“Marlowe,” says the voice.
“Yeah.”
“We need you to take a little detour.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got an asset down near you.”
“So?”
“So we need it picked up.”
“This suit’s taken a beating. You’ve got no one else who can do it?”
“If we did, I wouldn’t be calling. We’re coming apart at the seams, Marlowe. We’ve got a grade-A disaster on our hands.”
“Which I’m almost clear of.”
“And you’ll get clear again. You’re hell on wheels, Marlowe. You’ve got to make all speed. Over and out.”
Even as the last words are reaching Marlowe’s ears, coordinates flare before him. They show city. They show river. They show the point where he needs to be. They show his own position—now rapidly changing direction.
Listen,” says the Operative.
The one word hangs in the chamber with him. His is the only voice that’s sounding. He’s the only one who definitely hears it. He doesn’t let that stop him.
“I know you’re watching. I know you’re listening. I’m not on your manifest. But here I am anyway.”
There’s no reply. The Operative regards the door to the cockpit. It’s heavy. It’s sealed. He unstraps himself. He floats away from the window and pulls himself toward that door.
“You were told to take me aboard and run me to the rock. You were told to ask no questions while you did it. Not like you need to. You know all that matters already.”
He reaches the door. He runs his hand along its edges. They’re absolutely airtight. In the event of hull breach, ships go modular. The Operative lets his fingers slide down its metal grooves. He smiles. He keeps on talking.
“You were hoping you weren’t going to get any closer to me. You were hoping not to breathe the air that I’m inhaling. So was I. No reason I’d want to make this complicated.”
He stops the movement of his fingers, pulls his hand away from the door. He holds on to the walls on either side. He turns his body slowly in the zero-G. He looks directly into one of the cameras. The smile broadens on his face.
“But now it’s very simple. You’re going to open this door or I’m going to open it for you. Might not be much of a door left by that point. Might not be much left of my patience. But it’s up to you. Long as you make up your minds right now. I’m going to count to three.”
He’s at two when the door slides open.
Marlowe’s one klick out. He’s got his thrusters flaming. He’s got his full fins extended. He’s burning in between the burning buildings. He cuts in above the river. He races just above its waters, rounds the bend beyond which his target lies. He opens fire.
The target’s in a downed ’copter floating in the middle of this channel of the Amazon. Hydrofoils are closing in upon it. But Marlowe’s not shooting at the ships. He’s taking aim at the cranes that tower above them with his micromissiles, letting explosives strike home at points precisely calibrated. He watches the cranes start to topple.
Most of the militia never see it coming. They’re smacked dead amidships by metal. They’re knocked in pieces beneath the water. Those who aren’t hit are taking hi-ex from Marlowe’s second barrage. Detonations roll along the river. Heavy guns on the shore open fire. But he’s accelerating in toward them, using the last of his micros to nail the buildings that loom above them. Debris buries the guns and all who man them.
Marlowe changes course once more, streaks in above tangled metal and shattered ships. He cuts in toward the craft that’s the cause of all the commotion. He alights upon it. Looks down.
Bullets smash into his helmet, bounce off. He leaps down to his assailant.
“I’m on your side,” he says. “I’m CICom.”
“Says who.”
“Says my codes,” he replies. He beams them to her.
Her contours show her for a woman. Her breath-mask prevents him from seeing her face. Which is fine by him. Faces are currency. No sense in giving them up for free. And yet there’s something about this woman that grips him immediately. Maybe it’s because she just tried to kill him. Maybe it’s because she’s still got that razorwire dangling from her head.
“Hold on to me,” he says.
She doesn’t want to. He can see that. But she does it anyway: steps toward him, embraces him, clasps her arms around his back, looks out over his left shoulder.
“I’m blocking your shoulder rack,” she says.
“I’m shutting it down,” he says. “Careful of the main motors.”
“This isn’t going to work,” she replies. “You’re going to be dodging left and right up there and you’re going to shake me off.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Get down.”
She does. A hatch opens on one of his arms. He starts pulling something out.
“A tether,” she says.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I figure this is a better use for it than going up a wall. Get back up here.”
She does, grabs the tether from him, starts lashing it about the two of them. He starts tying knots. A few loops and it’s done.
“Is that too tight?” he asks.
“Not for what we’re about to do,” she says. She reaches down, pulls out her boot knife, slices off the excess tether.
“You ready?”
“Can you see?”
“Absolutely,” he replies.
And reignites his suit’s engines.
Face impassive, the Operative pulls himself through the doorway and into the cockpit. Two men sit within its cramped confines. One wears a cap. The other doesn’t. On all sides are clustered all manner of instrument-banks. Narrow windows cut through those banks. Space flickers in those windows.
“So here he is,” says the man with the cap. Beneath his headpiece sits a pair of bushy eyebrows connected by a scar. The contours of his nose and cheekbones are angled in a way that makes his default expression a sardonic one.
“Yes,” says the Operative.
“The man himself,” says the hatless man, whose head is shaved clean like that of the Operative. This man’s older. He looks at the Operative like he’s gazing at a talking horse.
“I’m Riley,” he says. He gestures at his colleague. “He’s Maschler.”
“You’re the one I was speaking with,” says the Operative.
“That’s right,” says Riley.
“You’re the one who cut me off,” says the Operative.
“Started you up too,” says Riley. “Let’s not forget that.”
“We’re the ones who hauled you from the bottom of the well,” says Maschler. “We’re the ones who broke your surly bonds. Without us you’d still be eating dirt. Surely that counts for something?”
“Oh,” says the Operative, “it does.”
They look at him. They’re hanging on his every word. They don’t want him to see that. But to him it’s clear
