“What else could we do?” says Maschler. “This way, we have no records of it. We never have to admit we saw it.”
“You and a hundred thousand other people,” laughs the Operative. “Earth-to-spacers try to nail the Elevator? Space-to-spacers rigged on neutral satellites try to finish the job? Are you kidding me? It’s not like this is going to be much of a fucking secret.”
But he knows he’s wrong even as he speaks the words. Secrets aren’t a function of who knows them. They’re a function of who doesn’t. The sky’s been classified for fifty years now. Civilians can neither write nor film what it contains. Those who wear uniforms have more leeway. But they know when to be discreet.
Especially when they’re seeing things they’ve never imagined seeing.
“Besides,” says Maschler, “we didn’t know what your role in all this was.”
“My role,” replies the Operative. One eyebrow arches.
“You could be a plant.”
“You could be a sleeper.”
“A sleeper for who,” says the Operative.
“For the Jaguars,” says Maschler.
“This is much bigger than the Jaguars,” objects Riley.
“This is the devil’s night,” says Maschler.
“Because of those missiles,” says the Operative.
“Never mind those missiles.”
“The missiles don’t matter.”
“Then what does?” says the Operative.
“This,” says Riley.
He hits a switch. The lights in the cockpit fade. The stars intensify. Riley gestures at the left-hand window— points toward a strand of luminescence strung among the stars.
“That’s the Elevator,” he says.
“Yeah,” says the Operative.
“Listen to me. She’s got forty main motors. One every hundred klicks. She’s firing them all on full-retro. She’s been doing that for the last five minutes. At the rate she’s going, her lowest point is going to hit atmosphere in five more.”
Maschler’s hands play over the keyboards. One of the display screens lights up. A complicated pattern floats atop it. Green lights drift toward a larger strand of blue.
“That’s the space around this section of the Elevator,” he says. “At least a hundred ships are moving in from all directions. A lot of those ships are ours. But we think some of them belong to the East. It looks to be a coordinated operation.”
“Is this going on at other levels of the Elevator?” asks the Operative.
“Yes,” says Riley.
“And no one’s signaled to you what’s going on,” says the Operative.
“What the hell would they signal?” asks Riley.
“What else is there to say?” asks Maschler.
“The Elevator’s been jacked.”
“We’re forfeit.”
“But at least,” says the Operative, “you had the good sense to tell me all about it.”
They have the good sense to speed up as they climb. They roar out of smoke that’s drifting up from city- cellars. They roar into smoke that’s drifting down from the city’s middle layers. They race through patches of smog even thicker than that smoke.
“How are we doing?” the razor asks.
“I can’t tell.”
“Makes two of us.”
Wind tears against them. It’s all Marlowe can do to keep control. Particularly given how much damage his suit’s sustained. He adjusts his main jets, compensates with steering thrusts from his wrists and ankles, adjusts again.
“You strapped in okay?” he says.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m not.”
Buildings tower above them. They rise past more fires. They start to draw fire of their own. Lasers flare past. Bullets hum by. Marlowe starts to take evasive action.
“This is getting tight.”
“Militia hotbeds,” says Marlowe.
“So why are we going through them?”
“Because they’ve got to peter out eventually.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because we’ve almost reached the Citadel.”
From whose confines the U.S. props up one part of the fiction that’s called Brazil. Toward whose shelter Marlowe and his passenger are now racing. But now Marlowe’s picking up something on his screens. Something that he’s less than happy to see.
To put it mildly.
“Pursuit,” he says.
“How far back?”
“Couple klicks.”
And closing. Suited Jaguars: there are several of them. Rising from the depths of city. Spread out in a wide formation. He can see their suits’ jets flaring. He can see rocket-propelled grenades streaking from their arms. He veers off at an angle, starts to weave in amidst the buildings.
“Full-strength strike squad,” he says.
“They must have tracked me,” says the razor.
“They must have tracked
“Sounds like we’ve both given them reasons to hate us.”
“God I hope so.”
“We need more speed.”
Marlowe’s trying. He’s pouring it on. But he has to keep taking evasive action to avoid getting hit by the warring militias. He has to keep dodging. Which means he can’t go hell for leather on the straight. Which means they’re being overhauled.
Quickly too.
“Feed me your data,” says the razor.
“Why?”
“So I can help you help us.”
“Fine.”
If there’s something she can pull, he’s all for it. He sends her his armor’s signals. He senses her somehow reversing those signals. Suddenly she’s tapping into his comps. She’s right inside his head.
“What the fuck!” He almost loses control, finds his gyros steadied by a mind that’s not his own.
“I feel so close to you,” she replies. Her voice is emanating from in between his ears. It sounds amused.
“Who asked you?” he says.
“You,” she replies.
“What are you doing?”
“Using your brains,” she replies. “Or rather, your suit’s.”
And she is. She’s commanding that processing power while Marlowe sends them flying ever farther upward. Her mind is meshed with his. And both minds can see that now the Jaguars are getting out on their flanks. Classic pincer movement. In a few more moments they’re going to close the noose.
“One chance,” says Marlowe.
