He pressed his keys into Kalyan’s hand. “My car is the only one on the next street,” he said, nodding to the right. “Go there now and drive away. Don’t return to your hotel. Go to the nearest police station.”
Kalyan had slowly registered the danger of the situation. Now he displayed full panic. “I don’t know how to do this—!”
“Take the keys,” Taj said, in what he hoped was his command voice. “Go to the first car you see, get in, start it, drive away as quickly as you can.”
It worked. Kalyan merely blinked, took the keys, and, without another word, turned and ran off.
Taj pulled his service revolver and headed around the building to the left.
Hebbai Electric Crematorium was not large, though the press of neighboring buildings made it difficult for large formations to circle it.
Taj was waiting when the Aggregate formation came around the corner, two by two, a THE counselor in their midst.
“Who are you?” the counselor said. He was, like all THE, in his twenties. He actually appeared to be nervous.
“A hero of India,” Taj said, training his pistol on the agent. “Stop talking and stop walking.” He found himself distracted by the presence of the Aggregates . . . now a dozen anteater-like beings that came up to his shoulder. These were red and yellow, like characters from a superhero movie, and constantly in motion, each pair taking up a position around Taj that was either for observation or containment. They were not silent, either, but buzzing to each other like giant insects.
Taj kept his pistol aimed at the young man from THE. “I’m going to walk away,” he said. “Please inform your alien associates that I will shoot you if there’s a problem.”
The young man had his hands up in the classic posture. Taj slid to his right, hoping to reach the corner of the next building, so he could turn and run. The fact that he had not run more than two steps in a decade was of minor concern.
At some level of consciousness, he could not believe his situation. Threatened by an entire Aggregate formation in Bangalore? Pursued by body-snatching or grave-robbing criminals allied with India’s military?
Then he remembered his mission to Keanu, and the mix of the impossible and the insane he had experienced in that week, and he was forced to conclude: This was only the second most ridiculous thing he’d done in his life.
He was about to test his running skills when he heard, “General Radhakrishnan! You must stop!”
In truth, he had nowhere to run . . . only an open alley.
He turned and saw Kaushal walking toward him, two Indian Air Force guards at his side . . . two strange men and all three THE agents behind them.
And the Aggregates flanking them all.
“This is no longer your business,” Kaushal said. “We’re here for Sanjay Bhat’s body.”
“You’re too late. It’s been cremated.”
“That’s a disappointment.”
“To you?”
Kaushal grunted. “I’m indifferent.”
“Kaushal, what’s the point of this? The man is dead.”
Kaushal turned toward the others; the humans, all quite agitated, were conferring. The Reivers were arranging themselves in pairs, as if preparing to fan out. “He came from Keanu. Now that you allowed the others to escape, he’s all they have, or had.”
“But for what—?”
“You were there, General! Dead isn’t dead to these people, right?”
“Cremated is dead as far as I’m concerned.”
The civilians and THE types had come to a decision and were already in motion, some heading back to the crematorium, another group heading for Taj, and a third going the opposite way down the alley, toward Taj’s car.
He could not let them catch Kalyan. He had only met the man, their connection was only through the dead brother, the smart move would have been to simply hope he had already gotten away—
Even though Kaushal’s guards had guns on him, Taj suddenly started back down the alley toward his car, reaching for his pistol and shouting, “Stop!”
Ahead of him, a THE counselor and a civilian operative halted, but two pairs of Aggregates kept right on going. Taj fired twice, hitting one of the Reiver anteaters high on its back.
The sight—shards of “skin” flew off the Reiver, which stopped immediately—and sound—like breaking glass—were incredibly satisfying. Taj realized that he had unfinished business with these creatures.
But before he finished that thought, he felt a blow in his right side, a deep punch that staggered him even as he registered a gunshot.
Then he was on the pavement, lying on his side, gasping, hurting. There was tremendous commotion around him—voices, shadows.
The last thing he saw was Kaushal looming over him. The last thing he heard was Kaushal saying, “You idiot.”
FIRST LIGHT
22 APRIL 2040 0001:00 MDT
FIRE LIGHT
09 MAY 2040 0001:00 MDT
TIME TO FIRST LIGHT
23 hours and counting
COUNTDOWN CLOCK AT SITE A
CARBON-143
SITUATION: Carbon-143 returned to her workstation in a state of communal ecstasy. The knowledge that final Fire Light ignition of the Ring transmitter would have negative effects on organic and quasi-organic human life—quite likely resulting in her own destruction—was outweighed by her sense of triumph. She was designed to take satisfaction in working as part of her formation, which had been accomplished by participation in the assault force launch simulation.
She realized she was also experiencing an anomalous jolt of accomplishment combined with guilt due to her independent cybernetic sleuthing. This was a somatic state she was less familiar with. The only element—rather, individual—likely to assist her with an evaluation of this state was Randall Dehm. But encounters with Dehm were unpredictable. It was quite likely this state would pass long before Carbon-143 had an opportunity to disclose it.
Would she remember it? She would have a record of the facts, naturally, but these new somatic episodes were not formally accessible the way data or procedures were.
NARRATIVE: Two hours and nineteen minutes into the next shift, the entire formation received another general message: “Basic systems update. Disengage.”
As one, all twelve elements of the Carbon-143 formation disconnected from the assembly-line equipment and backed away.
Another general message followed: “Resumption of activity anticipated in seven minutes.”
Carbon-143 and the others found themselves with unanticipated and unprogrammed time. On the four occasions this had happened in the past, Carbon-143 had remained on station. Three times she had been able to interact with Dehm, whose workstation was adjacent, and whose systems were usually offline at the same time.
She did not have to wait long. Dehm emerged from the next station, looking troubled. Carbon-143 had no skill at initiating conversation with humans, though she had learned the utility of proximity: If you are in his path, he will speak.
This time the maneuver failed!
“I can’t talk now.”
Dehm rapidly disappeared from the line, leaving Carbon-143 in the position she had assumed, some distance from the other elements, all of them still waiting for the signal to resume activity.
ACTION: She knew she should return to the formation immediately, and turned to execute that maneuver when she found her path blocked by Whit Murray.
“Sorry,” he said. He stepped to his left just as Carbon-143 moved to her right.
They were left in the same position. “Sorry, again,” he said.
Carbon-143’s programming indicated that she should remain where she was, allowing the more mobile and independent organic—Whit Murray—to initiate his own maneuver.
But in the long interval—from her perspective—between accessing that set of commands and initiating them, Carbon-143 realized that Whit had as much potential use as recipient of her information as did Dehm. After all, Dehm had connected them.