“Doesn’t that bug either of you? Just a little?”
“Why should it?” says Lynx. “They’re clearly pulling the strings. Matthias may or may not know that. But like I just said: it doesn’t really matter.”
“What you’ve got to understand is that you don’t track the Rain, Carson.” Sarmax has picked up his shotgun, is checking it for damage. “You track their proxies. You infer their existence from the shadows they cast. I don’t know if they have an active presence beneath Nansen—but there’s undoubtedly an active conduit. All we need to do is get in there and find it.”
“That’s a bit of a leap,” mutters the Operative.
“At this stage of the game you either make them or you go under,” says Lynx. “Besides, we know something’s going on there. Something that we’ve got to stop. You got a better plan—feel free to name it. But I say we activate the old team for one more ride.”
“We already have,” says Sarmax. “It was the East when last we met. Now it’s the Rain.”
“And our own side,” says the Operative. “Do we have a plan of operations?”
“I’d like to propose one,” replies Lynx.
“Let’s hear it,” says Sarmax.
“Well,” says Lynx, “it’s like this.”
* * *
T hey’re closing in on the center of the Flats, fighting their way through all manner of shit to get there. They’ve figured out how to get the edge on everything that moves. And whatever doesn’t no longer matters.
It’s tearing Haskell’s soul to pieces all the same. She doesn’t know how the Manilishi was programmed. She has no idea what was in its file. All she knows is that when AIs go rogue they often decide they’re a damn sight better than the flesh that created them. And when such AIs possess emotional circuits as well, things can get ugly fast.
Things in Seleucus have gotten about as ugly as they can get. The Manilishi has sealed the borders of the sector and turned the infrastructure against the inhabitants. It gained control of those inhabitants who possessed software in abundance, set them up as their neighbors’ executioners.
And the rest of the city could give two shits.
“They’ve all got bigger fish to fry,” says Marlowe.
“What have we unleashed?” says Haskell.
They’re standing on the edge of a market arcade, looking down on more bodies. Some have been run over by out-of-control vehicles. Some have been shot. People lie locked together where they’ve fallen. Some have driven knives into their own hearts.
“I’d have done the same,” she says.
“I wouldn’t,” says Marlowe. “I’d have fought.”
“Against what?”
“Everything.”
“You wouldn’t have stood a chance, Jason. Your own software would have betrayed you. You’d have had no warning before your eyes melted or your chest blew out. That’s what would happen if I weren’t here to shield us.”
“I’d have fought,” he repeats.
They’re halfway though the arcade when more of the damned break cover. One household robot and two people too wired for their own good. One of the latter’s already wounded—she drags behind while the others race in, get shot down. Marlowe and Haskell turn their guns upon the woman.
“Stop,” screams Haskell.
“Save your breath,” says Marlowe.
He fires, smashing the woman off her feet. She falls on her back, legs kicking. They move past her thrashing flesh. They move out of the arcade and cross through more corridors. They shortcut through empty residences, walk past scenes where whole families have tortured each other to death. Haskell tries to tune it all out. She figures she’s more likely to live longer if she can.
“How much farther?” asks Marlowe.
“We’re almost there.”
They’ve come out onto an enclosed street at the end of which is the temple. The roof above it is the epitome of ornate. The gates on either side lie open. No bodies are in evidence now.
“That’s where it is,” says Haskell.
“So now what? We just walk in?”
“It knows we’re here. We know it’s there. Why the hell not?”
They stride between the open gates and into the temple. The corridors within are bereft of light. There’s no electricity. There’s no zone either, though it was there a moment ago. And it’s still live outside the temple. Haskell can see it dimly, like light through some distant prism. Which can only mean they’ve entered the Manilishi’s domain. They’re right on top of what they’re seeking. They turn a corner and find themselves approaching walls lined with candles.
Something suddenly comes alive in the zone all around them. Haskell feels it enveloping them: she feints, buys herself a moment, reconstitutes her and Marlowe’s shields as the vise closes. She gets in under its guard, turns it back. The inner sanctum of the temple lies straight ahead.
“That’s where it is,” she says on the one-to-one.
“Ten meters,” he replies.
They reach the end of the corridor. They reach a doorway. Marlowe hurls a concussion bomb inside. It practically takes out their eardrums.
They rush within.
T hey’re making all the haste the terrain will allow them. Which isn’t much. Linehan’s gazing down thousands of meters. Spencer’s right up against the side of mountain. The whiteness encloses them on virtually all sides now. They can’t see the top of any of the mountains.
“It’s almost on us,” says Linehan.
Spencer doesn’t reply. He’s maneuvering along a road so narrow it can barely contain his wheels. He’s starting to wonder if he made a wrong turn—if he’s going to have to go through this in reverse too. He rounds another corner.
Only to find that the road forks. One route continues along the mountainside. The other follows an outcropping that juts into the valley below—and continues across that valley in the form of a very unstable-looking bridge that ends in a tunnel. Spencer starts heading for it.
“You sure about this?” says Linehan.
“Not even vaguely.”
“That thing is made of fucking rope.”
“If you want to get out and lighten the load, feel free.”
The truck dips alarmingly as it trundles down the bridge—shifts gears as it powers its way up the other side and into the tunnel. Spencer switches on the headlights while they traverse its length—and then they emerge onto the other side and onto another bridge. Only this one’s a little more stable. It ends in another tunnel. As they emerge from that tunnel and onto yet another bridge snow flurries start to swirl around them.
Two bridges later and the flurries are trending toward near-total white. They creep along another mountainside.
“Glad we found that fork before this hit,” says Spencer.
“We’ve almost reached the unoccupied territories,” says Linehan. “The border’s ten klicks away. Shouldn’t we be talking strategy?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“I’m figuring we’re not just going to show passports and get waved across.”
“We don’t have passports, Linehan. Hate to break it to you, but all we are now is Andean peasants. One of the few forms of life remaining that’s not keyed to IDs in some database.”
“Database be damned,” snarls Linehan. “They don’t need databases when they have all of space to watch you. Every road that leads south is scanned, and you know it. So how are we going to get across that border?”
“We’re going to start,” says Spencer, “by not falling off a fucking cliff. Get out and walk ahead of me.”
“What?”
“At least that way I’ll be able to see something.”
Linehan opens the door, practically disappears into the white—and then his bulk reappears in front of the truck. He trudges forward. Spencer trundles after him, lets the map of this section of the mountains unfold in his head. The map’s the aggregation of more payoffs than he ever thought he’d have to make. And knowing what map he’d need was the aggregation of even more.