“Nice work,” says Lynx.
“So now I work for you?”
“I wish I could do that kind of conditioning on the fly.” Lynx grins. “Actually now you’re working for
“Say what?”
“Man’s been so long in the cage he can’t even recognize the light of freedom! Better get out there and grab it before—”
“So I could just kill you right now?”
“You could try,” says Lynx. “But I don’t think you want—”
“I’m going to rip your suit apart.”
“Do you realize how many times I’ve heard that?”
“This’ll be the last,” says Linehan—grabs Lynx, shoves him against the wall even as Lynx keeps talking:
“But don’t you want to hear what I was about to tell you about Szilard fucking you over?”
Linehan pauses. Lynx laughs.
“You forgot all about that, didn’t you?”
“I—uh—how come?”
“Because you were having too much fun killing that razor?” “You
“And it’d be a lot easier if you stopped fighting it. Look, man, Szilard’s got you marked. Think about it. Because even by today’s standards, your history’s pretty checkered.”
Linehan lets go of Lynx. Confusion swirls through his head …
“So let me see if I’ve got it straight,” continues Lynx. “You started out as SpaceCom and then got tracked by Autumn Rain and drenched in old-school drugs and turned by InfoCom, after which you got suborned to the president and then I took you over as part of the rump committee of Autumn Rain and brought you into a hit on Szilard in an attempt to take over the entire—”
He stops. Linehan’s staring at him blankly.
“Do you remember
“I—uh—some of it—but—”
“But here’s the thing you’ve got to ask yourself: even if Szilard has found a temporary use for you while he’s busy winning World War Three, do you really think he plans to keep you around?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“Well, let me be the first to welcome you to it: he’s about to blow the whole
“This ship?”
“No, the fucking state. Big Sky Country’s gonna get it
“To get at
“Don’t be so full of yourself.”
“But what about Szilard?” asks Linehan.
“What about him?”
“Isn’t he on this ship too?”
“Only if you jump to conclusions.”
Russian trains have names. This one’s called
“What the hell are you doing here?” asks the engineer.
“Giving the orders,” says the major, drawing a gun.
“Works for us,” says the driver.
They clearly aren’t looking for trouble. They’ve managed to find it anyway. They’re obviously going to do whatever he tells them. Some things might cause them to hesitate. But not enough to try anybody’s patience.
“I need you to get us moving again.”
“The line’s blocked up ahead,” says the driver.
“Congestion,” says the engineer. “It’s sheer chaos. Everyone and their dog are trying to get the hell—”
“They’ll clear the line,” says the man.
“They will?”
“When you transmit these codes.”
Sarmax activates his suit’s laser and starts burning his way through the wall.
“Are you nuts?” asks Spencer.
“What’s your problem?”
“They’ll be able to see we were here.”
“If they end up in this room, sure.”
“Look, Leo, there’s obviously a door here somewhere.”
“Sure, but we don’t have time to find it.”
“How about giving me a chance to look?”
“How about getting the hell out of my way?”
Sarmax intensifies the beam, lets metal liquefy as he traces an incandescent line along the wall. Spencer watches anxiously. He’s realized that the door out of here is actually the entire wall. If there’s a manual release, it’s on the other side anyway. Sarmax kicks in what’s left of the softened metal and peers through.
“Bingo,” he says.
Spencer takes a look.
“Shit,” he says.
They’re near the bottom of the elevator-shaft complex that runs up the spine. Below them’s only about fifty meters, but above them he can see what must be at least half a klick of shaft before it’s lost in darkness. Other shafts are dimly visible through gaps in the interior walls.
“Our new bolthole,” says Sarmax. Spencer nods—and suddenly his mind reels as the ship’s zone comes to life—
“Damn,” he says.
Data pours across him, and he’s poring over it. And processing the implications—
“What?” says Sarmax. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“The external doors,” says Spencer.
All along the vast metal hull of this thing they’re in, all in one fell swoop in his mind—
“
“They just opened.”
The tunnel up ahead is blocked by Eurasian commandos. She starts to hit the brakes, but it’s too late: they’re already firing a torrent of electromagnetic pulse straight at her. Her armor’s flaring out around her, crashing against the rails, skittering to a stop as she kicks and screams inside her shell. The Eurasians blast down the tunnel toward her. She wonders how the hell she’s going to get out of this—wonders for a moment if she should self-destruct. She ponders that for a moment too long—
Because now they reach her. Mongolian faces stare into her own. They pick her up, hustle her down the tunnel while more tremors shudder through the rock around them.
The Operative signals his team, gets them moving in new directions. They’re charging into a new set of tunnels, well beyond Congreve’s outskirts, dating from the end of the last century. The Operative can feel a whole sector of Congreve scrambling into action behind him. But he’s not waiting—just streaking forward into the areas where the sentinels have stopped reporting.
And all the while he’s thinking furiously. About what the fuck
