The doors slam shut behind him. The screens on his heads-up show him that he’s almost reached the inner enclave. The sirens have ceased. There’s an explosion somewhere close at hand. The corridor around him shakes.
“Cauterize,” says Lynx’s voice.
The Operative cuts off wireless access. Lynx can no longer reach him. Neither can anybody else. Lynx has just given the razor’s signal that he’s in danger of imminent capture. If that occurs, the mech is toast unless all connections have been severed. The Operative knows that if Sarmax is still alive, he’s received a similar missive. He knows that the whole thing’s hanging by a thread. He crosses through rooms full of laboratory equipment, charges through a large chamber where mining engines and drills lie disassembled. He heads on through into another corridor. He rounds another corner.
And comes face-to-face with Sarmax.
And almost shoots him. Almost gets shot himself. Sarmax waves his hands frantically. They establish the one-on-one.
“Lynx is down,” says Sarmax. “Matthias is here. Let’s take him.”
The Operative nods. Both men ignite their thrusters. They keep on fighting their way forward. They keep on carrying all before them. Lynx’s real-time adjustments have affected thrusts into the inner enclave in two places, followed by a linkup. Only problem is that Lynx himself has been cut out of the picture. And the base’s defenses are starting to come back online. Doors start to shut in their face. Guns start to pop out of the walls. Floors open up beneath their feet.
But the two men keep on moving toward the enclave. Not the false one that the place shows on its schematics. The real one that Lynx’s hacking has found. They cut their way through the adjacent chambers— through a room in which they catch marines frantically setting up heavy weapons, through a door so thick that the charge they use almost brings down the roof: through obstacle after obstacle until the Operative’s mind is a blur of noise and flame and reflex and there’s nothing in the universe save him and Sarmax and the ones they’re killing. They’re splitting up now for the final assault. The Operative is coming in the front door while Sarmax moves in from a side corridor. It’s going like clockwork.
And then an explosion tosses the Operative like a doll into the air. Another follows—so powerful it rips through several adjacent corridors. Walls tear like tissue paper even as the Operative strikes what’s left of them. He smells his own flesh burning. He can’t see Sarmax anywhere. All he can see is marines swarming in toward him from every direction. He opens fire on them. Something sears in toward him.
His world goes dark.
Light’s everywhere. Wavelengths bombard them from all directions on all spectrums. Their suits are being scrambled. Their systems are going haywire. They can’t see a thing.
“Show yourself,” screams Haskell.
“We’re right here,” replies a woman’s voice.
Haskell feels something slam against her. She totters. Something stabs her through her suit. She topples. She feels her body going numb. She’s being lifted off her feet. She’s murmuring curses. Her helmet’s being pulled off. Someone’s hands touch her forehead. Someone’s lips kiss her on the cheek.
“Christ we’ve missed you,” says that voice.
Memory crashes down upon her.
PART IV
CONFLAGRATION AND RAIN
Of course,” says a voice, “you couldn’t win.”
Claire Haskell opens her eyes. She’s sitting in the corner of a small room. It’s empty except for her.
And Morat.
He’s sitting cross-legged against the room’s only door. He looks totally undamaged. His new head’s smiling.
“You couldn’t win,” he repeats. “Then again: you couldn’t lose. You were fighting your own kind. You were fighting your own nature. But don’t be too hard on yourself. You weren’t to know. And now the time for fighting’s over.”
Haskell exhales slowly. “So the Manilishi was bullshit?”
“Not bullshit,” replies Morat. “A useful fiction.”
“And the Rain?”
“Conceived by Matthew Sinclair shortly after he was appointed by President Andrew Harrison to head up CounterIntelligence Command. Shortly after Harrison took power as the first president under the Reformed Constitution. The first and last, Claire. Because tonight he’s going down. And his Throne is going under.”
She stares at him.
“Autumn Rain,” he repeats. “Conceived by Sinclair and green-lighted by Harrison as the ultimate hit team. Engineered assassins who would be unstoppable. Who would decapitate the Eurasian high command in the first minutes of the next war. Who were bred in the same vat and trained together from birth. Who included among their members a woman called Claire Haskell. And a man called Jason Marlowe.”
“You bastard.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“Where is he?”
“You mean Jason?”
“Yes, damn you!”
“He’s fine.”
“
Morat smiles. A screen appears to the side of the door. It shows a room identical to this one. Marlowe’s sitting in one corner. His eyes are open. His expression’s blank.
“What the fuck have you done with him?” says Haskell.
“The same thing we’ve done with you,” replies Morat. “Restored his memories.”
“He looks like he’s lost his fucking mind.”
“Don’t you feel the same way?”
“Fuck you,” she says. “Tell me about the others.” The ones she didn’t even know she’d forgotten. The ones who are making her realize just how much she’s lost…
“They were marked for death by the president himself. Written off as too great a risk. They got wind of it, chose the path of Lucifer. But the Throne beat them to the punch. And the Praetorians slaughtered them.”
“But failed to finish the job.”
“Indeed. Those who escaped went underground. Where they devised a second coming. A whole new plan.”
“That plan being?”
“You already know it.”
“Oh Christ,” she says. “Oh no. Fuck you.”
“You shouldn’t hate me, Claire. Once I was the envoy who called himself Morat. Now all I am is your humble servant.”
“You mean the Rain’s.”
“They’ve waited for you for so long,” says Morat. “It’s time you went to join them.”
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“You must,” he replies. “Find in yourself that strength.”
He stands up even as the door behind him slides open.
