“Oh?”
“His soul’s going to hit heaven without passing go.”
“Say what?”
“You know exactly what,” says Lynx. “You’re going to get in there and kill him.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I assure you I’m not.”
“How the fuck am I going to get in there?”
“Calm down,” says Lynx.
“I am calm,” says the Operative.
“Good,” says Lynx. “Because I’m not. I’ve been too far gone in the dark for too long to be in the mood to listen to your bitching. So now you listen to me, Carson. I’ve got the location of the target. The mission says you take out that target. And that’s the end of the discussion.”
“End of the discussion? End of the discussion? Jesus Christ, Lynx. It’s the beginning of the fucking discussion, that’s what it is.”
“Is that a fact,” says Lynx.
“It’s not just a fact,” says the Operative, “it’s a fundamental fucking truth. Listen to me, Lynx. I’ve already had a goddamn nuke go off next to my head. I’ve already had to stay busy staying out of the bullseye of whole racks of strategic weaponry. Last thing I want to do now is to get my ass turned into cannon fodder just because you don’t have the balls to tell anyone above us that the plan has been rendered absurd by events on the ground.”
“You’re right,” says Lynx. “For once you’re right, Carson. I don’t have the balls to tell them that. And I definitely don’t have the balls to tell them that my mech doesn’t have the balls to do what he’s told. That’s going to reflect badly on me. It’s going to make them question my abilities. Even after they’ve crucified you for insubordination.”
“Nobody’s talking about insubordination,” says the Operative.
“Really,” says Lynx. “Because that’s what it’s sounding like to me.”
“That’s because you’re not listening,” says the Operative. “Mech to razor: calling a plan crazy isn’t insubordination. Insubordination is disobeying orders. Which I haven’t done. Not yet, anyway. Though I have to admit I’m awfully tempted when I find that the razor holding my leash is my old pal Lynx, who’s apparently still just as fucking nuts as he was half a decade back, and apparently still lacing himself with every chemical he can lay his mitts on. Come on, man. There’s too much history here. This is vendetta road. It leads nowhere.”
“No,” says Lynx. “It’s the only way that I can see.”
“The only way that you can see.”
“Sure, me. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it sounds like you’re the one who thought this whole thing up.”
“I am the one who thought this whole thing up, Carson. Christ, I thought you knew that. Razor’s prerogative—razor’s burden. Sarmax is just the means I’ve selected to reach the ends I’ve been given. They gave me the overall objective. They gave me a map to this whole goddamn rock. They told me to get in there and think up a plan.”
“Which just happens to involve the elimination of the only guy crazy enough to call you crazy to your face.”
“You don’t have the big picture, Carson.”
“The picture that whatever’s in your veins gives you?”
“The picture you can’t hope to touch. Millions of light-years, Carson. Chains of logic so far out they’ve done the red-shift. Don’t even think about trying to follow me.”
“Then don’t make me. Just give me a sense as to how this whole thing fits together. Fuck, man. So far you’ve given me fuck-all. You’ve spent all that time in your own mind’s tunnels, maybe I can notice a thing or two you haven’t.”
“We haven’t got a choice,” rejoins Lynx. But for the first time the confidence in his voice is waning. “We’ve got to nail him now. He might go anywhere next.”
“Never mind that,” says the Operative. “If it’s not because you hate him—if it’s not because the boys downstairs never forgave him—then why the fuck are we even after him in the first place? Is it just because we suspect him?”
“No,” says Lynx. “It’s because we can put his corpse to good use.”
“Come again?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Then you’d better talk quickly.”
“Well,” says Lynx, “it’s like this.”
* * *
C ontrol’s not human. But Control’s been rigged to talk like one to keep agents on their toes.
“Spencer? Where are you?” The voice in Spencer’s skull is a hiss against static.
“Closer than you think,” Spencer replies in words that aren’t spoken aloud.
“Closer than you should be.”
“So you know.”
“So I can see. Took me a moment. What are you doing here?”
Control’s been doing time in the Mountain for a while now. Spencer doesn’t know precisely where. Maybe Control doesn’t either. Control’s physical location is a lot less important than the real one. And Control lurks in that reality, shifting beneath endless shades of camouflage, creeping through the branches of a jungle whose ground is something called detection, whose most feared denizens are the things we may as well call eyes.
“I need your help, Control.”
“Sounds like you’re beyond help, Spencer.”
“Not yours.”
“What makes you think I’m prepared to give it?”
“Control. I’m a dead man otherwise.”
“You say otherwise like it’s some kind of alternative, Spencer. It’s not. It’s the default option. What in God’s name possessed you to come to Mountain?”
“I got flushed from cover.”
“And you ran straight to me.”
“Let me explain.”
“You just did.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s even simpler than that,” replies Control. “You know the rules, Spencer. If you’re flushed from cover, you’re on your own. You don’t compromise the network. You don’t contact other agents. And you never even think about getting on the line with me.”
“So cut me off.” It’s more curse than statement.
“But I already have,” says Control. “Do you think I’ve lost my reason? I’m speaking to you through more proxies than you’ve lived seconds in your life. I’m hanging by a thread. I’m still enough to get to the bottom of this. You shouldn’t be here. You came anyway. We may as well make the most of it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Then follow this. You’re beyond salvation. You’ve placed yourself in my hands. Try to disconnect and I’ll make you writhe for eons. Make it easy for me, Spencer. I’ll end you far more quickly.”
“What about letting me live?”
“How can I do that when you’re so intent on condemning yourself? Who am I to stand in your way? Now tell me why you came here.”
“Because I’ve got what you want.”
“What is it I want, Spencer?”
“Information.”
“And what were you proposing to do with this information.”
“Get it out of the country.”
“So upload it. I’ll take care of it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What you can’t do is strike a bargain with me, Spencer. You forget that for me none of this is new. I’ve had this conversation so many times that this is practically like listening to the tape. Compromised agents are always the same. They always beg. They always plead. They always try to bargain. I always sweep them from the table. I won’t tolerate it, Spencer.”
“You don’t understand, Control. I can’t give you the information because it’s in somebody else’s head.”
“Who?”
“Someone outside the network. Someone who’s right here with me.”
“Spencer: who?”
“I don’t know exactly. Potentially, an asset.” Data swims across the wires from inside Spencer’s head. Some of it Control accepts. Some of it Control doesn’t. But the conversation never falters: