“Are we being sent into Eurasian lunar territory?” asks Haskell.
“We’ll know that by the time you get there. But you might meet Eurasians anywhere. They have a way of getting where they’re not supposed to. Item five. Autumn Rain themselves. They may be somebody’s front or they may be autonomous. They possesses warheads, delivery vehicles, and an ability to strike high-profile targets. The question now is whether they can hit secure targets too. In retrospect, the Elevator was pretty vulnerable. Given that we had to trust the Eurasians and all that. The real targets are more criticaclass="underline" our inner enclaves, our fortresses, our fleets. And, as I mentioned, the Throne itself. Press any of us hard enough, and we’ll admit we have no idea as to the real extent of the Rain’s capabilities. Only a second strike can shed more light on the matter. And our lunar bases are all prime candidates for such a strike. But if you’re going to stop the Rain, you’re going to have to know the Moon inside and out. Do you know what it is that I found most disquieting about that place?”
The question comes out of nowhere, catches Marlowe and Haskell off guard. They aren’t even sure they’re expected to answer. They stare at him, but he’s not looking at them. He’s just gazing out that window.
“The color,” he says. “We imported all of it. It wasn’t there before us. It’s scarcely there now. Glare and black comprise that sky. Endless greys make up that ground. It’s a fraction the size of Earth. It seemed so much vaster. Even with that shoved-up horizon. Perhaps because it was such utter desert. Such endless mountains. Such a way to go, too: you carry that oxygen on your back like it’s some kind of god. The kind that dwindles as you worship. You measure all distances with that air: how far, how long, how much. How many times I wondered if I’d ever make it back. How many times I wished I hadn’t.”
“Seems strange that they’d make such a habit of putting an envoy in such danger,” says Marlowe.
“But I wasn’t an envoy then,” says Morat, turning back to face them. “I was like you. Don’t you see? I’m not the one that rewards loyalty. I’m what we offer the loyal. Promotion for those who can stick with it. Graduation from the endless runs. I’m real. I’m not just some blurry creature half-remembered from your sleep. I was like you once. I still am.”
“Is that a fact,” says Haskell.
“It is,” says Morat. “And sarcasm never did become you, Claire. I offer you sincerity and you meet it with a cynic’s tongue. How imaginative. We’re not so different, you and I. A decade ago, I rode my prime. I was as perfect as I’ll ever be. I fought our battles on the Moon, in space, on Earth, beneath the waves. I was Sinclair’s go-to man. I know how strange it is to have one of my number stand before you and confess these things. But what you don’t know is how much I envy you.”
“That’s bullshit,” says Haskell.
“Is it now,” says Morat.
“Of course it is,” says Haskell, and it’s as though something in her is finally giving way. Her voice is rising now. “So you made it. So you lived. So fucking what? You sit there and you reminisce, and you expect me to be empathetic? I don’t care what you’ve been through. I don’t care what your life’s been like. You’ve just told me that I’ve got no future save becoming you, and now you ask me for my sympathy? Are you insane?”
“Easy,” says Marlowe. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Let her finish, Jason,” says Morat. “It’s important that she says the things she’s never dared to. It’s one thing to confide it within reach of a microphone or rant it through the canyons of the sleep. It’s quite another to put it to a waking face. Past that anger, and I promise she’ll be as flawless as I once was.”
“What kind of game are you playing?” asks Marlowe.
“I’ll tell you what kind of game he’s playing,” says Haskell. “He’s playing the game that everybody plays when they get a rung above you on the ladder. The game of spitting on those who stand where you once stood. The game of false nostalgia. But don’t get carried away, Morat. You haven’t climbed above the point where you don’t have to deal with the likes of us directly. You’re not so exalted that you can never leave your bunker. Face it, Morat: you’re not a handler. You can’t sit at the old man’s feet just yet.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” says Morat. “Where else could I gaze at the likes of you but out in the shit of the field?”
She extends her middle finger.
“Item six,” says Morat. “The president has made it clear to Sinclair that he’s counting on him to eliminate the Rain. We’re going to hit them before they strike again. If that means this whole thing is over before you reach the Moon, so be it. We’ll just have to take the chance. There may be nothing but mop-up by the time you get there. I hope you can handle such knowledge.”
“I’m sure we can,” says Marlowe.
“Good,” says Morat. “Because I’m not sure I could. Think of it—the most dangerous foe we’ve ever faced, and you don’t even get to face it? The critical hour comes and you’re caught in transit? History passes you by, leaving you watching it receding? I stand in awe at your detachment.”
“In which case maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a runner after all,” says Haskell. “If you ever were one. We’re not hell-bent on action. We’re just doing what the old man tells us. If you’re to be his mouthpiece, then so be it. I’ll accept that. But adventure’s not something I seek. Still less history. Get with it man—don’t you know what year it is? Don’t you know we’ve figured history out? She’s nothing but a whore. She spreads her legs for the strongest. You want to be her backdoor man? Fine. Me, I couldn’t give a fuck.”
“Exactly,” says Morat. He nods approvingly. “Very good. No better attitude upon which to launch a run.”
His head dips slightly. His eyes lose a fraction of their focus—or rather, seem to focus somewhere within him.
Though only for a moment.
“And now I take my leave. This time for good. Let me offer up some final thoughts. Claire: the lunar portion of our zone is different. It moves just as fast. But it was built by those who were much lighter. Who weren’t quite as weighed down. It shows in its design. Remember that. Jason: your bullets move even faster. But hand-to-hand is different. Keep solids close at hand for bracing. Keep your air away from others’ hands. Keep on cutting until you leave the lungs of others nothing upon which to feed.”
He pauses. He looks them up and down. He smiles. He turns toward the door. It opens to receive him. He starts on through.
“We know this,” says Marlowe suddenly.
Morat stops. He stands in the doorway. “Excuse me?”
“What you just said: we know it. We’ve had the training. And I’ve been in space before.”
“Yes,” says Morat, “but never when so much depends on it.”
He leaves them without looking back.
Two men conversing within a suit of armor. One man’s physically present.