The Machinery of Light

“Get your facts straight,” says the man. “I stole files from him, which I then compiled into my own. How much progress have you made?”

Spencer coughs. “We’re still working on—”

“We’re asking the questions,” snaps Sarmax. “Listen, asshole, even if you are Alek Jarvin, then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Staying in the game,” says the man mildly.

Hate to break it to you,” says the Operative. “You’re not God.”

“But I will be soon,” mumbles the woman.

“You’re not even in your right mind.”

“I’ll be in your mind shortly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks the Operative. He feels stupid even getting into this conversation. He feels even dumber with Riley and Maschler watching the whole thing. He feels his emotions getting the better of him. It’s not a feeling he’s used to.

“You’re being too hard on her,” says Maschler.

“You guys need to level with me.”

“We already tried doing that,” says Riley. “You wouldn’t listen.”

“Listen to what?” demands the Operative.

“The last words Szilard will ever hear,” says the woman.

Such a thing as biting off more than you can chew,” says Sinclair.

Haskell nods. She feels that’s all she’s ever done. She wonders if Sinclair’s some cancer that took her over long ago. She can still feel Control rummaging around inside her—can sense Montrose somewhere beyond that, eagerly awaiting the results.

“Montrose made her bid too soon,” says Sinclair. “Should have kept Harrison in the picture for just a while longer. Too many players out there still. Too great a chance of getting squeezed.”

Haskell knows the feeling. She’s starting to feel increasing amounts of pressure in her skull. Her awareness is expanding out on all sides. Her head seems to be encompassing so much more. She feels herself gaining in everything.

Save understanding.

“Matthew,” she says.

“Claire,” he replies.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing I don’t already have.”

Apparently the dead have their uses. Lynx has thrust wires into various parts of his head, has slotted more wires into the skull of the man he’s killed. His eyes look like they’re far away. He’s smiling the smile of a man who’s found the thing he’s been seeking.

“Everything you see around you is SpaceCom property,” Lynx says. “These schmucks signed up to go to Mars and here they are months later still stuck in the departure lounge.”

“Sure,” says Linehan, “but I’m still wondering what’s the point of having them here in the first place?”

“I’m starting to think it might have something to do with a master needing servants.”

So you’ve been running us,” says Sarmax.

“Indeed,” says Jarvin.

Sarmax doesn’t even bother to use the one-on-one: “What the hell’s your problem, Spencer?”

Spencer shrugs. “How was I supposed to know he was this good?”

“How the hell else could I have stayed alive in HK?” asks Jarvin. He’s smiling that smile again, and Spencer’s doing his best to ignore it. “Once I cut loose from Sinclair, I was a free agent. In more ways than one.”

“So what’s to stop us from just killing you now?” says Spencer.

“I don’t think you get it,” says Jarvin. “I’ve got Spencer’s whole zone-signature covered. Shoot me and there’ll be nothing to stop the East from seeing you.”

“You played us like a fiddle,” says Spencer.

“Pretty much.”

“You knew what we going to do the whole time.”

Jarvin laughs. “After I fed the Praetorians some dirt on the East’s secret weapon, it wasn’t hard to guess what their next move would be. Straight onto my little square of the board. I let you in first, gentlemen. And I gotta say, you did a nice job running point.”

“Fuck,” says Spencer.

“That’s right,” says Jarvin. He looks around—like he’s glancing through the walls of this vast ship. Spencer suspects that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. Eyes snap back to face them: “Move on me, and the Eurasians will detect you.”

“Come on,” says Sarmax, “we need more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re done with you calling the shots.”

“I realize that. That’s why I let you into this room.”

“We need to team up,” says Spencer suddenly.

“Late to the party as ever,” says Jarvin.

Too late she sees the trap: Sinclair’s claws are reaching for her mind, far beneath any surface that Control or Montrose can perceive. Too late—and yet she slides aside and dodges past, slamming a door she didn’t even know she had. He gazes at her through its translucence.

“Claire,” he says.

“Matthew,” she replies.

“Open this door.”

“I can’t do that, Matthew.”

“What you can’t do is resist me. You’re not capable—”

“I am now.”

And for a moment she sees something in his face—utter animal rage—and she keeps her shields up. Even if she doesn’t know what’s shielding her. Even if this psionic power she has remains almost completely undefined, save for the fact that it has something to do with consciousness. Something to do with mind reading.

“And something to do with time,” says a voice.

There’s a blinding flash.

The woman’s face suddenly spasms. Her eyes shut.

“She’s flatlining,” says the Operative.

“No,” says Maschler, “she’s not.”

Eyes snap open. Haskell stares at the Operative.

“Carson,” she says.

“Claire,” he mutters.

“The lady’s joined us,” says Riley.

“This isn’t really me,” says Haskell. She’s looking around the cramped room. She’s looking like she’s starting to panic.

“Easy,” says the Operative.

“Can you hear me, Claire?” asks Maschler.

Haskell says nothing—her face contorts—

“Can you hear me, Claire?”

“Yes,” says Haskell.