“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“I never saw them.”
“You’re giving them too much credit, Claire. They went out early. The Rain got wind of them first and you know how the Rain feels about competition for the executive node. We found what was left of SpaceCom’s finest in a New London sewer. They weren’t a factor in what happened subsequently. But someone in SpaceCom is still trying to take down the Throne.”
“And we finally know who that someone is?”
“We do. The rot goes straight to the top.”
She mulls this over. “He dies tonight?”
“That’s the idea,” says the Operative.
“That won’t be simple.”
“Neither is our plan.”
• • •
Congreve drops away as moonscape expands out on all sides. Linehan checks out the view. It’s been a long time since he’s seen it. Yet somehow it’s been with him all along.
“How many you think we’re carrying?” he asks.
“Those holds are equipped for a hundred,” replies Lynx.
“There’s more than that in there.”
“I doubt we’re going to hear any complaints.”
The men and women on this ship have done their time in every mine from here to Imbrium and back. But they’ve all acquired enough clearance to get assigned to more sensitive tasks. Which doesn’t mean they’re unmonitored. There are cameras all over the cargo holds in which they’re sitting. Supervisors too—not that there’s much for them to do during the transit. As long as they’ve got access to the camera feeds from which they can monitor the rest of the ship, they’re free to just find a room.
And wait.
“What happened to the two we replaced?” asks Linehan.
“We didn’t replace anybody,” says Lynx. “There are just a few more supes on this ship than usual.”
“But nothing outside the norm.”
“Not according to the zone.”
On a large transport shuttle a lot can pass unnoticed. A lot can go unseen. Though the view outside shows everything a man could ask for. The curve of the Moon is getting ever more distinct. Stars are starting to fill the window. There’s a rumble as the ship’s main engines engage.
“How long’s the haul?” asks Linehan.
“A few hours. You may as well get some sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Suit yourself, as long as you’re not planning on talking.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ve got a lot of shit to prep before we reach L2. How about you back off and leave me to it?”
“At least tell me whether we even know where in the fleet he is.”
“I’ll know more when we get there.”
“You can’t hack it from here?”
“Hardly. We’re sixty thousand klicks out. We’ve got to get a lot closer before I can start doing that.”
“So you think we’ve got a chance?”
Lynx sighs, stares out the window. “Sure we’ve got a chance,” he says.
“Of taking Szilard out.”
“Yeah.”
“But not of living through it,” says Linehan.
“Can’t have everything.”
“We’ve got a lot in common, don’t we?”
“How do you figure?” asks Lynx.
“We both keep getting set up by our bosses.”
“That’s the truest thing you’ve said so far.”
“Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.”
“But you won’t—”
“I can’t. Don’t you resent Carson for making you do this?”
Lynx laughs. “You’ve got it wrong, man. I’m loving it. Chance to make history.”
“By stopping the head of SpaceCom from starting a war?”
“Nah. War’s inevitable. Everyone’s got too big a hard-on for it. Whether or not Szilard’s got something up his sleeve, someone’s going to light the fuse. All we can do is hope it doesn’t happen before we can make our mark.”
“This tin can—”
“Would be toast. If it kicked off right now, the Eurasian gunnery at L4 would send us tumbling back to Congreve. Assuming we weren’t vaporized right off the bat.”
“Cheerful, aren’t you?”
“Just realistic.” Lynx pulls his wall straps tighter. Leans back. Pulls wires from a wall panel. “But if you’ve got a god, you might want to settle up before we get there.”
“I’ll settle with God once I’ve settled with Szilard.”
“I’m starting to wonder if you know the difference,” says Lynx.
Runway falls away as the jet-copter’s engines flare. The craft banks steeply, curves out over the Owen-Stanley Range. New Guinea’s laid out before them.
“And we’re off,” says Spencer.
Sightless helmets staring: they’re sitting across from two of the captives. One of whose lips are moving silently as he mouths prayers.
“Hack this craft and find out everything you can,” says Sarmax.
“Already did,” says Spencer.
“What about Jarvin’s files?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“So hurry it up.”
He’s been too busy keeping their identities afloat to worry about the files he and Sarmax ransacked at the handler’s safe house. He’s starting to multitask as best he can. But so far the most valuable thing he’s gotten was in the jet-copter’s computers. And it’s not much. Just a route—and a destination, a hundred klicks southwest of Lhasa, in the Himalayas. Everything else is denied this craft’s pilots.
But Spencer’s working on the angles. The whole Eurasian zone seems to be turning in his head now. Over the last few minutes it’s been getting ever louder. Now it’s like a siren screaming through his mind. He’s never felt so wired. And yet the Eastern zone isn’t telling him too much about the basements and corridors on the maps he’s now accessing. He can see the blueprints. But he’s missing key data. He’s pretty sure that’s how it’s been designed. He won’t know for certain until they make landfall, which won’t be for several hours.
So he does what he can in the meantime—continues to make inroads on Jarvin’s files, and while he’s at it, double-checks the cargo the ship’s carrying. He focuses anew on the dossiers. Three of the physicists on board defected from the East awhile ago. Now they’re on their way back, to face some new employment conditions. Spencer scans their files, analyzes those of their colleagues—tries to read the tea leaves contained within, but doesn’t get very far.
“Can’t base anything on this,” he says.
“Lot of nuclear expertise,” says Sarmax.
“Means nothing.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re riding one of Christ knows how many cargoes. All going to the same general area. We just happen to be on the nuke bus.”