The Burning Skies (55 page)

But he’s also trying to make sense of a whole new factor. He’s realizing just how out there the man who called himself Alek Jarvin was. The handler’s book consists of hundreds upon hundreds of pages of symbols, grids, numbers. And letters, of course: Spencer reckons he’s dealing with at least six different alphabets. None of which are even remotely discernible. The only thing he can make out is the initial section that Sarmax spoke of. Which seems to serve as a preface. Written in a low-rent cypher that was easy enough to crack, probably because all it does is make promises.

Though threats might be a better word. It goes on and on about a Eurasian weapon that will change the face of war. A device so revolutionary that nothing the Americans can put
into the field will stand against it. Spencer wonders whether it’s for real—wonders if Jarvin transcribed what he’s reading from Eurasian propaganda. He wonders why he didn’t sell the details to the Americans if he really had them. Was CICom’s rogue handler killed by Sarmax before he could? Or was he playing his own game? Did he give up on America because he’d been declared a traitor? Did he send his nation’s agents on a wild-goose chase? Spencer knows there’s only one way to find out. He sets his own software upon the cyphers—even as the software continues to run patterns on the place around him too—and on the train that’s now moving in on parallel rails behind the one he’s on. It’s a lot shorter, gaining steadily on the flatcar and the jet-copter that sits upon it. Within the jet-copter, one of the officers starts giving orders. Spencer and Sarmax get to their feet, open the copter door, and hop out.

As they steady themselves upon the flatcar, more freight cars haul alongside theirs. The door of one of the cars is open. Suited soldiers are standing there, extending some kind of makeshift bridge. Spencer and Sarmax grab it as it reaches them and secure it to the flatcar. More soldiers are leaping from the door of the jet-copter, pulling prisoners along with them—past Spencer and Sarmax, onto the bridge and into the arms of the soldiers who wait on the other side.

Fifteen prisoners later, and the bridge retracts. The freight car’s doors slide shut, and the train beside them accelerates. Cars stream past Spencer’s visor, leaving tunnel wall flashing in their wake.

“Any idea where they’re going?” says Sarmax.

“Probably where we want to be.”

“But you don’t know where.”

“When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“You’re saying we’re high and dry?”

“Actually I think we’re under arrest.”

“What?”

Looks that way. The other soldiers on the flatcar are pointing guns at them. One of the officers steps forward. The sergeant flanks him.

“Spies,” he says in Russian.

“That’s a lie,” says Spencer in the same tongue. But he and Sarmax are getting worked over now by their fellow soldiers, who start stripping ammo from their suits, disengaging their guns, detaching and then removing their helmets.

“What the hell are we guilty of?” says Sarmax.

“Being American,” says the officer.

“Sir,” says Spencer, “that’s not true.”

“It’s total rubbish,” says Sarmax.

“You’re the rubbish,” says the sergeant.

“And you can take it up with
them
,” says the officer, gesturing at the rail. Something else is emerging from the darkness, moving along the train’s cars, catching up with the flatcar, matching speeds. It’s a single gun car, running sleek and low to the rail, not much higher than the flatcar. Another bridge extends.

“Get them in there,” says the officer.

Soldiers start hustling Spencer and Sarmax onto the bridge. The anxious look on the soldiers’ faces isn’t due to the narrowness of the bridge they’re on. It’s the dreaded military intelligence insignia upon the gun car. The soldiers shove Spencer and Sarmax inside and hastily retrace their steps.

The door closes behind Spencer and Sarmax. They’re standing in a railcar, a cockpit at each end, and a turret hatch in the ceiling. A driver’s sitting in the cockpit that faces forward. He doesn’t look round, just hits the throttle. Spencer grabs onto the wall to steady himself, looks at the driver’s back.

“Uh … hello?”

Legs emerge from the turret. A man drops down to face them. He wears a Russian captain’s uniform and a scruffy beard. He looks at them.

“Your codes,” he says.

Spencer transmits codes. The man salutes.

“Sir,” he says. “What now?”

“Now we root out the state’s enemies,” says Spencer.

“Any news from HK?”

“Those scientists are a poison pill. We’ve got a traitor on the loose.”

“As we feared.”

“Worse than that. The West’s involved. They’re trying to take advantage of the scientist roundups to infiltrate some of their agents. And someone in this place is turning a blind eye. We’ve got to proceed with utmost caution.”

“We’ll have to,” says the captain. “This place is moving onto full war footing. It’s like we’re expecting an attack at any moment.”

“Or else we’re going to launch one,” says Spencer. “Something the traitors might be counting on. I need your data, and I need it quickly.”

“Take the rear cockpit,” says the captain. “Access whatever you need from there.”

Spencer turns. The captain goes up to confer with the driver. Sarmax joins Spencer in the rear cockpit, activates the one-on-one.

“What kind of a fucking plan is
this?”
he demands.

“I figured we might not have enough leverage on escort duty,” replies Spencer. “So I’ve been running some scenarios to get us a better view.”

“By working with this guy?”

“The captain’s just an errand boy, Leo. Albeit a discreet one. He thinks our infiltration of the escort was part of our cover. That our arrest will make any traitors rest easy.”

“But there aren’t any traitors.”

“If there are, more power to ’em. Now how about we start the investigation?” Spencer leans forward, starts punching commands into the terminal.

“How about you keep me in the loop going forward?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I outrank you, Lyle.”

