“Nor do I need to,” says the man.
In the bunkers beneath Nansen there’s a room. In that room a man’s gazing at a screen. The man upon that screen wears the insignia of a SpaceCom general. He looks like he’s lived life too long beyond the bounds of gravity. His face is sunken. What’s left of his hair is almost white.
“I’m Anton Matthias,” says the man.
The Operative looks at him. “Yeah?”
“You’re the Praetorian who caused us so much trouble.”
“And you’re the traitor who’s still causing it.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” says Matthias.
“You got another?”
“The real traitor’s the Throne,” says Matthias. “For thinking that he could do a deal with the East. For succumbing to the poison called détente.”
“And for daring to purge the poison within Space Command?”
But Matthias only laughs.
“Why the fuck am I still alive?” asks the Operative.
“What if I said it was because I can still use you?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit. I serve the Throne.”
“Carson: in about ten minutes there’s not going to be a Throne. You’re one of the best agents operational. We’re going to have need of people like you in the days to come.”
“That makes no sense. If you had any sense, you’d kill me now. Seriously—why are you keeping me alive?”
“Why don’t you take me at face value?”
“What happened to the rest of my team?”
“They sold you down the river.”
T he control center of SeaMech #58 of the late Indian Republic is a large circular room. The central floor of that room is sunken. The walls of that lowered chamber are lined with darkened screens. Morat walks Haskell and Marlowe to the top of the steps, sits cross-legged there while they walk down toward the bottom.
Two figures stand there. A woman and a man. Haskell remembers both of them. She wants to cry. But instead she just stops at the foot of the steps.
Marlowe doesn’t. He keeps going, embraces them both. Both are weeping. Marlowe turns back toward Haskell. She can see he’s shaking.
So is she.
“Oh fuck,” she whispers.
“Yes,” says the woman. “It’s us.”
“I’ve missed you both so much,” Haskell mumbles. Her knees feel weak beneath her. Her eyes burn as she blinks back tears. She feels the past swinging in upon her—long-ago days of sunlight, nights set adrift upon the wash of time. She feels her heart overflowing: reeling at those memories awoken, seeing that flesh brought back to life before her….
“You never left our hearts,” says the woman.
“But we lost you all the same,” says the man.
“You’re the ones who’re lost,” says Haskell. They gaze at her. They don’t say anything. “You—you killed thousands when you blew that Elevator. You’ve turned this city into a fucking slaughterhouse.”
“Claire,” says Marlowe. “Wait a second.”
She looks at him.
“I think we need to hear their reason why,” he says.
“Whose side are you on?” she asks.
He looks confused. “Yours,” he replies.
“By definition,” says Morat. “He’s in love with you.”
She whirls then, practically spits up toward Morat’s face: “You prick! Stop fucking with our heads!”
“Morat answers to us,” says the man. “And as for you and Jason: we’d never tamper with our own. All we’ve done is remind you of what really happened.”
“Yeah?” Haskell looks scornful. “Seems like everybody’s got their own version of that.”
“Meaning what?” asks Marlowe.
“Meaning how the fuck are we supposed to know the latest thing to hit our heads is real! Jesus fucking Christ, Jason. We’ve been skullfucked again and again and again and now you want to say this is fucking different?”
“Of course it’s different,” says Marlowe. “It really happened.”
“So let them prove it!”
“Trust your heart,” says the woman. “You’re one of us. We wouldn’t have brought you here if you weren’t.”
Haskell looks at her. Her hair’s dirty blond. Strands of it hang across her face. But she still looks all too like the child that Haskell remembers.
“You used to wear your hair so short,” says Haskell. Her voice catches. She can barely hold back the tears now.
“Times change, Claire.”
“And now you’re massacring city sectors.”
“You had to be convinced you were dealing with a rogue AI. Believe me, we could have done far worse.”
“So it’s you who’s in charge of this?”
“We’re all in charge, Claire. What we’ve done in HK, what we did to that Elevator, what we’re about to do to the world: the responsibility is ours.”
“I’ll say,” says Haskell.
“We had to seize it,” says the man. “It was either that or keep on running from people who had bred us to kill only to decide it was us who needed killing.”
“You’re part of this,” says the woman. “Don’t deny it. We’re back from the dead. And now we’re going to show the world a whole new way to fight.”
“So watch the dance of the puppets,” says Morat.
The screens light up all along the walls.
T ime on the edge of nothing. Time to churn up shapes that flit through shadow. Time since they dosed you: more than eighty minutes. Time you started seeing…
“You gaze upon Paynal, Spencer. The living incarnation of the lightning. The messenger of the Hummingbird that men call Huitzilopochtli and that your people will know as the instrument of their destruction.”
“Fuck,” says Linehan suddenly. He’s laughing like a crazy man. He’s laughing like he’s on the ayahuasca too. “Listen cat-man: this man works for a low-rent gang of data thieves called Priam. Bunch of mercenaries looking to make a buck. He’s got nothing to do with anything you’re talking about.”
“But he does,” says Paynal. “Has the little death granted you no insight? This man you call Spencer works for the ones you call Information Command. The handler you call Control works for Stephanie Montrose. Who reports directly to that monstrosity you call your Throne.”
Linehan stares at him. Then he swivels his head in Spencer’s direction.
“Goddamn you, Spencer. Is this maniac right?”
“I don’t know,” mutters Spencer. “I don’t fucking know.”
“There was a time when all the men and women under heaven knew their own names,” says Paynal. “Now we live in a world where faces are shadows and mirrors treachery. A world where humans are sundered from their pasts. It was to prolong such a world that this man was set like a snare to lie in wait for the last survivor of a wayward team running from their SpaceCom masters. A snare set by the vultures of InfoCom. Spencer’s leaders put him in your path, Linehan. They sought to dangle bait that would attract the Rain themselves. But how were they to know how adept our claws are at slipping flesh from hooks? Now we have the living proof of how the Yanquis themselves brought down their own edifice. This man Linehan has already made a full confession. Soon we shall broadcast his statement to the world.”
“And while you’re at it,” snarls Spencer, “make sure to tell them how much you’re loving Autumn Rain’s cock. How all you’ve got to offer is more bloodshed and more butchery.”
But Paynal just smiles. “Blood will flow like our Amazon used to before we attain the peace we seek. But the Rain don’t rule us. We treat with them as equals. And tonight we’ll rise to heights your people never dreamt of. Heralded by our releasing your souls to beg the gods to grant victory to the greatest missile strike ever undertaken. We’ll expend ten times the munitions we flung from our cities three days ago. We’ll fire from our hidden bases all along the Andes. We’ll pound hell into the ocean. We’ll smash the Yanquis’ low-orbit facilities into oblivion.”