that this practice is starting to be rolled out across CI agents but isn’t yet universal. And that the other Commands have yet to adopt it as standard procedure. They may not, either. It may remain a CI-specific practice, like the envoys. But if you want my opinion, I’d say that for the sake of your sanity you should just assume that most of your life’s greatest moments actually took place, Jason.” She looks thoughtful. “Plus or minus a few key details, of course.”
“And what about what happened between us?”
“What about it?”
“Does the document say anything about it? About—that kind of memory?”
“No,” she says. “But think about it. With something like this, security of the handlers probably isn’t the only thing in play. It
“But putting two agents with a history together is the kind of thing that could backfire.”
“It may already have.”
“Which doesn’t help in figuring out what went on between us,” says Marlowe. “Doesn’t help in figuring out if anything ever did.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“And I’m sure our memories correspond with total precision,” he says acidly.
“That’s a thought. Try me.”
“How about the time we took that ’copter to Stanley Park.”
“What was I wearing?”
“Blue shirt,” he replies. “Grey cap. We looked out upon Vancouver. We looked out upon the ocean—watched the sunset and the cold came on all sudden. I gave you my jacket and you said—”
“Stop it.”
“No. That’s not what you said.”
“You’re right. That line of verification’s a red herring. The real question is
“Assuming they were.”
“Right,” she says. “Right: assuming they were, when would they have done it. Because they
“I’d say the last few days is your best bet,” says Marlowe.
That one makes her look out the window, shake her head.
“Think about it,” says Marlowe. “We know they’ve assigned us to work together. We know they’re changing up their rules. What better time to prime us than right before we meet?”
“But I recognized you in that city!”
“Did you really?”
“Fuck,” she says.
“And it may not stop there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe you never did find a file in the Citadel.”
“
“As you say.”
“And you’d better listen. Sinclair’s not leveling with us, Jason. On any level. Even within the briefing itself. All that bullshit he was on about running that data through all those comps and coming up with all those probability vectors…that’s all it is: bullshit. He’s got specific intelligence about something, or he wouldn’t be committing key operatives off-planet. He’s not coming clean.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“Does that scare you? Or just excite you?”
“I’m not sure I know the difference,” she replies evenly.
“Did you once?”
“Can’t we figure that out as we go?”
“I guess we’ll have to,” he replies.
The ’copter descends toward Houston.
Ten klicks south of Agrippa, the train emerges. Though you could be forgiven for not spotting the tunnel mouth, because to say that this terrain is rough is to put it mildly. But the vehicle now shooting out of the black just doesn’t care. It’s like hot mercury, that train, distended across a quarter-klick of rail as it dives through tunnels and sails across bridges, hurling itself along terrain that would have been deemed impassable a scant twenty years ago. The mountains cluster ever thicker; again and again, they seem to have the train completely boxed in. But— again and again—the train’s a mechanical Houdini extricating itself from apparent confinement, doing everything save pass through solid rock as it bores relentlessly onward en route for Shackleton, at the lunar south pole.
But the view isn’t keeping the Operative’s attention. He’s saving that for the interior of this car. The seats are three to a row on either side of a wide central aisle, with more cleared space up in front. The Operative’s got a row to himself. The tops of the seats are low enough to allow some line of sight to one’s fellow passengers. Though some are military, most of them seem to be corporate—and just technicians at that: grease deep in their faces, tools hung at their belts. The Operative doesn’t like the look of them.
There are two in particular he likes even less. His sixth sense is crawling: up near the front—one with red hair withering into premature grey, the other with grey hair dyed half-red. They haven’t tried anything. They haven’t given any sign they even know each other. The Operative keeps an eye in front of him, strays one eye sideways a little, stays attuned to what’s behind him—and all the while he thinks.
And listens too. To the man inside his head. Because uncertainties within the car can’t compete with the voice that suddenly comes dropping down into the middle of the Operative’s skull as the download kicks in, clothed in an image that sits in the very center of the mind’s eye. Ebony skin. Silver hair. Opticals. Oversized ears.
And grinning mouth.
“Carson, Carson, Carson,” it says. “Did you miss me?”
The Operative stares out the window. Stares at his fellow passengers. Stares at the image’s teeth. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.
“That’s good,” says the mouth. “Real good, Carson. Had to ask, you understand. Even though you can’t answer. Let me assume, though, that the answer’s the same as it was before: no and yes.”
The Operative just stares. Red going grey has risen to his feet, has joined a few other technicians lounging and leaning around at the front of the car—and in their center is grey going red, dealing out a game of Shuk. Or at least the Operative guesses it to be Shuk. There are five persons in all, and Shuk’s a five-person game. But he can’t see the many-shaped cards that are probably now lying on the floor of the car or on some makeshift tabletop made out of someone’s equipment. So he’s left to make his guesses. For minutes. For hours. Then:
“Yes and no,” continues Lynx, “no and yes. Can’t say I blame you. It was bad enough when I got here. It’s much worse now.”
The Operative keeps staring. Red going grey has thrown his right hand back in triumph, laughing. Grey going red’s getting even redder. Now others are separating the two, the Operative half-expecting all the while that they’re going to turn together and come for him. He’s starting to feel quite underdressed.
“But we’ll get you suited for it,” says the mouth. “We’ll get you sorted. Though I wish we didn’t have to. I wish they’d sent me someone else.” Tongue licks out, white teeth flashing behind its curve. “You think I’m pleased to see
The Operative feels himself tipped back. Ever so slightly: but unmistakably. The train is ascending. The bridges on which it’s riding are rising. More blackness is encroaching. Pulsings in that blackness are satellites sweeping low, catching the sun.
“Because the truth,” says Lynx, “it’s that this whole game is going up for grabs. This whole scene is getting out of hand. And we, my friend, are right in the middle of it.”
