along the walls. Many are wounded. Marlowe and Haskell stalk between them, conscious of the stares. But as they approach the tunnel’s other end, the people on either side start to try to tell them something.
“What language is that?” says Haskell.
“Burmese,” replies Marlowe. “I’ve done runs in South Asia.”
“Can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Only a few words.” He’s leaning forward, hands resting on thighs while he seeks to find some common ground between the languages he knows and whatever ones they might. Haskell keeps an eye on the people behind him. Marlowe switches through several Indian dialects, throws in a little Chinese, keeps his voice loud enough to engage a few more people in the dialogue without letting the whole tunnel in on the conversation.
He turns back to Haskell.
“Well,” she says.
“They’re refugees from Seleucus.”
“And.”
“They talk of fleeing their homes. They talk of an evil unleashed.”
“No shit.”
“No,” says Marlowe. “They’re quite specific. They aren’t talking about the collapse of zone. They’re talking about what’s happened since. They say a demon rules the Flats now.”
She stares at him.
“That’s the word they use,” he says. “They say it feeds on human souls. They’re begging us not to continue.”
“They’ve just confirmed that we go on.”
“Pretty much.”
“Try to learn more about this thing. Ask them what it’s like.”
Marlowe does. But the people on the tunnel floor are getting increasingly upset. They’re getting ever louder. They’re trying to shut each other up. Marlowe quiets them, turns back toward Haskell.
“They’re saying that Seleucus has been sealed off. That anything living is forfeit. They’re saying this thing’s the devil.”
“This thing’s Manilishi.”
“Or the Rain themselves.”
“Or both.”
“So let’s get in there and join them.”
They steal on out of the tunnel.
M anaus is the largest city upriver from the sea. It’s the junction of the Amazon and several feeders. It’s been on a roll since Belem-Macapa took the sky’s own fire. Business is booming. U.S. soldiers are everywhere. Spencer and Linehan try not to look that interested. They’re busy getting one with dockland culture.
Which consists largely of bars. And drinking. Not to mention conversation that creeps slowly in toward negotiation. Control’s contacts are good. Control’s money is even better. Spencer does most of the talking. Linehan concentrates on looking menacing. It’s an effective partnership. They initiate contacts, get referrals, make payoffs. They do their utmost to make progress without attracting attention. It’s a tough balancing act. Several times they break off budding dialogue, leave venues in a hurry. Once they get jumped by locals smelling a quick mark—who live just long enough to realize their mistake.
But eventually they get out of the bars and into the back rooms. Which is where they pick up steam. Because now they’re dealing with people for whom Swiss bank accounts are simply standard procedure. People for whom this transaction is just one among so many others. Terms are reached in relatively short order.
Spencer’s not taking them at face value, however. One more reason they’ve gotten so far so quick: he’s been riding shotgun on the Latin zone the whole while. About three-quarters of that zone is under lock and key. A lot of those barriers are pretty recent too. He catches virtual glimpses overhead anyway—U.S. ships on the ascent, and he knows better than to put them to a close inspection. He reserves that treatment for the networks of this underworld—and in particular with the particular outfit with whom he’s dealing. He can’t see everything. He’d be worried if he could. But he can see the data they’ve got on him and Linehan—can see that it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere besides the folder that they’ve marked
And all the while he’s making other plans. Because he knows all about the intangibles that confront those who close in upon a border. He knows, too, that his reliance upon multiple suppliers isn’t just a matter of contingency. It’s also a question of portfolio management.
“Meaning what?” asks Linehan.
They’re in another ship, hauling out of Manaus in a fast river skimmer. This time they’re well below deck. They’re cloistered in a cargo container. The soybeans that fill all of that container’s neighbors are lined along the side of theirs in layers held in place with plastic. The resultant space contains water, food, pistols, a portable waste holder, and a conduit for oxygen. Spencer’s made a couple side deals, arranged for a wire to be slotted through that conduit as well—and from there into the ship’s comps. The presence of that wire makes it all the more likely that the container wouldn’t survive a close inspection.
But that’s just one more calculation in this numbers game.
“Let me put it this way,” says Spencer. “We’re not going to sit in this box and get predictable.”
“So what’s the next stop?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“You’re still
“Actually, to be more precise—I haven’t started.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”
“Proximity,” replies Spencer.
And closes his eyes.
Open your eyes,” says a voice.
The Operative does. And closes them immediately.
“Turn off that fucking
“Don’t make me ask you twice.”
The Operative opens his eyes fractionally, gazes out through narrow slits. The lights are so full in his face that he can see almost nothing of the room beyond them. “Keep them open,” says the voice. And the Operative doesn’t need to be told why. Retinas are just one more opportunity for the body to yield up its secrets. And as for all those others: he can feel needles buried in his flesh. His arms and legs are strapped to the chair in which he’s sitting. He can’t remember how he got here.
But he can guess what’s going to happen next.
“Strom Carson,” says the voice.
“Who’s he,” says the Operative.
“A traitor,” replies the voice.
“Where’d you learn such a big wor—
Fire’s pouring through the Operative’s veins. He contorts against his straps, cuts off all sound from his mouth as flame becomes freeze and burns him through with cold. Ice thrusts up through his skin. Half-melted blood dribbles from a hundred phantom wounds.
But then it all subsides.
“Strom Carson,” says the voice. “Praetorian agent assigned to the Moon. Active at Agrippa, Shackleton, and now Congreve. What have you been up to, Carson?”
“That’s classified.”
“We’re SpaceCom intelligence, Carson. Don’t talk to us about what’s classified.”
“Then how about telling me why I’m here.”
“Treason.”
