The Machinery of Light

been hard to miss. But the commander of SpaceCom can’t afford to blow any more dreadnaughts just to get at rogue elements. He’s way past that luxury now. So all he can do is take precautions. Which is why nothing’s getting off the colony ship. At least until—

“All debts will be settled when the war’s over,” Linehan mutters.

“And a lot of them long before,” says Lynx.

Linehan nods. They keep on moving.

They leave behind the ledges where they rode out the launch and head out into the elevator shafts—riding cables, moving adroitly from one to the next. Spencer syncs up the zone with the topography that’s all around them. Shafts extend down beyond his sight, electric light flickering in the distance. Elevator cars clank past, packed with soldiers. Machinery’s everywhere. Spencer’s view is shot through with the false color of augmented zone- vision. For a moment it seems to him like this ship has become the universe, like everything around him is just the gears of existence turning: the guns raining death out into the beyond; the armor taking fire from the massed batteries on the Moon and at L5; the endless conveyor belts upon which nukes are slotted through the bowels of the ship and spat out into the vacuum beyond. But he’s leading Sarmax in the other direction, moving into the middle areas of the ship, getting extra stealthy.

“We’re almost at the troop quarters,” says Spencer.

“Roger that,” says Sarmax.

Riley leads the way—the Operative follows him, and Maschler trails after. The Operative appreciates the way they move—like the professionals they are—and even though they’re probably not expecting him to try anything, they’re ready for anything he might. He wonders how he could have let them fool him back at the Elevator. He’s guessing it had more than a little to do with the fact that he had a lot on his mind.

He’s got the same problem now. They descend a ladder into the ship’s main cargo hold. Riley hits a switch; lights flicker dimly all around. Auxiliary holds sprout off from the main one. Containers are racked up everywhere, faint vibration washing through them from the engines directly below. The Operative wonders if he’ll end up in one of those boxes. He can’t deny it’d be fitting. He feels like his life has come full circle, that these two men may as well be the ferrymen taking him across the Styx.

“Is this the part where you try to off me?” he asks.

“Even better,” says Riley.

“Right this way,” says Maschler, heading in toward one of the auxiliary chambers.

A desert with a population of one. A woman with the feeling that the face that’s leering down at her is getting a little too close for comfort.

“The Rain’s out there,” she says.

“Where?”

“At L5.”

“With Sinclair?” asks Morat.

“They’re guarding him.”

“I would put it the other way around.” One eyebrow raises. It looks obscene. “He shielded them from you when you were Harrison’s servant. And he thinks we haven’t figured it out since—”

“He’s playing all the angles,” she says. “You can’t hope to beat him, Stephanie, please listen to me, you have to kill him now—”

“Spare me,” snaps Morat. “The president can’t hear you. She doesn’t micromanage interrogations.”

“She leaves that to something even colder than her.”

“If you like,” says Morat. He seems amused. “But I’m pleased to wear this face while I tear your skull apart.”

“So now we see your real one.”

“Oh,” says Morat, “let’s not get all literal here. I’m not Control. His mind’s aware of what we’re saying, but I really am part of you. That’s the point, you see. You think you’re whole, but you’re really scattered piecemeal. Taking you apart is just a matter of putting it all together.”

She says nothing. Wind brushes sand onto her face.

“Can you detect Sinclair?” he asks.

“No,” she says.

“You’re both blind to each other,” says Morat. “As it should be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Once posthumans get into the mix, the whole game changes, no? Especially if what makes them posthuman is mental. Especially if it can be replicated.”

“Isn’t that the big question? A man can be modified, but—”

“Can he beat that which is born into it? He might deceive himself that he could. Lynx and Carson and Sarmax certainly did. In the end they couldn’t even keep their own team together. Who would have thought they would go out so early?”

“They’re dead?” She manages to keep the edge from her voice, but it’s as though Morat has heard it anyway.

“My condolences,” he says. “Carson’s fucked you over for the last time.”

“How did he die?”

“He’s going to kill Szilard for his president.”

“Going to?”

“Or he’ll fail in the attempt while our backup team finishes the job. Either way, he’s dead. And there’s no way off L2—”

“You’re an idiot,” she spits. “You’re a fucking idiot. If you’re going to kill Carson, then fucking kill him. Don’t try to use him. Don’t give him the slightest chance—”

“Sounds like you want him dead.”

“I do want him dead. I want him to live forever. Whatever. He’s far more of a threat to Montrose than Szilard ever could be.”

“Abstract pronouncements. All of Montrose’s enemies now live on borrowed time.”

“As does Stephanie Montrose. The fucking Eurasian fleet’s steaming in toward you, or haven’t you noticed? And for all we know, Leo Sarmax is in control of it by now.”

“Or else he’s dead in the Himalayas,” says Morat. “What does it matter? It’s still the same hardware. Still the reason why Montrose needs to attain control of you—along with total possession of the L2 fleet. The last thing she needs with the East’s spearhead coming straight at her is to not be able to trust her second-in-command—”

“I’m not sure that’s how Szilard sees himself.”

“You summarize the problem nicely.”

“Your real problem’s Sinclair. He’s the one who’s ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

“More than that,” says Morat.

“What are you saying?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying.”

She stares up at that face.

“We both know what Sinclair is,” he adds.

She shakes her head. “Carson said that Sinclair had mapped it all out.”

“Go on.”

“All the possibilities, every which way the game might break. Said he gave him a very specific set of instructions that allowed him to thread his way through the maze.”

“More retrocausality,” says Morat. “Somehow he can see what’s coming—”

“Presumably. But …” Haskell hesitates.

“What is it?”

“I—went through something similar at the Europa Platform. Everything converged on the moment when the combat started.”

“I suspect Sinclair has a slightly wider purview.”