The Machinery of Light

“If we get separated, we’re fucked anyway—”

“You mean I’m fucked.”

“So?”

“So why make it easy for them? C’mon, man, you know I’m a one-man wrecking ball. And if the mission’s going south, I gotta have as much data as possible so I can keep doing as much damage as possible. What’s the downside to that?”

Lynx says nothing. Linehan warms to the point.

“At the very least, I’d be creating that much more havoc for you to pull some shit. Why let them trap me in a dead-end—”

“Fine,” says Lynx, “you win.”

“Cool,” says Linehan—data starts pouring into his skull. He watches grids of elevators and passages and crawlspaces coalesce around him, watches as they keep on stacking in upon one another—along with his own position, halfway between the outer and inner perimeters that have been set up around the heart of Szilard’s defenses in the core of the Redeemer. Linehan exhales slowly.

“So where exactly is the big cheese himself?” he asks.

“Patience,” says Lynx.

Three men in one of two Eurasian megaships hurtling toward the libration point that has been an American possession for more than fifty years. They’re moving through the ship’s shafts, away from the elevators that lead to the cockpit, looking for some kind of backup plan, feeling themselves subjected to intense scrutiny. Partially because the only people moving during transit are those who have to. But also …

“I’m surprised the cockpit hasn’t issued a warrant for our arrest,” says Spencer.

“Actually,” says Jarvin, “it just did.”

“Fuck,” says Sarmax.

“What did it say?” asks Spencer.

“That we were American spies.”

“Yikes. You suppressed it?”

“On the zone, yeah. But I can’t do so for much longer. They’ll figure out what’s happening and launch a manhunt.”

“So where are we gonna hide?” asks Spencer.

“In the cockpit,” says Jarvin.

Haskell takes it all in. She feels like a skier at the top of a vast hill—only one direction to go, and ready to maneuver as fast as possible. She feels everything closing in around her—feels reality collapsing in upon a single point. She observes Control moving in behind her—can see Montrose somewhere beyond that. Coordinates mesh as she moves toward the L2 fleet. The Redeemer clicks in around her, a vast cage of lights—

The Operative climbs back down to the cargo bay—moves through to the adjunct bay beyond that. The sarcophagus is closed, though all vital signs still check out, indicating the flesh within is functioning just fine. The Operative braces himself, feels the ship shudder as it docks, followed by a muffled clanking as the locks slide into place. The floor beneath him starts to sink. He holds himself steady, then keys the intercom to the cockpit.

“What about a suit?” he asks.

“What about it?” asks Maschler. There’s the noise of laughter.

“I knew we were forgetting something,” says Riley. “Now where did we put that battlesuit that Carson was gonna wear?”

“Gotta be around here somewhere,” says Maschler—the Operative turns off the intercom—realizing he should have known better than to ask. It’s not like Szilard would let him aboard in anything other than a normal uniform anyway. He’s going to walk in with neither weapons nor armor. He’ll die that much more quickly. That’s the plan. He’s gets it now—finally sees he’s not even the triggerman. He wonders who is.

Lynx closes his eyes. Carson’s shuttle has docked. The hangar’s airlock has sealed. The doors of the shuttle are opening, meaning the doors of this tiny room are about to as well. Lynx can’t wait to get busy punking Carson one last time. He can’t wait to use Linehan as the cannon fodder that he was born to be—can’t wait to feed Szilard his own entrails. This time it’s going to work, especially now that InfoCom is on board. And he doesn’t mind taking out the trash for Montrose either. He’s going to screw her over too, once he gets back to the Moon and back into the real game. It’s all going down any moment now. He looks at Linehan.

“Let’s do this,” he says.

They’ve made their way into one of the ship’s storage areas: a multileveled warehouse of equipment of every type. No human presence is visible. There are cameras, but Spencer’s guessing that Jarvin’s jamming them. If not, they’re about to have bigger problems anyway …

“How the fuck do we get to the cockpit from here?” says Spencer.

“We need some hardware,” says Jarvin—and reaches out to hold on as the room suddenly shudders—

“We’re taking fire,” says Sarmax. “Ship’s getting it hard.”

“So what?” says Jarvin. “We’re going to crush L5 to rubble.”

“You still think we can take control of this ship?”

“I don’t think it,” says Jarvin. “I know.” He moves toward one piece of hardware in particular. A vehicle. Sarmax and Spencer stare at it.

“You’re shitting me,” says Spencer.

“Wish I was,” says Jarvin.

She’s running sleek and perfect now, maneuvering through the data-grids of the Redeemer, her mind doubling back upon itself as she bypasses security codes and failsafes. She takes in the specs, marvels at the way it’s been rigged for dual purposes: a fully equipped colony ship modified with all the capabilities of a Class A dreadnaught, rigged with DE and KE batteries capable of striking targets in the low Earth orbits. The ship contains several companies of SpaceCom marines—as well as ten thousand colonists. She checks that one again, confirms it. They’ve been in hibernation for months now. She’s guessing there has to be more to that story. She sets her mind on the problem even as she triangulates on Szilard’s location—even as she keeps on searching for some way out of the lock that Control’s got on her.

The shuttle’s cargo hatch swings open. Light pours in. As do suited SpaceCom marines. They shove the Operative against the wall and search him while others climb up toward the cockpit. Another moves to the cargo, begins scanning it.

“Easy,” says the Operative. “The admiral wouldn’t want that damaged.”

“Shut the fuck up,” says a sergeant, activating the controls on the sarcophagus. Wheels extend along the floor. The faceplate slides back. The woman inside is still out cold. The Operative’s glad to see that. It’s going to make this a little easier. The SpaceCom marines step away from him, and he turns around to face them.

“I’m here to—”

“We know why you’re here,” says the sergeant.

The Operative hopes that’s not the case. He hopes that Maschler and Riley are holding their own in the cockpit. A SpaceCom lieutenant strides into the cargo bay. He’s not wearing a suit—just a smile that looks all too fake.

“Strom Carson,” he says. He holds out a hand, shakes the Operative’s. “My name’s Sullivan. Szilard’s chief of public relations.”

“Public relations?” asks the Operative.

“Why not?”

“Who the hell’s the public?”

Sullivan shrugs, gestures at the cargo. “You’ll be pleased to know everything checks out.”