“Why did you kill me?” says Marlowe.
“Don’t you dare go there,” she says.
But he already has. And it’s already set something in motion that she knows she can’t stop. Some kind of chain reaction going off within her as though she’s nothing but thousands of tiny gears and pulleys now cranking into operation—ten million dominoes toppling in long lines across vast illuminated floors—and she’s powerless to stop it. She’s on the ground now, and it’s all ice beneath her while she lies on her back and snow falls into her open mouth and eyes. Her innermost desires are exposed to the light—and the face of Jason Marlowe is streaking fire as it drops burning from the sky toward horizon …
“I didn’t know what compulsions he’d been rigged with,” she whispers.
“You don’t know what compulsions
“Maybe I should have.”
“Carson might not like that.”
“Who cares what he likes?”
“He thought to enslave you.”
“It’s me who’s enslaved him.”
“Given that he’s the world’s best actor—”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” she says. “He’s only fooling himself. He’s spent his whole life running from his own emotions. If he faces me again, his mind will be in my power. Trust me on that—”
“I don’t need to trust you ever again,” says Morat. “That’s the beauty of all this.”
“That’s what you think—”
“Your psychology is endlessly fascinating, Claire. The more cornered you get, the more arrogant you become. Even though that acrid odor you’re smelling is the core of your own mind burning out.”
She can’t smell a thing. Still can’t move either. She hears sharp cracking noises around her. Turns out that what she’s sprawled on is really pack ice breaking up. She feels herself pulled in all too many directions. Everything beneath her is starting to go.
“It’s been nice knowing you, Claire.” Morat’s voice morphs seamlessly into that of Control. “Take comfort in the fact that you’re the most fascinating challenge I’ve ever faced.”
“You’re done?”
“In ten more seconds.”
“Which is when—”
“You become the world’s most intelligent automaton. A shame you won’t be able to let me know how it feels.”
“Fuck you to the gates of damnation—”
Frigid liquid closes in around her head.
They’ve entered the domain of gravity. Apparently this is the rotating part of the ship. They cross a bridge, and Linehan can’t even see the bottom. Lynx isn’t even looking. Linehan can only imagine how much wider of a purview that man must have. He always thought razors were sad, confined creatures who couldn’t take the world and lived within themselves. Now he’s realizing that they’ve got the only world worth having. Ayahuasca taught him that. That, and Spencer—who told him that for a razor, it was basically altered consciousness every time they jack in, that all life was just a shimmering of maya anyway—endless pixel fragments scattered down some endless well of dark. He can believe it. He’s heard that back on Earth there are tribes that believe that by eating the bodies of their enemies they consume their souls. He feels like maybe that’s what happened to his. He follows Lynx as that man leads the way into a vast chamber.
And then he sees what lines the walls.
“Oh dear God,” he says.
“That’s what they’ll be calling me when this is all over,” says Lynx.
One-third of the way to the Moon,
“The whites of their eyes are a long way off,” says Sarmax.
But getting closer. The ship is starting to speed up slightly. Spencer feels his magnetic clamps gripping just a little bit tighter against the wall of the shaft they’re crawling through. They’re getting ever nearer to the hull, approaching a small room set against it, identical rooms set around it. Officer quarters—and Spencer’s looking through the cameras at one officer in particular. He wears a major’s stripes. He’s sitting cross-legged, smiling very faintly. His eyes scare Spencer shitless.
You fucking bastards,” says the Operative.
“We’re just the errand boys,” says Riley.
The opaque visor has slid aside. Sightless eyes stare up at him. The face of Claire Haskell is without expression. Her mouth is slightly open. She’s breathing slowly.
“It’s not her,” says the Operative.
“Believe it or not,” says Riley, “it is.”
She dwelt underwater way too long. But then one day all that sea boiled away in an instant. Leaving only a voice.
That of Matthew Sinclair.
“Claire,” he says. “Can you hear me?”
“I can,” she replies.
She can feel him, too. His mental presence is very clear, totally unmistakable. Her mind can suddenly see straight through the mainframe in which she’s captive, out beyond Montrose’s base—out across the Cislunar, all the way to the L5 fleet and the ship that sits at its center. Sinclair’s brain burns before her with the intensity of a firestorm, but all she can think of is a single question.
“Is this part of the interrogation, too?”
“A better word is by-product.”
What the fuck is this?” asks Linehan.
“What does it look like?” says Lynx.
“I thought this wasn’t a real colony ship.”
“Guess it’s got all the accessories.”
Cryo-bays stretch around them. The sleepers are packed about as tight as possible. Their eyes are open. Their vital signs are checking out. Lynx walks over to one of them, rips a socket out of the wall. One set of vital signs flatlines.
“Let’s get on with it,” he says.
Thirty seconds,” says Spencer. They’re pulling themselves through spaces barely wide enough to accomodate their armor. They’re within the duct-system of the officer quarters now. The man’s still sitting there, staring straight ahead. Spencer’s hoping that this isn’t some image that’s been put there for his benefit. Even so, he’s got a nasty feeling—
“This guy’s Autumn Rain,” he says.
“You know that for a fact?” says Sarmax.
“I’m asking
“I don’t know
He’s referring to the laser mounted on his shoulder; it’s just swiveled, pointed downward at the wall ahead. But Spencer’s the one with the blueprint.
“Burn it,” he says, and Sarmax does just that.