“Look,” says Spencer. “I had to be sure they weren’t hacking our one-on-one link. Anything we said there had to be chalked up to part of the cover.”

“You are playing one dangerous game.”

“I’m just getting started,” says Spencer, who jacks into the dashboard, starts running code from a whole new vantage point. He doesn’t doubt that Sarmax is on board with the logic—that he gets that the best way to infiltrate an impregnable fortress is to make like you’re here to stop the infiltration. Because the East is just like the West: purging its own, divided against itself, compartmentalized to the point where the right hand has no idea where the hell the left one was last night. Infiltration works on the same principles. Which is why Spencer’s been less than forthcoming with Sarmax.

Though that sort of thing can cut both ways.

“I guess it’s time I gave you this,” says Sarmax. He’s pulled something from his mouth. Something that looks like—

“Your tooth?”

“Just take it,” says Sarmax.

“What am I, the fucking tooth fairy?”

“Not unless you’re into cross-dressing. This contains a chip. Which contains—”

But Spencer’s already grabbing the tooth from him—loading it into his own data-socket, scanning the information revealed.

“This is some kind of hack,” he says.

“Yeah. I need you to upload it.”

“I need to know more about it—”

“Upload it and you will.”

“I’m getting really sick of these surprises, Leo.”

“This is the last of them.”

“Where the hell did you get this?”

“Where do you think? The Throne.”

“He could have handed me this to begin with.”

“He trusts me more than you.”

“Fuck’s sake—”

“Don’t take it personally Spencer. If we’d been busted in the opening rounds, you might have tried to bargain with the East. Might have tried to sell this for your hide.”

“And now?”

“You no longer have that option.”

“I’m not following.”

“Run the program and you will.”

I
’m still dreaming, aren’t I?” she asks. “Not exactly.”

“But I’m still trapped inside my head.”

“More like a zone-construct I’m creating with your help.”

“My
help?”

“However involuntary.”

“You’re in here with me,” she says.

“Yes.”

“We’re both still on this ship.”

“Yes.”

“And the Throne is on board too.”

“Of course,” says Carson.

“He wants me close at hand.”

“He needs you for what’s about to happen.”

“He’s going to start a war,” she says.

“He’s going to finish one. One that’s been going on for decades. One that’s torn our planet at the seams.”

“I thought he believed in peace!”

“There’ll be peace, sure. When the East lies in wreckage at our feet.”

“And détente?”

“Failed at the Europa Platform. As I said.”

“But you also said the Throne was still hoping to avert war.”

He shrugs. She snarls.

“Goddamn it, Carson, why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier? Why this charade?”

“Because I’d never have gotten so far inside you otherwise.”

She cradles her head in her hands. Says nothing.

“Your conscious resistance accounts for only so much,” he continues. “It’s your unconscious resistance that’s the bulk of the challenge. Had you known that we intended to harness you as the primary node in a first strike against the Coalition, you would never have let me get to the center of your mind.”

“But now you’re here.”

“And now the time for hiding’s over.”

“Someone should tell the Throne that.”

“We’ve crossed behind the far side of the Moon,” says Carson. “In mere minutes we—”

“Land outside Congreve,” she says. “Go to ground in the Throne’s bunker beneath the city suburbs.”

“You’re guessing.”

“It’s not that hard. Tell the Throne to come in here and face me.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” says Carson. “You’re the one who’s going to face
him
. Once the last of your resistance has dropped away. Once you wonder why you ever wanted to call him anything besides
sir.”

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Can’t I?”

On the wall beside Carson appear two vid screens: two sets of grids. One depicts a cross-section of the Himalayas and the labyrinth beneath them, the other the L2 fleet. Each grid shows coordinates of something moving through it.

“The missions,” breathes Haskell.

“Now approaching their last phases. And ready for a little nudge from you.”

“Right now?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

And suddenly she can. Even though she can’t do anything about it. Dashboards light up within her mind and it’s like someone else is hitting her controls. She looks at Carson.

“So you really
did
give it to me backward,” she says.

“That’s always the best way.”

“You don’t want to do a surgical strike on the Eurasians to stop them from starting something. You want to do it so
you
can.”

“And we will.”

“And Szilard? He’s not really trying to unleash war?”

“Does it matter?”

“Sure it does.”

“It doesn’t. What matters is that when the shit hits the fan the president can’t have someone running the L2 fleet he can’t depend on. If Szilard didn’t personally organize the SpaceCom conspiracy to hit the Throne, then he gave it the green light. And if he didn’t even do
that
, then he should be executed for incompetence. For allowing treason to sprout under his nose. He’s dead regardless.”

“And so am I.”

“Not at all. You’ll be the Throne’s prime razor.”

“But I won’t remember anything before that.”

“You’ll remember everything you need to.”

“That’s all I’ve ever been allowed to do!”

“But don’t you want to know the reason why?”

“What?”

He says nothing. Just gestures. A door’s appeared between the two wall-screens. Haskell stares at it. It seems familiar. She wonders where she’s seen it before.

And then she remembers.

“No,”
she says.

Grey, metallic. It’s just a door. But she can feel the presence of what lurks behind it. Something she hasn’t felt for so long. Something that reminds her how much mercy there is in being able to forget.

“Don’t do this,” she says.

“I already have,” Carson replies.

The door starts to open. Light pours in from the void beyond.

T
he view from the shuttle window shows machines of every description. Their shadows practically blot out the stars. Their lights are like some mini-galaxy The shuttle’s heading toward where the lights clump thickest.