The merest splinter of a second has passed since Spencer’s jacked in. The prime razor nods, looks satisfied. Spencer has just ratified his sounding the alarm—has just confirmed that the signal coming from the first cylinder is, in fact, the real thing. But the satisfaction starts fading from that razor’s face as Spencer starts describing far more detailed coordinates than the prime razor had been able to obtain. Spencer displays the data on a screen, lets everybody see the light that’s now moving at speed away from the north pole of the nearer cylinder, away from the city of New London and out toward the cylinder’s southern end.
“We have a definite live target,” he says.
“Definite incursion,” says the primary razor.
“Track and report,” says the voice of the executive officer.
Spencer opens up another channel in his mind. “Linehan,” he says.
“About fucking time,” says Linehan. “What’s going on up there?”
“Jesus Christ,” says Spencer, “what isn’t?”
• • •
Haskell’s come through into the cylinder’s main interior. Valley is stretching out before her. Two more valleys are ceilings far overhead. The mirrors outside the cylinder’s windows are angled to give the impression of day dimming into twilight. Haskell’s mind is practically shoved around the corner of a million impending futures, flickering like ghost-static through her, superimposed against her parameters in the here and now. On the outside, she’s just a woman in a light vac-suit fresh off one of the off-Platform shifts. Just a normal worker heading home on one of the maglev trains.
Though she must be doing pretty well to have a residence in the countryside outside the city that’s now receding behind her: streets and rooftops curve across the entirety of the North Pole region, stacked upon one another like some kind of Navajo cliff-dwelling on steroids. New London’s quite a place. The only thing that’s in the same league is New Zurich, right next door. Not that Haskell has the slightest intention of going anywhere near it.
Nor does she need to. Because her next objective’s plainly visible in the distance. The South Pole mountains aren’t like those of the North. They’re unadorned by any city. Those few structures that cluster upon the peaks are security installations perfectly positioned to keep a watchful eye on the city opposite them.
Though Haskell knows full well that it’s behind those mountains that the real security starts. Particularly within the zone: the firewall of the asteroid that’s latched to the cylinder’s southern end is one of the steepest she’s ever seen. Even she can’t see within without alerting everybody in there. The only way to get a view is to get inside.
This is precisely what she intends to do, though she hasn’t yet decided how. She’s improvising. And now that she’s left New London behind she can see she’s moving toward the first of the lockdown areas. It’s largely farmland strewn with lakes and forests. It looks idyllic, but it doesn’t fool Haskell in the slightest. It was declared off-limits to civilians about twenty-four hours ago. Something about a potential chemical leak—something that’s bullshit. Haskell can see the way it’s all been set up. She’s planning on giving the defenses something to chew on. She’s got her decoys out, wreaking havoc on the cylinder’s zone. Her train drops beneath the level of the valley-surface as tunnel walls close in around her.
Closing fast,” says the Operative.
They’re past the freight-conduits and into an area that’s still under construction. Robots are working everywhere. None of them pay the slightest attention to the two men blasting past them. It’s as if they don’t even see them. The Operative beams the latest readouts into Sarmax’s head.
“It’s splintered into multiple signals coming in toward us. But they’re distorted, like they’re running interference on each other—”
“There may be only one signal.”
“Or maybe that’s what they want us to think.”
“So are we hunting it, or is it hunting us?”
“Looks like it might be both.”
Making this a tough call. The Operative knows there comes a time in every run when you make your break. When you change directions sharply and go flat-out. But the timing’s a little suspect on this one.
Or else whatever is causing this signal is just really good at guessing.
“Closest one is moving in fast,” he says. “On one of the core maglevs.”
“How can you tell it’s genuine?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Let’s hope Lynx is getting this.”
“We need to coordinate with him,” says the Operative.
“By breaking radio silence?”
“There’s another dedicated landline just ahead. If he’s got the same signal we’ve got he’ll be waiting for us.”
“Another landline?”
“For sure.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because the coordinates are sitting in my fucking head.”
“They were put there?”
“No, I was born with them,” says the Operative. “And so was Lynx. And we knew a priori from the fucking cradle that we had to pursue a certain target along certain trajectories and if that target deviated suddenly we’d need to coordinate in a way that couldn’t be detected by anyone on the zone.” The Operative is pretty much ranting now. “Obviously they were put there, asshole!”
“I get that,” snaps Sarmax. “And get this: this is why I fucking left. Because these runs always end up with us like rats stuck in some custom-built maze.”
“Though usually not this intricate,” says the Operative.
“Too right,” replies Sarmax. “This whole terrain has been prepared. Like some ancient battlefield where they dug the goddamn elephant traps in advance. I mean, that’s what, the tenth camera we’ve seen that’s been ripped out at the wires? God only knows how we fit in. All we’re doing is running against some fucking program.”
“Speaking of,” says the Operative—he brakes to a halt, turns and pivots onto the wall, and rips a panel aside. The phone that’s revealed is more modern than the last one. It’s already flashing. The Operative pictures the wires that lead away from that phone, wending through walls to wherever Lynx is crouching, completely shorn from all the others in here. Or so he hopes. He picks up the phone.
“Carson,” says Lynx.
“Yeah,” says the Operative—and once again feels something light up within his skull. It’s a sensation he’s almost starting to get used to. This one’s some kind of response to the data he’s been accumulating about their target. Something he needs to tell Lynx.
Right now.
“This just got a lot more difficult,” he says.
“I’ll say,” replies Lynx.
“You just got a newsflash in your head too?”
“What are you talking about?”