The Machinery of Light

“So what if I don’t resist?”

“Then I’ll have you all the quicker. This isn’t about resistance, Claire. This is about the puzzle that’s your mind. Which my lady Montrose has charged me with unlocking.”

“You’re not the first to try.”

“I’ll settle for being the last. Shall we begin?”

“I thought we already had.”

Laughter rises up to swamp her.

The shuttle’s risen past the outermost of the Congreve traffic zones. Maschler’s working the controls. The ship lurches as more engines fire. Suddenly the Moon’s moving away at speed.

“Express haul,” says the Operative.

“It’s still going to take a few hours,” says Riley.

“So let’s cut to the chase,” says Maschler. “Montrose knew what you were up to from the start.”

“Did she really.”

“For sure.”

“How?”

“Fuck’s sake man, you were too good to be true. Praetorian traitor willing to turn over the keys to Harrison’s back door and bag the Manilishi while he was at it?”

“It was true.”

“But not the whole story.”

“Is it ever?”

“Look at him,” says Riley. “Like the cat that ate the canary. I think he still thinks he can beat us.”

“Is that true?” asks Maschler. “You still believe that, Carson?”

“I think you guys are getting ahead of yourselves.”

“You’re the one who’s done that. By thinking that the fact that you’re Autumn Rain makes you invincible.”

“I’m not exactly Autumn Rain—”

“You’re not exactly anything,” says Riley.

“Neither fish nor fowl,” says Maschler. “How does it feel to be a prototype, Carson?”

“Never had much to compare it to,” says the Operative.

We’ll start with some control questions.”

“That’s fitting,” says Haskell.

Control ignores the barb. “With whom am I talking?”

“Claire Hask—” but as she says the words, pain boils up from within her, engulfs her in agony. She knows she should be screaming, but she can’t. She can’t even move her jaw. Can’t close her eyes either—all she can do is stare transfixed at the featureless light shimmering around her as fire sears across her nerves.

And subsides.

“Wrong answer,” says Control.

“Fucking bastard,” she says.

“What I am is incidental. What matters is what you are.”

“I’m Claire Hask—”

More pain. Control’s voice seeps slowly through:

“We might agree to call you Claire for the sake of convenience. But what you really are is Manilishi.”

She says nothing.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s right.”

“And what is Manilishi?”

“Isn’t that the big question—”

“I’m not asking for the full answer,” snaps Control. “You don’t know. I realize that. That makes two of us. Just tell me what you do know.”

“I’m a biocomputer able to perform hacks faster than the speed of light.”

“And how do you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Control says nothing.

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “I’ve tried—”

“So what would you guess?”

“I’d guess retrocausality.”

“I’d say we can do more than guess.”

“Signals from the future,” she mutters.

“Could there be another explanation?”

“It’s not much of a fucking explanation.”

“Then perhaps we should think of it as a start.”

So let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” says Riley. “You and Sarmax and Lynx were the first out of the gate, but —”

“What is this, true confessions?”

“Call it what you like,” says Maschler.

“You’re beaming everything I say back to Montrose.”

“So what if we are?”

“Let me speak to her.”

Maschler laughs. “I think you overestimate the smoothness of your tongue.”

“Not to mention our ability to get her on the line,” adds Riley.

“She’s too busy losing the final war, huh?”

“Take it like a man,” says Maschler. “Can’t talk to the judge after she’s handed down the verdict, can you?”

“She’s under no illusions,” says Riley. “She took your measure, Carson. Overmighty subject plotting for the day when—”

“I’m not sure I’d agree with the word subject.”

“And therein lies the problem,” says Maschler. “No one who became the Rain ever did.”

“Only three people ever became the Rain,” says the Operative.

Riley shrugs. “An imprecise term,” he says. “But I think we’re on the same page. The danger of creating the ultimate hit team, eh? Three were modified and the rest were born to it—engineered from the very start—but all of them shared the same lust to dominate all else. And all of them went through a similar process. One that—”

“Linked minds,” says the Operative.

“And how much do you know about the actual process?” asks Riley.

The Operative laughs. “Only one man knows what counts.”

It starts with Matthew Sinclair,” says Haskell.

“Of course it does,” replies Control.

“He set it all in motion.”

“But what was all of it?”

She hesitates. “That’s a control question?”

“I daresay we’re starting to move beyond them.”

She shrugs. The light around her seems to be shifting as though it’s water—like waves rising and receding, but it’s still as opaque as ever. She glances down at her hands and wonders what’s happened to her real body— wonders if she’s being operated on in a far more comprehensive fashion than Carson attempted. Perhaps her flesh has already been disposed of. Perhaps it was never that critical anyway. Maybe Montrose and her AI jackal have