T he door of Spencer’s mind has been ripped from its hinges. They administered the drug they call ayahuasca about an hour ago. They’ve cut him off from zone. Now he’s locked in a room beneath the Andes even as all other locks are withering.
“Fuck,” he says.
Nothing happens. Everything convulses. He feels like he’s being thrust straight through the center of the Earth and clean out the other side. He feels himself catapult out into the universe. The pressure on his chest is growing unbearable. His eyes are like crystals frozen in some everlasting ice.
“Ah
The walls of his cell are shimmering. His chains are disappearing. That pressure’s vanishing. Suddenly there’s nothing holding him in place. He can get up. He can stand up. He can flee.
So he does. He moves toward the wall. It seems solid. But he’s not fooled. He can trace a route straight through it. He starts to move out into the living rock.
“Going somewhere?” says a voice.
He doesn’t even need to turn. He can see everything. The door to his cell has opened to the corridor beyond. Two Jaguar soldiers stand there. Neither wears armor. Both are heavily armed.
“Maybe,” he replies.
“We’ve got something for you far better than that wall,” says one of them. The man speaks neither English nor Spanish. But somehow Spencer understands every word anyway. He turns around.
“What are you talking about?”
“A gateway.”
He lets them lead him down that corridor.
The Operative sits in a room. Darkness sits within him. He can’t believe he’s been taken prisoner twice in the same mission. By the same outfit too. Now he’s somewhere in the heart of Nansen. In a loose-fitting grey outfit. There’s no sign of his armor. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He’s not even sure he cares.
A screen’s descending from the ceiling of his cell. It unfolds before him.
A face appears upon it.
A nd now we’re all here,” says Morat.
Ten meters down the corridor from the room in which Haskell awoke: Morat’s just opened the door to another room. Haskell looks inside. Marlowe looks up at her. He smiles weakly.
“Claire,” he says.
She steps within, steps to him. Sits down next to him. Puts her arm around him. Lets her head rest on his shoulder. Tries to talk on wireless.
But can’t.
“As I’m sure you’re figuring out,” says Morat, “we’ve disabled those of your neural links that enable dialogue. Though even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Each of you knows the same as the other.”
Haskell ignores him. She kisses Marlowe on the cheek. “How do you feel?” she asks.
“Like shit,” he says.
“Makes two of us.”
“I remember them
“I know,” she whispers. “I know.” She looks at Morat. “Which of them are still alive?”
“They haven’t told me,” replies Morat.
“You’re lying,” says Haskell.
“It’s not like
“Well, who’s in this base besides us?”
“Some very impatient people.”
“Let them wait a few minutes longer,” she says.
“I want to see them,” says Marlowe.
“You’re right,” replies Haskell. She stands up. “We have to face this.”
S pencer’s being dragged up step after step. What looks like jungle’s far beneath. What looks like sky is far overhead. It looks like this is some kind of simulation. Because as far as he knows he’s still deep underground. The walls around him must be screens. Or else this is all virtual reality. Or the drugs. It scarcely matters. It’s the realest thing he’s ever seen. A sliver of Moon’s stretched amidst the clouds. He’s reaching the pyramid’s roof.
Torches burn at all its corners. Men wearing headdresses stand at intervals along its edges. Spencer’s hauled past them to the raised dais at the roof’s center. An altar rests upon that dais.
As does a throne. A man’s seated upon it. Linehan lies prostrate in chains before him. The man who’s been dragging Spencer throws him down.
“Gaze upon the Great Cat,” he says.
Spencer raises his head to look at the man on the throne. He wears a jaguar skin. Its arms drape down his shoulders. A face stares from between its jaws. A smile slowly appears upon that face.
“So now the one who calls himself Lyle Spencer comes before us,” says the man. “His people are about to perish utterly. They need one who can reach the afterlife before them. One who can bear witness.”
“Who are you?” says Spencer. A guard brings a boot down on his back.
“No,” says the man sharply. “Let him converse freely. The sky’s own finger penetrates his brain. We grant him the privilege of discourse.”
“You’re not getting a thing out of me,” says Spencer.
“Nor do I need to,” says the man.
In the bunkers beneath Nansen there’s a room. In that room a man’s gazing at a screen. The man upon that screen wears the insignia of a SpaceCom general. He looks like he’s lived life too long beyond the bounds of gravity. His face is sunken. What’s left of his hair is almost white.
“I’m Anton Matthias,” says the man.
The Operative looks at him. “Yeah?”
“You’re the Praetorian who caused us so much trouble.”
“And you’re the traitor who’s still causing it.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” says Matthias.
“You got another?”
“The real traitor’s the Throne,” says Matthias. “For thinking that he could do a deal with the East. For succumbing to the poison called detente.”
“And for daring to purge the poison within Space Command?”
But Matthias only laughs.
“Why the fuck am I still alive?” asks the Operative.
“What if I said it was because I can still use you?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit. I serve the Throne.”
“Carson: in about ten minutes there’s not going to
“That makes no sense. If you had any sense, you’d kill me now. Seriously—why are you keeping me alive?”
“Why don’t you take me at face value?”
“What happened to the rest of my team?”
“They sold you down the river.”
