“You couldn’t win,” he repeats. “Then again: you couldn’t lose. You were fighting your own kind. You were fighting your own nature. But don’t be too hard on yourself. You weren’t to know. And now the time for fighting’s over.”
Haskell exhales slowly. “So the Manilishi was bullshit?”
“Not bullshit,” replies Morat. “A useful fiction.”
“And the Rain?”
“Conceived by Matthew Sinclair shortly after he was appointed by President Andrew Harrison to head up CounterIntelligence Command. Shortly after Harrison took power as the first president under the Reformed Constitution. The first and last, Claire. Because tonight he’s going down. And his Throne is going under.”
She stares at him.
“Autumn Rain,” he repeats. “Conceived by Sinclair and green-lighted by Harrison as the ultimate hit team. Engineered assassins who would be unstoppable. Who would decapitate the Eurasian high command in the first minutes of the next war. Who were bred in the same vat and trained together from birth. Who included among their members a woman called Claire Haskell. And a man called Jason Marlowe.”
“You bastard.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“Where is he?”
“You mean Jason?”
“Yes, damn you!”
“He’s fine.”
“Where is he?”
Morat smiles. A screen appears to the side of the door. It shows a room identical to this one. Marlowe’s sitting in one corner. His eyes are open. His expression’s blank.
“What the fuck have you done with him?” says Haskell.
“The same thing we’ve done with you,” replies Morat. “Restored his memories.”
“He looks like he’s lost his fucking mind.”
“Don’t you feel the same way?”
“Fuck you,” she says. “Tell me about the others.” The ones she didn’t even know she’d forgotten. The ones who are making her realize just how much she’s lost…
“They were marked for death by the president himself. Written off as too great a risk. They got wind of it, chose the path of Lucifer. But the Throne beat them to the punch. And the Praetorians slaughtered them.”
“But failed to finish the job.”
“Indeed. Those who escaped went underground. Where they devised a second coming. A whole new plan.”
“That plan being?”
“You already know it.”
“Oh Christ,” she says. “Oh no. Fuck you.”
“You shouldn’t hate me, Claire. Once I was the envoy who called himself Morat. Now all I am is your humble servant.”
“You mean the Rain’s.”
“They’ve waited for you for so long,” says Morat. “It’s time you went to join them.”
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“You must,” he replies. “Find in yourself that strength.”
He stands up even as the door behind him slides open.
T he door of Spencer’s mind has been ripped from its hinges. They administered the drug they call ayahuasca about an hour ago. They’ve cut him off from zone. Now he’s locked in a room beneath the Andes even as all other locks are withering.
“Fuck,” he says.
Nothing happens. Everything convulses. He feels like he’s being thrust straight through the center of the Earth and clean out the other side. He feels himself catapult out into the universe. The pressure on his chest is growing unbearable. His eyes are like crystals frozen in some everlasting ice.
“Ah fuck,” he says.
The walls of his cell are shimmering. His chains are disappearing. That pressure’s vanishing. Suddenly there’s nothing holding him in place. He can get up. He can stand up. He can flee.
So he does. He moves toward the wall. It seems solid. But he’s not fooled. He can trace a route straight through it. He starts to move out into the living rock.
“Going somewhere?” says a voice.
He doesn’t even need to turn. He can see everything. The door to his cell has opened to the corridor beyond. Two Jaguar soldiers stand there. Neither wears armor. Both are heavily armed.
“Maybe,” he replies.
“We’ve got something for you far better than that wall,” says one of them. The man speaks neither English nor Spanish. But somehow Spencer understands every word anyway. He turns around.
“What are you talking about?”
“A gateway.”
He lets them lead him down that corridor.
The Operative sits in a room. Darkness sits within him. He can’t believe he’s been taken prisoner twice in the same mission. By the same outfit too. Now he’s somewhere in the heart of Nansen. In a loose-fitting grey outfit. There’s no sign of his armor. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He’s not even sure he cares.
A screen’s descending from the ceiling of his cell. It unfolds before him.
A face appears upon it.
A nd now we’re all here,” says Morat.
Ten meters down the corridor from the room in which Haskell awoke: Morat’s just opened the door to another room. Haskell looks inside. Marlowe looks up at her. He smiles weakly.
“Claire,” he says.
She steps within, steps to him. Sits down next to him. Puts her arm around him. Lets her head rest on his shoulder. Tries to talk on wireless.
But can’t.
“As I’m sure you’re figuring out,” says Morat, “we’ve disabled those of your neural links that enable dialogue. Though even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Each of you knows the same as the other.”
Haskell ignores him. She kisses Marlowe on the cheek. “How do you feel?” she asks.
“Like shit,” he says.
“Makes two of us.”
“I remember them all,” he says. “All of them. Iskander and Indigo and Roz and Nils and Miranda and—”
“I know,” she whispers. “I know.” She looks at Morat. “Which of them are still alive?”
“They haven’t told me,” replies Morat.
“You’re lying,” says Haskell.
“It’s not like I need to know.”
“Well, who’s in this base besides us?”
“Some very impatient people.”
“Let them wait a few minutes longer,” she says.
“I want to see them,” says Marlowe.
“You’re right,” replies Haskell. She stands up. “We have to face this.”
S pencer’s being dragged up step after step. What looks like jungle’s far beneath. What looks like sky is far overhead. It looks like this is some kind of simulation. Because as far as he knows he’s still deep underground. The walls around him must be screens. Or else this is all virtual reality. Or the drugs. It scarcely matters. It’s the realest thing he’s ever seen. A sliver of Moon’s stretched amidst the clouds. He’s reaching the pyramid’s roof.
Torches burn at all its corners. Men wearing headdresses stand at intervals along its edges. Spencer’s hauled past them to the raised dais at the roof’s center. An altar rests upon that dais.
As does a throne. A man’s seated upon it. Linehan lies prostrate in chains before him. The man who’s been dragging Spencer throws him down.
“Gaze upon the Great Cat,” he says.
Spencer raises his head to look at the man on the throne. He wears a jaguar skin. Its arms drape down his shoulders. A face stares from between its jaws. A smile slowly appears upon that face.
“So now the one who calls himself Lyle Spencer comes before us,” says the man. “His people are about to perish utterly. They need one who can reach the afterlife before them. One who can bear witness.”
“Who are you?” says Spencer. A guard brings a boot down on his back.
“No,” says the man sharply. “Let him converse freely. The sky’s own finger penetrates his brain. We grant him the privilege of discourse.”
“You’re not getting a thing out of me,” says Spencer.