The Machinery of Light

Awareness starts to crystallize all around her—as if all existence is a grid, and she’s sitting at the very center.

She opens her eyes.

“Welcome back,” says Stephanie Montrose.

They’re creeping along sheets of ice. Sensors are everywhere. Linehan can only hope Lynx is dealing with them. He normally doesn’t worry about stuff he can’t control, but this place is giving him the creeps. As extensive as it is, it’s also intensely claustrophobic. The sheets of ice are only a few meters apart at points. Linehan feels like the whole thing could fold up at any moment—like he’s about to end up in a glacier sandwich.

“How much more of this?” he says.

“Carson told me nothing rattled you,” says Lynx.

They crawl over a slope and along its other side. They seem to have left the central portions of the ice behind. The space they’re in is getting even narrower—so cramped now that Linehan can brace himself against both walls. Soon it’s just a tunnel in the ice. He follows Lynx along it, sees the razor opening another hatch. He follows him through.

And finds himself in a small chamber. Looks like some kind of storage space. There’s only one other way out —yet another hatch. But Lynx scarcely spares it a glance. Instead, he sits down in a corner. Linehan looks at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up and take a seat,” says Lynx.

Hammer of the Skies is changing its trajectory. The fact that it’s doing so without warning is causing no little inconvenience for many of those within. Spencer can hear the intercom ringing in his ears, instructing everybody to assume the brace position, but the position he’s already assumed has very little to do with anything he had a chance to brace for. He’s spread-eagled against the wall. So is everyone else. He hears the voice of Sarmax ringing inside his head.

“Must be evasive action.”

“No shit,” says Spencer.

“Wrong,” says Jarvin. “We just got a new destination.”

Haskell struggles to focus. She’s still on that souped-up gurney, back in the InfoCom HQ. The place looks like it’s cranked up to even more frenetic levels of activity. She can see screens showing the megaships. Only they’re no longer heading for the Moon.

“Next stop L5,” says Control. The voice is coming from one of the consoles. She suddenly realizes that’s the console her mind’s held in—that she’s actually in that console too, watching her body watch her, feeling Control’s zone-presence hovering around her. As her zone-view coalesces, so do the InfoCom battle management systems, spread out across hundreds of thousands of kilometers of vacuum. Earth’s a lost cause—entirely Eastern now, along with the rest of the near-Earth orbits. Most of the Eurasian ships are consolidating at the geo. Yet most of the zone-focus is on the East’s advance team—the two megaships. They’ve climbed about half of the distance to the Moon and have just veered off at a sharp angle, attaining even greater speeds as they race toward L5. Haskell can see the lunar batteries flailing away, can see the smaller fleet at the libration point raining fire down upon the approaching dreadnaughts and the ships they’re towing. The battle management computers don’t seem to think it’s looking good.

“Sinclair’s about to get taken off the board,” says Control.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Haskell mutters.

“You’d be advised to avoid them as well,” says Montrose—and as she speaks, Haskell feels something tighten around her in the zone—like a vise that’s constricting all around her, cutting off her energy, starting to suffocate her …

“Fuck,” she says.

“Let’s get some things straight,” says the president.

Get up,” says Maschler.

The Operative staggers to his feet, pain gripping his head as he looks around.

“Same as you left it,” says Riley.

And all too familiar. That cargo chamber, the two InfoCom agents, that sarcophagus-suit—and the woman within it. Unconscious again now.

“So who is she, really?” he asks.

“No one,” says Maschler.

“A temporary receptacle,” says Riley.

“Sure, but what the hell’s the receptacle?”

“Cloned body,” says Maschler. “Implanted with an artificial personality construct. A primitive one.”

“But effective,” says Riley.

“Enough to get us near Szilard?” says the Operative.

“We’re about to find out.”

So when do we start the run?” asks Linehan.

“Earth to Linehan: we already did.”

Yet for now they’re staying put. They’ve been marking time for a few minutes now. Linehan’s starting to get antsy. All the more so as he gets that Lynx has taken him in tow for muscle—and that the razor must be badly in need of that muscle to try to leverage him.

Or else there’s another angle to all this.

“You’ve been using me,” says Linehan.

“Of course I’ve been using you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“C’mon, Linehan. You’re the mech—”

“Who used to work for SpaceCom.”

“Who got rigged with a compulsion by them,” says Lynx.

“Which you reverse-engineered.”

“Which is why I showed myself to you back on the Montana. Right. But—”

“But I’m also your back door into the SpaceCom mainframes,” says Linehan.

Lynx grins. “One among many.”

The megaship’s continuing to accelerate, but now its route has straightened out. Soldiers are pulling themselves off the wall, taking up positions again around the elevator-bank. Spencer steadies himself while Jarvin moves back toward the elevator-banks.

“We can’t let you up there,” says the Chinese sergeant.

“We already had this conversation,” says Jarvin. “Out of my—”

“Sir,” says the Russian sergeant, “we can’t let you up there,” Guns are out now.

“I already gave you my clearance.”

“Sir, they just revoked it.”

So now I’m your slave,” says Haskell.

“You’re alive. You’re not in pain. Count your blessings.”

Haskell studies Montrose from several angles. The president looks as if she’s been under a lot of stress. Though now she seems to be perking up a little.

“You’re the most powerful instrument in creation.”

“Instrument,” repeats Haskell.

“And someone has to wield you.”

“I had myself in mind.”

Montrose throws her head back and laughs—loud enough to make the visors of her nearest bodyguards turn.