The Machinery of Light

“Because luck’s the best kind of skill,” says Lynx.

You really want to pay this guy a visit?” asks Spencer.

“It’s either that, or we have a crack at the cockpit.”

“Which we eventually have to try. So why take unnecessary risks in the meantime?”

“Define unnecessary,” says Sarmax.

Spencer shakes his head, ponders what he can see of zone and all the space that lies beyond. The ship’s still running smooth, putting the Earth behind it at speeds that ought to be illegal as it continues to vector in toward the Moon, taking increasing amounts of fire. It doesn’t seem to be troubled in the slightest.

“Look,” adds Sarmax, “it’s real simple. This guy looks important. And he also looks like he’s a damn sight easier to get to than the cockpit.”

“Which may be the point.”

“Meaning?”

“Could be a trap.”

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, “I thought of that—”

“Well, keep thinking. Because I can’t think of a better way to catch whatever assholes might be lurking in the woodwork—”

Sarmax laughs. “We’ve snuck into a secret weapon that’s gone operational and you’re still clucking about the risks?”

“I’m just trying to calibrate them.”

“Doesn’t change the basic picture. We need to get control of this ship before it hits the Moon, sure. But maybe that guy has part of the key to doing so. Maybe he’s planning the same thing himself.”

“Why the hell would he be doing that?”

“Because the Eurasians are like us, man: they’re divided against themselves. Look at the way the ivans watch the chinks and the chinks keep an eye on the ivans. No one trusts anyone for shit. And with things looking ever worse for Uncle Sam, the tension’s getting cranked up ever higher.”

“You really think the East might succumb to civil war?”

“Let’s just say they wouldn’t be the first.”

The ship keeps on throttling heavenward. The Moon’s now a ball in the window, and the L2 fleet is looking like a starfield preparing to engulf them. The Operative laughs.

“This hasn’t a chance of working,” he says.

“It working and you living are two very different things,” says Riley.

“Touche.”

The most basic rule of assassinations: the shooter is expendable—or better still, marked for disposal. The Operative’s pretty sure that’s how this one is going to go down. Right after he’s managed to kill the Lizard, he’ll be gunned down by either Szilard’s bodyguards or the men he’s talking to right now. That’s why Montrose has sent him up here in the first place. This is a one-way trip. Even so, he can’t see how the hell Montrose is expecting him to take out Szilard. Unless—

“And here we were thinking that you’re the expert in connnecting dots,” says Riley.

“Sometimes I need a little nudge.”

“That’s for sure.” Maschler looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Look, there are three ways to crack a fortress. You either blast your way in, you sneak on through, or else you …” His voice trails off.

The Operative stares. “Or what? You’re telling me we’ve been invited to see Szilard?”

“Why not? We’re all trying to stop the East, aren’t we?”

“He’ll be suspicious as all fuck.”

“Of course he will be.”

“So what’s the angle?”

Riley and Maschler look at each other.

“Well?” repeats the Operative.

“Maybe it’s time to show him the cargo,” says Riley.

The sun’s face is one she recognizes. Even though she doesn’t want to. Even though she hasn’t seen it in so long. She stands in the midst of her own desert, endless wastelands stretching out on all sides as she looks up at what’s leering down upon her.

“Hello Claire,” says Morat.

“That’s not really you,” she mutters.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re dead.”

“Am I really?”

“I saw you destroyed.”

“And yet I live on inside of you.”

“Only in my memory.”

“More than enough. Shall we begin?”

She says nothing. The light of his face is getting ever brighter. The sky beyond it is going black.

“What the hell’s happening?” she mutters.

“Control is forcing its way ever farther inside you.”

“And you’re helping.”

“Except for the fact that I don’t exist.”

“You’re a part of my mind that’s been set against me.”

“I seem to recall I was on your side.”

“You were my worst enemy,” she says.

“Only after you betrayed yourself.”

“I never—”

“Fooled yourself too. You know I speak the truth. You’re Rain. Yet you denied them again and again. In that SeaMech beneath Pacific. At the Europa Platform. And then afterward, when you helped to snuff all your brethren. Thus were the Rain undone by the very weapon built to complete them. Thus was—”

“Not all of them.”

“What?” asks Morat.

“I didn’t kill all of them.”

“Carson and Lynx and Sarmax aren’t in the same league as—”

“I’m not talking about the original trio,” she snarls. She feels she should shut up, but she can’t. Not with Morat’s disembodied head looking down at her like that. “There are still other members of the Rain left.”

There’s a pause. Morat flickers.

“How would you know that?” he asks.

“I’ve felt their minds.”

Morat beams at her. “Oh good,” he says.

So nobody’s getting off this ship,” says Linehan.

“Give the man a hand,” says Lynx.

They’ve come through into a wider set of passages. The lights are few and far between. All they can hear is the continued clanking of distant guns. They’re deep in the interior now.

“And we’re staying in the bowels of this thing.”

“It seems like the prudent thing to do,” says Lynx.

“Because there’s no point in going near the hull.”

“Given that nothing’s leaving: no.”

Linehan nods. He gets it, though it took him long enough. Szilard knows which ship they’re on. It would have