The Machinery of Light

“Fuck,” says Carson. “They’re—”

“Off the zone,” she snarls. “You planned this.”

“I swear to God I didn’t.”

“Then let’s get the fuck out of—”

“We’ve got to make it look like you’re still my captive,” says the Operative—and switches Haskell’s zone- restraints back on.

She stares at him. “You sick little fuck—”

“Sorry, Claire,” says Carson—hits another switch; Haskell convulses—just as the door to the pod gets yanked open by a man wearing a colonel’s uniform. Carson stands up, pulling at Haskell.

“I need you to take us to Montrose,” he says.

“You’re no longer giving orders,” says the colonel.

Now that’s what I call a landing,” says Linehan.

“Shut up,” says Lynx.

But neither man’s pressing the point. They’ve already put what’s left of the corvette behind them. They’re both feeling lucky to be alive. Though Linehan has his doubts about how much longer that’s going to last. Because surely any moment this whole ship will …

“He can’t,” says Lynx.

“What?”

“This ship. Szilard can’t blow it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s one of the largest in his fleet.”

“You’re talking about the man who nuked his own flagship,” says Linehan.

“Back when he was winning the fucking war.”

Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon synchronize their assaults. Doors open all along their hulls; both ships start laying down a carpet of bombs as they rise through the heart of the defenses above the American homeland, their accompanying fleets following them in swarms that stretch halfway back across the Pacific.

“Surprised they’d lead with explosives,” says Spencer.

“They’re just softening the joint up.”

And then some. Most of the bombs are getting nailed by ground-based DE. But those that remain are detonating—

“Holy fuck,” says Spencer.

“Xasers,” mutters Sarmax.

The ultimate directed-energy weapon: warheads that channel the X rays of their nuclear explosions into a lethal rain of invisible fire that’s wreaking utter havoc on the def-grids. The ships coming in behind start flinging down hails of nukes. The American cities are going dark.

“Fuck me,” says Spencer.

“Those lights won’t be coming on again,” says Sarmax.

The fleets accelerate toward orbit.

PART II APOGEE

The Operative’s about as furious as he’s ever been. He’s being hustled through the Congreve spaceport, and his escorts are making sure nobody’s getting near him. They’re refusing to tell him where he’s going. Montrose won’t take his calls. The president has clearly decided that there’s no compelling reason to have him anywhere near her HQ. He wonders if he’s being hauled away to execution. He’s looking for the moment to try something along the way.

But they enter another hangar before he can act. A shuttle sits in the center, prepping for launch. He’s hustled in toward it. The pilots are standing on a ramp, conferring with mechanics. The Operative thinks there’s something familiar about those pilots, but it’s not until one of them turns toward him that he knows for sure.

Haskell’s coming to her senses. They don’t amount to much. Her head hurts. She’s on her back, restrained, in another train moving down another track. The only difference is that the heavily armed soldiers standing along the walls are American. An InfoCom colonel stands next to her.

“Awake at last,” he says. “Just in time to see the president—”

“—go fuck herself?”

“She’ll want you to be more articulate than that.”

“She can want all she likes.”

“I’d be careful about pissing her off.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“She’s in a pretty bad mood right now.”

“I can imagine.”

“You don’t need to imagine anything. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

She stares up at him. “What’s your part in all this anyway?”

“I’m a loyal servant of the president.”

“That’s a role that’s going out of fashion.”

He shrugs, turns away.

Carson,” says Riley.

“Been too long,” says Maschler.

“Indeed,” says the Operative. He’s trying not to look surprised. Trying to make it look like he knew this was going to happen—like he knew he was going to run smack into the men who ferried him off Earth all those days ago when that Elevator blew and set this all in motion. “You guys been staying out of trouble?”

“We’ve been staying off Earth,” says Maschler.

“And that’s fine by us,” adds Riley.

They look at one another.

“How soon do we leave?” asks the Operative.

“That’d be now,” says one of the soldiers.

The train’s slowing to a halt. Doors hiss open. Haskell’s guards steer her gurney onto a platform, through more doors and into an elevator. She feels her stomach lurch as she drops at speed through the shaft. She’s estimating she’s now a couple of klicks beneath the level of the train, which was nowhere near the surface to begin with.

The doors open. Haskell’s pushed out, down another corridor, up a ramp to a massive pair of blast doors. More InfoCom soldiers stand in front of them. Haskell’s escorts halt.

“Now what?” she says.

“Now we leave you,” says the colonel.

“You mean you don’t make the cut?”

“I follow orders,” he says in a tone that says maybe it’s time you started doing the same. But Haskell says nothing. The colonel gestures to his soldiers and leads them back down the corridor while the blast-door guards scan Haskell. They wear the uniforms of Montrose’s bodyguards.

“Can’t be too careful,” she says.

They ignore her, standing back as the doors swing open. Haskell watches as the space behind them becomes