The other’s just dropping by.
“I didn’t say you were going to like it,” says Lynx.
“You knew damn well I’d hate it,” says the Operative.
“Mechs don’t have to be enamored of the plans they execute.”
“Razors don’t have to make that a prerequisite for the plans they configure.”
“The only prerequisite is that it succeed,” says Lynx. “Given that requirement, I’m hoping that now you can see why I’ve planned it out the way I have.”
“Don’t talk to me of why,” says the Operative. “It connotes reason. It connotes sanity. Your plan’s neither.”
“Deliberately so,” says Lynx. “You want sanity? You won’t find it in this world. I offer you measures precisely tuned to the temper of our times. Look around you, Carson. Look what’s in ascendancy. Everything that’s sane is going under.”
“And you can add me to that list when I initiate this run.”
“Initiate? It’s already been initiated. You’re already in it. You’re two days off Earth, man. You’re hanging off the bottom of the Moon. You’re way too late to back out of it now.”
“It was too late long before it started,” snarls the Operative. “Long before I got here. Long before you snuck into those tunnels with the most convoluted stratagem any razor ever devised brewing in your fucking head. It’s as brilliant as it is mad. Jesus Christ, Lynx. All the players and angles up here, and you really think Sarmax is the key?”
“Not the key,” says Lynx. “The back door.”
“The back door to what?”
“Our salvation.”
“You’re crazy,” says the Operative.
“I’m an artist,” says Lynx. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure. It’s called the need to proclaim it.”
“I’m long past any need,” hisses Lynx. “Save that which my orders stipulate. You know the rules, Carson. We’re on our own up here. We’re left to make our way as best we can. We have so little time. The Rain’s next strike could come at any hour. Think of us as standing in the floodplain, Carson. The only thing that can save us now is high ground.”
“But are you sure that’s what Sarmax’s domain is going to furnish?”
“We’ve got no choice but to take that chance,” says Lynx.
“Not now we don’t,” says the Operative.
“I’m glad you see that.”
“You’ve got me boxed in.”
“Myself as well, Carson. Don’t forget that.”
“But I’m the one who has to get in there and do this.”
“Yes, Carson. You’re the one. As I’ve been saying all along.”
“Don’t think of this as a victory,” says the Operative. His teeth are gritted. His eyes are closed. “I’m going to live through this. I’m going to defy whatever odds are being spat out by your comps. And then—so help me God—I’m going to have a say in the next phase of this abortion of an operation. You reading me, Lynx?”
“Loud and clear,” says Lynx. “But once you’re inside his world, you’ll get it. You’ll understand. You’ll realize just what it is I’ve bought us.”
“I already know,” says the Operative. His voice is weary. “I’m the coin. I’m the instrument of the demise of one of the great ones.”
“Fuck him,” says Lynx. “He outlived his purpose.”
“You mean his purpose is about to outlive him.”
“Tell me what higher calling a man could have.”
“Ours,” says the Operative.
“Exactly,” says Lynx. “And you should thank your lucky stars for that. As I do every day I survive in here. Agrippa Station eats the weak. It crushes the careless. It can’t touch me. They’re probing everywhere, Carson. They’re searching all around my body. Their eyes are never shut. But they can’t see my flesh. They can’t see my mind. They can’t see me. And they won’t see you either. As long as you do exactly what I say.”
“I understand, Lynx.”
“I hope you do, Carson. Believe me, beneath these pointless doubts of yours, I know how eager you are to get out there. To find out if you’ve got what it takes to make that run. To determine if you’ve got the guts to pull that trigger. Out there in those cold hills—it’s all going to blur against your visor. That man: you’ll put him in your crosshairs. You’ll put one through him. You’ll give me access to what he knows. I know you, Carson. I know what makes you tick. Not loyalty. Not faith. Certainly not honor.”
“What then?”
“Being a professional. Obeying orders. Doing your fucking job.”
The voice dies out. Static fills the Operative’s suit. The Operative turns it up to the point that it’s deafening. He lets it roar through him. He roars out curses against Lynx—against the fates, against everything.
And then he whispers to his suit.
T hey sit around. They pace. They sit around some more. It’s not easy to kill time when it’s you who might not survive the seconds’ passing. It’s not easy to ride out the moments when it’s you those moments might soon be rid of. But all you can do is wait. So you do. You resist the booze. You resist the urge to strangle the one you’re with. As for conversation—that’s no temptation. It can only hurt you now. Because there’s nothing left to say. It just comes down to what comes next.
Which turns out to be a beeping noise. It’s emanating from the wall. It’s the line. Spencer picks it up, takes it the same way he did before. Pulls the wire out, slots it into his skull. Hears the clicks as the switches run the simulations of nonexistent calls, shutting out any listeners from what’s really being said: the words that Spencer’s forming in his mind, the words he’s letting the software in his head download through those wires, out through the streets of the Mountain. Out to where Control is.
Wherever that might be.
“Okay,” says Control. “We’re going to try this. He’s got a new name. So do you.”
“Those names being?”
Control tells him.
“And?” asks Spencer.
“And what?” asks Control.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you mean, is that all I’ve got?”
“The data I gave you checked out?”
“Of course it checked out, Spencer. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be talking now. Top-quality product, Spencer. I owe you my thanks.”
“Thanks isn’t all you owe me, Control.”
“Actually, to be precise—it’s you who still owe me.”
“For the rest of the quota.”
“Exactly. But I’m going to give you a little advance, Spencer. Let’s hope for your sake that whatever’s in this man’s skull turns out to be enough to justify it.”
“Great,” says Spencer. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tonight.”
“On an expresser?”
“I think that’s ill-advised.”
“We’d be there in under an hour.”
“Linehan’s colleagues left two days ago and haven’t made it yet.”
“Any mode of transport carries risk, Control.”
“Why pick one that’s already seen a major incident?”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Slight variation. Go for the Atlantic.”
“Sail it?”
“Hardly. Even the fastest ship available would take you the better part of a day. That’s way too long. Gives them way too much of a chance to vet their cargo.”
“So what’s that leave?”
“The tunnels.”
A pause. Then: “Jesus. You really think that’s safer than a flier?”
“Nothing’s safe these days, Spencer. But the eastern part of the Atlantic Tunnels belongs to the Euro Magnates. Which gives me a few more angles to play. I’ve configured your identities around a couple passengers on the ten-fifteen haul out of Kennedy.”
“That’s two and a half hours from now, Control.”
“Sounds like you’d better hurry.”