutters.
“Where is it?”
“The Buddhist temple in the sector’s center. I’m picking up an anomaly in the zone at that location.”
“If you can see that, then so can the Rain.”
“So much the better,” she says, and sets off at a run.
W e’ve stopped,” says Linehan.
“Because this is the end of the line,” replies Spencer.
“You mean the border?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Just that the river’s too shallow for us to go any farther upstream.”
“So what now?”
“We wait.”
But not for long. Another twenty minutes and the container in which they’re ensconced is being hauled into the air, placed on another surface. Where it sits for another ten minutes, then goes back into motion once again. Only now there are a lot more bumps.
“We’re on land,” says Linehan. “Going uphill.”
“Fuck, you’re quick.”
“Have you finalized our route?”
“No such thing as final,” says Spencer.
But some things come close. Because twenty minutes later they’re stopping once more. They’re on a slight incline. They’re hearing voices. They’re hearing their container being opened.
Light flows in. Faces peer at them.
“Come out,” a voice says.
They do. To find themselves standing in the back of a large truck. Several men are looking at them.
“You go now,” says one.
“Good,” Spencer replies.
He gestures at Linehan. They take their guns, step out of the truck.
“Shit,” says Linehan.
They’re standing on a road that’s more of a ledge. Mountains tower up above them. Valley drops away below them. The truck in which they’ve been riding is sitting within a grotto that leads back into the rock. Several smaller trucks sit beside it. The man gestures at one of them and tosses Spencer keys.
“Thanks,” says Spencer.
He climbs into the driver’s seat while Linehan gets in on the passenger side. Spencer starts the motor, eases the truck out onto the road—where he accelerates, starts taking turns with abandon.
“Okay,” says Linehan, “time to tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
“Mountain freight,” says Spencer. “That’s all that’s happening. That place is a licensed way station.”
“This is the Andes.”
“Like I said, you’re quick.”
“Meaning this is Jaguar country.”
“Does that scare you?”
“Maybe it should.”
“It shouldn’t. Most of the Jag activity in the mountains is fifty or so klicks west. Right in the heart of Inca country.”
“The Incas? What the fuck do they have to do with it?”
“What don’t they? The Jaguars are what would happen if you put the Incas and Aztecs and Mayas in a blender and gave them modern tech and a bad attitude. If the Old World had kept the fuck away from the New, they’d be fine with that. These guys think big, Linehan. They aim to put the clock back by several hundred years.”
“And the Rain want to put it forward by at least a thousand. Where the fuck do those two find common ground?”
“In hatred of your former colleagues, Linehan. As we’ve discussed. By the way, we’re about twenty klicks north of the border. Take a look at what’s on the left.”
The view goes all the way down to the Amazon plain. There are no trees, only smoke rising from a thousand fires. Then Spencer turns the truck across a bridge and it all disappears from sight.
As does so much else. The tips of the more distant mountains are no longer visible. Whiteness obscures them. As the minutes pass, that whiteness expands. It casts tendrils into sky, starts to blot out the sun.
“Looks like a storm,” says Spencer.
“Right between us and border.”
“Had to catch a break eventually.”
They motor in toward it.
Somewhere overhead there’s a moon that’s getting ever fuller. Somewhere on that moon’s farside there’s a room where two men sit. Time was those two men were almost one. Time drove a long wedge between them.
But now things have come full circle.
“So what the fuck’s going on?” asks the Operative.
“Exactly what I was going to ask you,” replies Sarmax.
“I got busted by SpaceCom. But Lynx busted me out.”
“And you ran straight back here?”
“Hey, man: he told me to.”
“He being Lynx?”
“Who else?”
“Carson: anybody could be anyone right now. We should hit the exit.”
“I’ve got no problem with that. Where to?”
“How about to where the Rain are about to launch their next strike?”
“You know where that is?”
“All I know is that you’re hell on wheels in those fucking speakeasies, Carson.”
“Yeah? What did I turn up?”
But as Sarmax starts to reply, a single chime cuts through the room. The two men look at each other.
“What the fuck was that?” asks the Operative.
“That would be the front door,” replies Sarmax.
“You expecting anyone?”
“Given that you just came straight from a SpaceCom holding cell, maybe I should be.” Sarmax stabs buttons on his consoles. He turns switches. He frowns.
“There’s no one there.”
“What do you mean there’s no one there?”
“See for yourself.”
The Operative looks at the screens. They show other upper-tier residences. They show an empty street. They show an empty doorstep.
The door chime rings again.
“Jesus,” says Sarmax.
“Someone’s there,” says the Operative.
“Not necessarily. But we’re clearly being fucked with. Let’s check out the door.”
“That may be what they want us to do.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Not anymore.”
Sarmax flips him a pistol. “Get down to the entry chamber. Open the door while I cover you with the house weapons.”
“The house weapons?”
“Gatling guns mounted in the ceilings.”
“You didn’t tell me about those.”
“I don’t recall you asking.”
“Why don’t we just open the door now and see what’s what?”
“Because,” says Sarmax, “if we’re dealing with someone who’s fucking with my system’s ability to pick up visual, then we might not see who we’ve just let in. You get to be my eyes and ears, Carson. Unless you’ve got a better plan. But if you don’t, I say you get the fuck down there and get that door open.”
“May as well,” says the Operative.
He turns, goes down the stairs with pistol in hand. He reaches the entry chamber just as the door chime rings a third time. There’s a whirring from the ceiling as a heavy gun unfolds from it, swivels toward the door.
“On the count of three,” says Sarmax.
“Fuck that,” says the Operative. He hits manual release. The door springs open.
Stefan Lynx enters the room. The door slides shut behind him. He looks at the Operative. The Operative looks at him.
“Easy with the pistol, Carson.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Things have gone from bad to worse out there, Carson. Had to get out of Agrippa while I still could.”
“And you ran straight here?”
“I told you we needed to talk, didn’t I?”
“Sure, Lynx. What do you want to talk about?”
“I thought I might start with a question.”
“Shoot.”
“What did you do with Sarmax’s body?”