The Burning Skies (50 page)

“Was destroyed before it could strike. But the puppet-masters escaped.”

“The puppet masters were Autumn Rain!”

The Operative grins mirthlessly. “As you’ll recollect, there were two sets of puppet masters. Autumn Rain was pulling everyone’s strings. But even at the time it seemed pretty clear that the SpaceCom general Matthias was reporting to someone else within Space Command. Someone we’ve been working to identify this whole time. And it turns out the Rain weren’t the only ones to crash the Europa Platform. SpaceCom sent a team in, too. With orders to waste the president.”

“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.”

• • •

C
ongreve 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.

R
unway 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.”

“Go on.”

“And no way were they gonna leave this kind of talent back in HK. They’ll grab them as a matter of course. Along with anyone with expertise in nanotech, directed energy, stealth—you name it, they’ll have it. Trying to deduce what we’re looking for from what they’re vacuuming out of HK is an exercise in futility.”

“You’re probably right,” says Sarmax.

“Of course I’m right. And it looks like most of the really sensitive stuff under those hills is cauterized from wireless, if not cut off altogether. We’re going to have to wait till we get a little closer to find out for sure.”

“Works for me,” says Sarmax—turns toward the window.

• • •

A
clean sweep,” says Haskell. “Against enemies within and without.”

“That’s the idea.”

“The Throne’s making a mistake in keeping me out of this.”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s too much at stake, Carson.”

“That’s why we can’t risk you being compromised.”

“You really think the Throne’s enemies might get to me?”

“Can you guarantee otherwise?”

“Why the hell would I have destroyed Autumn Rain if I was plotting against the Throne?”

“It’s a good point.”

“So the Throne shouldn’t be keeping me stowed away like this.” She’s disturbed to find how angry she’s getting. “He should be bringing me online.”

“Unless.”

“Unless what?”

The Operative just stares at her. She stares back.

“What are you getting at, Carson?”

“I’m hoping you can answer that question for me.”

“You think that someone might still have a back door to my mind.”

“Can you rule it out?”

She shakes her head.

“We know those doors exist, Claire. We used one on the Platform. So did the Rain. We’d thought they were all accounted for. But we have reason to believe that some of the original CICom data on you might have wound up in the hands of Szilard himself. Meaning that as a weapon you’d be worse than useless. You’d be turned against us by SpaceCom.”

“Not necessarily. It all depends—”

“On what sort of back doors we’re talking about. Exactly.”

“Where’s your evidence?

“Call it a hypothesis.”

“A pretty specific one. Why do you think Szilard—”

“Never mind what we think about the Lizard. What matters now is you.”

“I can find out,” she says.

“Find out what.”

“If there’s a back door.”

“Really?” He moves toward her.

“Given enough time,” she says. She draws away.

“We don’t have that time,” he says.

“What are you proposing?”

“I’m not
proposing
anything.”

She starts to lunge aside. But he’s already driving the needle into her flesh.

I
t’s as though she’s falling down some long tunnel where there’s no light and no darkness save what’s already in her head—swirling all around, solidifying into fragments of mirror that reflect everything she’s ever dreamed straight back into her eyes … blinding her, spinning her around to the point where it’s like the universe is nothing but rotation and she’s the only constant. But everywhere she looks it’s the same: the face of Carson and all he’s saying is
labyrinth labyrinth labyrinth that’s all you are and all you’ll ever be—