This chamber is huge. It’s far larger than that dome. The floor’s not visible. The walls glisten with ice. Some of them are pretty much vertical. Others climb inward toward each other, as though the mountain that houses the cave has been turned inside out.
But what those walls contain is a maze of gantries and platforms and ramps. Electric lights hang here and there. Cranes tower overhead. The platform upon which the Operative has landed protrudes out over the edge of abyss. A single ramp connects it to the remainder of the structure.
And standing in the shadows atop that ramp is Leo Sarmax.
T he final stages of the race we call the border run. Take these curves too tight and you’ll fly off the rails and into hell. Take them too loose, and you’ll lose all speed differential. So now inside turns out, all colors are ripped asunder. Stars torpedo at you, lick away, and this ship keeps on shooting through this tunnel.
“We need more throttle,” screams Linehan.
“We can’t go any faster,” yells Spencer.
He engages the rear guns. The ship shudders as they discharge. Lasers and shells streak down the tunnel. The gunships giving pursuit absorb the former, dodge the latter—slide along a crossover onto parallel rails, let the rounds shoot past them.
“Can’t shake them,” mutters Linehan.
“Hold on,” says Spencer. He’s lashing out with newfound abandon at the razors a fraction of a second and several klicks behind him. They’re doing their best to get at him. But he’s co-opted the car. He can see it all so clearly—can see the way they configured the craft so that even if the zone weren’t being fucked with, it still couldn’t be seen by the rail’s systems. It’s been set up as a zone-bubble: a discrete set of self-contained logic that allows those within to control the rail’s currents, let them move like they weren’t there. Like water striders that ride the surface of a pond without breaking surface tension: it’s a delicate balancing act. It’s getting more so by the second.
But suddenly the cars behind them are slowing down. Suddenly they’re disappearing in the rearview.
“So much for them,” says Spencer.
“What’d you do,” says Linehan.
“What does it look like I did? Maglev speed depends upon control.”
“Which they no longer have.”
“Exactly.”
“Crash them into each other,” says Linehan.
“I’d settle for slowing them down,” says Spencer.
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
For now he can see that they’ve switched off their engines. They’ve stopped interfacing with the rails. They’ve abandoned the chase. They’re no longer a factor. Spencer grins.
And curses.
“What’s up?” says Linehan.
What’s up is that somewhere back down that tunnel something’s glowing. Something that’s getting steadily brighter.
“What the fuck.”
“They’re riding rockets,” says Spencer.
“We got anything similar?”
“We must.”
“So fire us up.”
“So no. We try that and we’ll just be dragging against the magnets.”
“So turn us off,” says Linehan. “Start us up.”
“Magnets are faster.”
“Then what the fuck you waiting for?”
The answer’s nothing. Spencer’s opening the throttle. He’s jury-rigging the ship far past the limits of its safety margins. It’s nothing but momentum now. The two men let vibration rise through them. They watch their pursuers fade again. Up ahead on the map Spencer can see the place where the tunnel starts blossoming—can see where the real warren kicks in. The tunnel steers just south of the Newfoundland Yards. Somewhere past that’s the place where the continental shelf ends and the real ocean takes over and the warrens drop several thousand meters. For a moment Spencer envisions looking at this route in retrospect and not in anticipation. For a moment, he imagines they’re already running beneath the real trenches of Atlantic. For just a second he sees them almost at the border….
But then his attention’s captured by yet another flaring in the rearview.
“What the fuck,” he says.
“That’s a missile,” says Linehan.
“I can see that.”
“Then you can also see it’s closing.”
“Eight klicks back,” says Spencer.
“Countermeasures.”
“I’m trying.”
And he is. He lets the rear guns engage. He lets lasers fly at the warhead. But it’s got countermeasures of its own. It’s taking evasive action. It’s eating light like no one’s ever fed it. It’s flinging out light of its own. The back of their ship is taking damage.
“It’s smart,” says Linehan. “It’s speeding up.”
“They’re falling back.”
The ships: they’re fading. They’re drawing off. They’re gone.
“We need more speed,” says Linehan.
“We go any faster and we lose control.”
“It’s either that or take a warhead up your ass. Take a look at that thing. Take a good look. Do you see what I’m seeing?”
There’s no way Spencer couldn’t. Linehan is projecting his extrapolation of the schematics of the missile straight into his head. He’s disaggregating all its parts. He’s highlighting all its components. He’s focusing on one in particular.
“It’s nuclear,” breathes Spencer.
“Tactical,” says Linehan. “But still overkill.”
“They’ll collapse this fucking tunnel.”
“I don’t think they care, Spencer. I think they just want to be sure.”
“Why doesn’t it detonate right now?”
“Like I just said, Spencer: they want to be sure. They want it closer. And they’re going to ride it straight up to our fucking bumper unless you floor this bitch like she’s never been floored before.”
Spencer does. They roar forward. All the while taking stock of what’s behind them.
“Four point six klicks back.”
“And closing.”
Not quite as quickly as before. But still just as inexorably. Their rear guns may as well not even be there for all the effect they’re having. There may as well be nothing in the universe save hunter and target.
Only there is. Because the gap between the walls on either side is getting wider. The rails are sprouting more rails. The tunnel’s starting to fork into still more tunnels.
“The warrens,” says Linehan.
“We might make it yet,” says Spencer.
“What’s our route?”
“Follow the main line straight on through.”
“That won’t work.”
“Why?”
“We need to shake this fucker off. And we’re not going to do it in the straight.”
“Get anywhere else but the straight and it’ll catch us.”
“Give me the fucking map.”
“I already did, asshole. It’s in your head. You want a different itinerary, you better name it fast.”
“Let’s hit the Yards,” says Linehan.
“That’s insane.”
“So is doing nothing while a missile overhauls you.”
“You don’t get it,” says Spencer. “Whatever hack Control’s got in place extends only to the main tunnel and its auxiliary lines. The Newfoundland Yards are neither. We venture in there and we’re going to set off every single alarm and then some.”
“I don’t think you’re grasping our situation,” replies Linehan.
Another train takes that moment to charge on by. It roars westward on an adjacent track. It’s at least a hundred cars long, another transatlantic haul. It’s impossible to tell if those who steer it are aware of the chaos all around them. The missile darts sideways to avoid it, loses a fraction of a second in so doing. Its afterburners fire. It draws in upon its target like it’s being pulled in upon a string.
“What else we got for speed?” says Linehan.