The Machinery of Light

“What newcomer?” asks Sarmax.

“That guy who slipped aboard at the last moment.”

“That guy?”

“Yeah, that guy. You didn’t seem that concerned at the time.”

“He didn’t just head to the cockpit?”

“Why would you assume he’d head to the cockpit?”

“If he’s impervious to hacking, he’s obviously important.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s in the cockpit.”

“Even though it’s basically impregnable?”

Spencer shrugs.

“So where the fuck is he?” asks Sarmax.

“In his quarters.”

“Which are where?”

“Other side of the ship.”

Sarmax looks thoughtful.

“Wait a second,” says Spencer, “you’re not thinking—”

“Why not? Let’s go say hi.”

You’re playing a dangerous game,” says the Operative.

“You’re one to talk,” says Maschler.

“The difference is I’m under no illusions,”

“Name a single one that governs InfoCom.”

“Keeping Sinclair alive is a good idea.”

For a moment there’s silence.

“We already discussed why that’s necessary,” says Riley.

“Have we?”

“He’s the only one who knows the formula that created Autumn Rain.”

“You sure about that?” asks the Operative.

“Who else did you have in mind?” asks Maschler.

“There must have been scientists. Technicians. Lab records.”

“Yeah?” asks Riley. “You seen any?”

The Operative shrugs. “I heard Sinclair had a file—”

“Which went AWOL,” sneers Riley. “As you damn well know.”

“News to me.”

“I can’t believe I’m even listening to this bullshit,” says Maschler. “For all we know you were watching while Sinclair burnt everybody involved.”

“For all we know you were the one who did it,” adds Riley.

“I didn’t have that kind of access,” says the Operative mildly.

“I’d bet you’d like to.”

“Is that an offer?” asks the Operative. “Does this mean you’re turning off the goddamn tape and beaming Montrose back some dubbed bullshit while the three of us get down to business?”

“We’ve already gotten down to business, Carson.”

“Then why don’t you start acting serious, huh? Haven’t you numb-nuts interrogated Sinclair already?”

“Harrison already tried,” says Riley.

“Before you shot him,” says Maschler. “As you well know. Christ, Sinclair’s just fucking gone.”

“Like nothing we’ve ever seen,” snarls Riley. “Fucker taunts us and then he just seems to switch off. Even though he’s still fucking breathing. Chemicals and pain and none of it matters. Not now. He’s beyond our reach.”

“As opposed to me?” asks the Operative.

“Ah, yes,” says Maschler. “Riley, what do we think of what Carson told Montrose about what he’d done to his own mind?”

“I think we think it’s bullshit,” says Riley.

“Though give him points for trying,” says Maschler. “But Carson, even if you really did rig yourself with death-switches to prevent your head from being skull-fucked, what makes you think we’d hesitate to put you to the question anyway?”

“Because it’d be the last question you’d get to ask.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Or maybe you’re just too chickenshit to take the chance and take me apart.”

“Or else we’d rather have you take out Szilard instead.”

The Operative yawns. The ship keeps on motoring toward L2.

She wandered in that desert for forty days and forty nights. The whole time she knew she was just moving through the wilderness of her own mind. It didn’t matter—it was still as real as anything she’d ever seen. Or remembered: She trudged beneath two suns that scattered her shadow into long fragments across the sands— kept on stumbling through the desolation while evening draped around her and morning rose, and all the while she knew that scarcely seconds were going by, that the greatest war in history was still raging on outside, that she was still helpless in the depths of Montrose’s command center with the creature called Control still crawling through her brain. She didn’t dare go to sleep, not even for a moment. She knew as soon as that happened that Control would penetrate whatever was left of her: that he would rule her dreams and subjugate her to everything within her she’d feared and never understood. So she just wandered through those trekless dunes, fighting off that mounting urge through sheer force of will. Her eyes remained open and her spirit remained hers—and by night those suns gave way to starless expanse in which was set a single moon that shimmered in her heart and looked identical to the one that had swallowed her back in the world she’d left so long ago. She felt that moon all around her—felt it calling to her, telling her all the things she already knew and didn’t want to hear. The fortieth dawn rose but there was only one sun now. It wore a face.

They keep on crawling through the industrial plant of the colony ship-turned-warship: an endless maze of crawlspaces and narrow passages. If they’re being pursued, Linehan hasn’t seen a sign of it. Then again, he’s figuring that by the time he does, it’ll be too late anyway. Meaning it’s all coming down to whatever’s going on in Lynx’s head. And Lynx is even more close-mouthed than usual. His standard cock-of-the-walk attitude seems to have faded a little. Linehan thinks about this. He opens up the one-on-one.

“So when do you kill me?” he asks.

“What?” says Lynx.

“You heard me.”

“Why would I want to kill you?”

“Same reason you’re keeping me alive.”

“I told you, you’re making your own decisions—”

“Tell me what you’re planning.”

“I’m making things up as we go.”

“But you must have some idea how we’re getting off this ship.”

“Who said we’re getting off this ship?”

“We’re just going to stay here?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because we’re in the middle of World War—”

“Sure we are,” says Lynx, “but you’re not thinking.”

“Sometimes I have that problem.”

“So let me spell it out for you. We got the drop on SpaceCom by getting onto this fucking ship, right?”

“Right,” says Linehan. “Though it seemed more like luck than skill to me—why the fuck are you laughing?”