Runway falls away as the jet-copter’s engines flare. The craft banks steeply, curves out over the Owen-Stanley Range. New Guinea’s laid out before them.
“And we’re off,” says Spencer.
Sightless helmets staring: they’re sitting across from two of the captives. One of whose lips are moving silently as he mouths prayers.
“Hack this craft and find out everything you can,” says Sarmax.
“Already did,” says Spencer.
“What about Jarvin’s files?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“So hurry it up.”
He’s been too busy keeping their identities afloat to worry about the files he and Sarmax ransacked at the handler’s safe house. He’s starting to multitask as best he can. But so far the most valuable thing he’s gotten was in the jet-copter’s computers. And it’s not much. Just a route—and a destination, a hundred klicks southwest of Lhasa, in the Himalayas. Everything else is denied this craft’s pilots.
But Spencer’s working on the angles. The whole Eurasian zone seems to be turning in his head now. Over the last few minutes it’s been getting ever louder. Now it’s like a siren screaming through his mind. He’s never felt so wired. And yet the Eastern zone isn’t telling him too much about the basements and corridors on the maps he’s now accessing. He can see the blueprints. But he’s missing key data. He’s pretty sure that’s how it’s been designed. He won’t know for certain until they make landfall, which won’t be for several hours.
So he does what he can in the meantime—continues to make inroads on Jarvin’s files, and while he’s at it, double-checks the cargo the ship’s carrying. He focuses anew on the dossiers. Three of the physicists on board defected from the East awhile ago. Now they’re on their way back, to face some new employment conditions. Spencer scans their files, analyzes those of their colleagues—tries to read the tea leaves contained within, but doesn’t get very far.
“Can’t base anything on this,” he says.
“Lot of nuclear expertise,” says Sarmax.
“Means nothing.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re riding one of Christ knows how many cargoes. All going to the same general area. We just happen to be on the nuke bus.”
“Go on.”
“And no way were they gonna leave this kind of talent back in HK. They’ll grab them as a matter of course. Along with anyone with expertise in nanotech, directed energy, stealth—you name it, they’ll have it. Trying to deduce what we’re looking for from what they’re vacuuming out of HK is an exercise in futility.”
“You’re probably right,” says Sarmax.
“Of course I’m right. And it looks like most of the really sensitive stuff under those hills is cauterized from wireless, if not cut off altogether. We’re going to have to wait till we get a little closer to find out for sure.”
“Works for me,” says Sarmax—turns toward the window.
• • •
A clean sweep,” says Haskell. “Against enemies within and without.”
“That’s the idea.”
“The Throne’s making a mistake in keeping me out of this.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s too much at stake, Carson.”
“That’s why we can’t risk you being compromised.”
“You really think the Throne’s enemies might get to me?”
“Can you guarantee otherwise?”
“Why the hell would I have destroyed Autumn Rain if I was plotting against the Throne?”
“It’s a good point.”
“So the Throne shouldn’t be keeping me stowed away like this.” She’s disturbed to find how angry she’s getting. “He should be bringing me online.”
“Unless.”
“Unless what?”
The Operative just stares at her. She stares back.
“What are you getting at, Carson?”
“I’m hoping you can answer that question for me.”
“You think that someone might still have a back door to my mind.”
“Can you rule it out?”
She shakes her head.
“We know those doors exist, Claire. We used one on the Platform. So did the Rain. We’d thought they were all accounted for. But we have reason to believe that some of the original CICom data on you might have wound up in the hands of Szilard himself. Meaning that as a weapon you’d be worse than useless. You’d be turned against us by SpaceCom.”
“Not necessarily. It all depends—”
“On what sort of back doors we’re talking about. Exactly.”
“Where’s your evidence?
“Call it a hypothesis.”
“A pretty specific one. Why do you think Szilard—”
“Never mind what we think about the Lizard. What matters now is you.”
“I can find out,” she says.
“Find out what.”
“If there’s a back door.”
“Really?” He moves toward her.
“Given enough time,” she says. She draws away.
“We don’t have that time,” he says.
“What are you proposing?”
“I’m not
She starts to lunge aside. But he’s already driving the needle into her flesh.
It’s as though she’s falling down some long tunnel where there’s no light and no darkness save what’s already in her head—swirling all around, solidifying into fragments of mirror that reflect everything she’s ever dreamed straight back into her eyes … blinding her, spinning her around to the point where it’s like the universe is nothing but rotation and she’s the only constant. But everywhere she looks it’s the same: the face of Carson and all he’s saying is
It all snaps into focus.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m operating,” he replies.
He’s not kidding. He’s got her strapped back into the chair, her blood filled with painkillers so she can’t feel a thing. She can see through only one eye. The other one’s dangling in the zero-G beside her nose. He’s plucked it out. The optic nerve is hanging there, along with tangles of circuitry that lead back inside her eye socket. He’s got his razorwire extended from one hand into the circuitry. But she sees something else, too: droplets of blood floating in front of her, and she suddenly realizes that—
