“I can get myself across the border,” says Spencer. “What am I supposed to do with you, put you in my fucking luggage?”
“Pack a big enough crate and sure. Listen, Spencer. I don’t care what the plan is, as long as you convince me it’s a good one. It had better be creative, though. It had better be resourceful.”
“And in return?”
“Told you that already. Information.”
“Of what nature?”
“It’s very difficult to explain that without telling you everything.”
“So tell.”
“So no. Your motivation to help me would be at an end.”
“It may be already.”
“I doubt it,” says Linehan. “Listen, Spencer, all I can say for now is that it’s worth it. That it’ll pay off your stint in the States and then some.”
Spencer looks at him. “Does it involve Autumn Rain?”
“Everything that’s anything involves Autumn Rain right now. I’m hardly gonna claim distinction for what I’ve got on that basis.”
“You and everybody else,” says Spencer. “Anyone can say they have something if they don’t have to show a thing. This is nothing. And you’re even less.”
“Easy, Spencer. Easy. I know what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking that if you killed me now, and got inside my head for real, you might be able to keep the feds from learning about you—and learn whatever it is I’ve got cooking. You’re wrong on both counts. First of all, you couldn’t kill me. I’m tougher than I look. Second, even if you beat the odds, you wouldn’t beat the acid that’s gonna nail my brain the moment my blood stops showing up. You wouldn’t salvage a thing. Least of all my codes.”
“You’re thinking I’m thinking a lot.”
“So here’s something else to think about. A present. Just to show you I’m serious.”
“Namely?”
“Namely this.” Linehan reaches into one of his pockets—“Easy,” he says as Spencer tenses. He takes something out, places it on the table. Spencer can see that it’s a chip.
“What’s on it?”
“What’s on it,” says Linehan, “is the production outputs for the United States’ farside mining operations. The real ones, Spencer. Not the ones they publish. Not the ones they claim. The genuine article.”
“If that’s true, that’s worth—”
“A fortune on the neutral markets? For you, it’s free. Check it out, Spencer. See for yourself.”
And Spencer does. He keeps the gun trained on Linehan, picks up the chip as though it will turn hot and burn at any moment. He slots it into a space that suddenly opens in his index finger. He downloads it into secure storage: a part of his software that’s modularized from the rest, thereby allowing him to see the readouts without compromising himself with a download that’s potentially tainted. Numbers stream through his skull. He can’t see if they hold everything that Linehan’s promised.
But he can see enough.
“Alright,” he says. The numbers fade out, replaced by Linehan’s mirthless grin. “Looks like you’ve got something here.”
“More than just something, Spencer. I reckon that little chip will get you most of your remaining distance to the quota Priam’s set for you. Maybe more.”
“You know about the quotas?”
“Of course I know about the quotas. I know they’re all your masters care about. I know your quota’s the difference between your being set up for life in Europe and trapped forever in the States. But what you need to know is that if you play ball with me, no one will ever talk to you about quotas again.”
“Where’d you get this, Linehan?”
“Looking in places I wasn’t supposed to.”
“I’m sure. My answer’s still no.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What more do you want?”
“How about something realistic? Look, you’ve got something going on here. I’m convinced. I’ll do what I can for you. I can get you to the coast. But a border run is something else entirely. It’s hard enough with one. Two would make it suicide.”
“Not if Priam took it seriously.”
“It’s not a question of what Priam takes seriously. It’s a question of ten million klicks of sensors. It’s a question of satellites scanning everything that moves. It’s ocean. How are we going to get you past that?”
“It’s not foolproof. No border is. You know that, Spencer.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Then shoot me now, you listless fuck. Come on and try it. Or how about if I just call the feds and tell them to swing on by and collect us both. Look, am I saying it’s gonna be easy? Fuck no. I’ve lived the life too, Spencer. I’m living it now. That’s how I beat a trail to your door without leaving any fucking footprints. Zone prowess, right? Something I know you know all about. That’s how I’m staying one step ahead of all those hounds.”
“Who do you think is after you?”
“Who isn’t?”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t count. You’re nobody. No offense.”
“And what are you?”
“Already told you what I am. An asset.”
“An asset to what?”
“To you. To your life—let’s hope so. To my life—for sure. I aim to keep on living.”
“And for how long have you been prolonging it?”
“A few thousand klicks and a few score hours.”
“How hard are they looking for you?”
“Hard enough to damn me,” says Linehan.
“And now you’ve damned me too.”
“You gotta admit you’re intrigued, Spencer.”
“Of course I’m intrigued. I’m also fighting the urge to put one straight between your eyes.”
“Spencer, look at it this way. I can appreciate that you haven’t got the warm fuzzies for me. But try to put yourself in my position. Don’t think of this as blackmail. Think of it as a business offer.”
“I’ll think whatever I like.”
“Sure you will. But while you’re at it—keep in mind that what I’m proposing to give you will let you write your own ticket. It’ll catapult Priam to the top of the data-combines. It’ll vault you straight up into Priam’s rafters. Which surely ought to make up for the fact that you don’t have an alternative.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“But have I sold you?”
“More like you’ve sold me out. But I’ll play your game. I’ll take you across the fucking border. I’ll try to take you in one piece too. And then, so help me God, whatever you’ve got had better make the thing worth it.”
“It’s a deal,” says Linehan. “How do you propose we do it?”
“I propose we start by getting ourselves to the Mountain.”
“Which sector?”
“Old Manhattan.”
“Works for me. When do we leave?”
“Now.”
T he ’copter’s been going for a while now. It’s left the Rockies behind. It’s well out over the western desert. Smoke billows far to the northeast. Haskell can’t see it. Marlowe can.
“The prairie fires.”
“Still burning?”
“Still burning.”
“Eight weeks now,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes off her window.
“Every year they flare longer past the summer,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” she replies. She’s still not looking at him.
“I think we should start talking,” he says.
“About.”
“What’s happening.”
“What’s there to talk about.”
“We could start with why he put us together.”
“I presume he has his reasons,” she says.