The Burning Skies (52 page)

N
o way out: she’s running through the burning streets of Belem-Macapa and the burning Elevator’s plunging from the sky toward her. She can’t remember how she got here. She can’t remember what happens next. She thought it involved Jason. But Jason’s dead. And she’s about to join him. Because there’s no way out of this. The mob’s in full cry after her, screaming for her blood, screaming that they’ve found themselves a Yankee razor. It’s true. She’s American. She can’t help that. She can’t help what her people have done. She can’t give these people what they never had. She’s got only one thing left to give. She turns a corner.

And finds she’s reached the river. The Amazon stretches
away on both sides, winding through the city. There’s so much smoke now that she can barely see the pier that stretches out into the midst of the river. She runs along the pier, reaches its end.

A boat’s sitting there. It’s small—pretty much a gondola. Carson stands in its rear. He’s leaning on an oar, gazing up at her.

“Which way?” he asks.

She leaps in, tells him any way will do. But he tells her she has to choose. Between upriver and downriver. Between jungle and sea. She stares at him. She can’t speak. The mob’s storming onto the pier behind her. Carson glances at them, smiles. Looks back at her.

“Choose quickly,” he says.

But she can’t. She can’t choose at all. Even as the mob closes upon her. Even as she realizes her mind’s not her own. It’s as though someone’s pulling her strings. As though someone’s about to cut her loose.

“Take her apart,” says Carson.

Men wielding machetes leap into the boat.

S
armax is off in his own little world. That suits Spencer fine. He’s not interested in dealing with that guy’s issues. All he’s interested in is what’s in his own mind.

Which is intricate beyond belief. Now that they’ve crossed the coast of Vietnam, more of the Eastern zone’s becoming visible. He’s got access to a lot more data than he had previously. Things that were blurry are becoming clear. Things that weren’t even visible are coming into sight. Most of those things have locks. But that doesn’t matter, because he’s starting to make inroads anyway. The files of Alek Jarvin float before
him: onetime handler of CICom and fugitive for the last few days of his life. Spencer still hasn’t cracked them.

And he’s growing increasingly sure they contain something he needs. Something he’d better figure out quickly. His mind’s operating on multiple levels now. His thoughts are accelerating. He’s starting to feel like he’s tripping again. Faces dance on the edge of his zone-vision, but every time he looks, they’re gone. He feels like he’s become a ghost, like he’s been summoned from some world beyond to haunt this one for all its sins. His view into the cities of the East keeps on growing. He’s finally got the access he’s always wanted—he looks in upon those lives and streets and cities and knows himself for the voyeur he always was. He gets it now—sees that those lives were always more interesting than his own. That what’s inside a screen was always more compelling than whatever might appear within a window. By far. He’s come so far too—doesn’t want to stop now as his mind races toward the mountains, drops through shafts, darts in toward all the secret chambers that lie beneath.

N
ow she’s in a room without windows. Or doors. She’s sitting at a table. The U.S. president sits at the table’s other side. They look at each other. “Are you really Harrison?” she asks. “Does it matter?”

“I think it does.”

“Indeed,” he says. “Have you been granted an audience under the deepest of truth-serums or is this just Carson rummaging through your subconscious, using this face as a filter? I’m afraid I’m not in a position to give you absolute proof either way.”

“But we can talk anyway,” she says.

“I suppose we can.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Betray me.”

“I can’t betray anyone, Claire. By definition.”

“You really think it all revolves around you.”

“I’d be a fool to believe otherwise.”

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“I’m responsible for our nation’s future.”

“You think I stand in the way of that?”

“I think our partnership was unnatural, Claire.”

“Unnatural?”

“Temporary, then.”

“Ah.”

“The product of a common purpose. We had a common enemy. When that enemy was beaten, what was I to do?”

“Trust me.”

He laughs in a way that’s not unkind. “I’m not a normal human being, Claire.”

“You think I am?”

“I think you genuinely wished to help me.”

“Then why—”

“It wasn’t a case of what you wanted in the present moment. It was a case of what might happen next. Do you really think you’d have been happy carrying out my orders?”

“I could have given you advice—”

“And you really think I’d need it? I know what I’m doing, Claire. I’ve ruled this country for more than two decades. I led our people out of chaos. Out of cold war.”

“But now war’s right around the corner.”

“We’ll avert it yet.”

“And if we don’t? My battle-management capabilities—you’ll need me—”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We’ll see where matters stands when Carson’s finished.”

“You fucking bastard,” she says. “You’re trying to turn me into a bunch of
programs
that you can copy. You want to own what’s in my head without having to deal with me.”

“You speak as though you were your own creator.”

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“We built you. We paid for you. We’re not in a position to negotiate with you every time we want to take a step you might disagree with.”

“You mean like launching an all-out strike against the Eurasian Coalition?”

“You have to admit that if there was some way to just wipe out the East’s military at no risk to ourselves—just take them out and take their cities, let the population live beneath our guns—things would be a hell of a lot simpler.”

“But there’s no fucking way—”

“No,” he says. “There isn’t. War would be insane. That’s why I’ve done everything possible to preserve the peace. The only window of opportunity for striking the Coalition would have been if you’d been able to restart our zone without restarting the East’s. But since that wasn’t possible—”

She looks at him. She tries to stop herself from what she’s about to say. But she can’t.

“It
was
possible,” she whispers.

“And you didn’t tell us because you guessed I was contemplating a preemptive strike against the East?”

She says nothing. He shakes his head.

“You see what I mean? You’re too dangerous, Claire. Too many ideas of your own. Wouldn’t be long before you started wondering why the executive node was in my head instead of yours. Or wondering whether you could build a better one to supersede mine. You’re Rain, Claire. They wanted to rule the Earth-Moon system. Why should you be any different?”

“I never wanted to rule anything.”

“History is littered with leaders who said exactly that. Some of them even believed it.”

“You never did.”

“And I never said it.”

“You’re missing the point—”

“No,” he says. “You are. Because it doesn’t matter what you
want
. What matters is what you’re
capable
of.”

“Since you’re inside my fucking head, why don’t you tell me.”

“Anything,” he says. “You’re out of control. You’ve already gone beyond everything you were designed for. Why are you laughing?”

“Because that’s exactly what Sinclair said to me a few days back.”

“So why
did
you talk to him?”

“He—he was the closest thing to a father I ever had.” She’s surprised at how steady her voice sounds.

“Don’t you realize how black a mark it was against you when we found out?”

“You weren’t supposed to. It was a private matter.”

“My prisons aren’t some opportunity for therapy, Claire.”

“What will you do with him?”

“Execute him. Eventually. Once it becomes clear we’ve no further need for him. Once we can. Why are you crying? He would never have shed a tear over anybody.”

“I know,” she mumbles. “I know. He was cold and heartless. So are you. You all are. I’d sweep you all away if I could. I’d—”

“You see? You can’t hide anything from us.” He gets up, walks around to her side of the table. Looks down. “Not when we’re right here with you.”

“Fuck you,” she says.

“It’s a tragedy that you’ve so much power and so little idea of how to use it.”

“You’re
the tragedy,” she says. “You’ll strangle yourself in your machinations yet.”

“You first,” he says.

And puts his hands around her neck, starts squeezing. She kicks against him. But his grip may as well be iron.

“It’s time,” he mutters.

She fights for air. There’s none. Everything goes black.

C
laire,” a voice whispers.

But it’s an eternity before she can process it. She’s dwelling in some darkness far beyond all pain. She hears her own name dripping down across some sky some sound in a world where all that lives is silent. She drifts in toward the voice.