The Machinery of Light

Got it,” says Lynx.

As he knew he would. Like crosshairs sliding together in his mind, it’s all coming into focus. He’s got Carson in his sights—Szilard, too. The SpaceCom defenses may as well not be there for all the trouble they’re causing him. He feels the Manilishi’s zone-presence slide in behind him, feels himself glide forward.

Spencer’s mind meshes on the zone with Jarvin’s. He sees the problem immediately. The hull door they’re parked against is only meant to be opened from the other side. It’s rigged with several more failsafes than Jarvin was counting on. And the key to those failsafes is in the—

“Cockpit,” says Jarvin.

“Roger that,” says Spencer—but their minds are already racing along the wires on the other side of what was built to be the escape hatch for the ship’s pilots. Directed energy blasts over their position as the L5 gunners start up a new barrage. Another ten meters forward, and they’d be melted. If the megaship changes up its angle, that’s going to happen anyway. But Spencer’s giving scarcely a thought to that dilemma. He’s just running secondary razor to Jarvin’s primary, twisting in on the underbelly of the cockpit, accessing the evacuation sequences without making them realize they’re being run, telling them to initiate escape procedures—

“Got it,” says Jarvin.

The hatch opens—

It’s like something just swung shut within her mind, as unmistakable as it is strange. Everything else is checking out. The overall pattern remains intact. But there’s one slight problem. It’s within the margin of error— except for the fact that she doesn’t make errors. Nor has Control seemed to notice it. She keeps an eye on the anomaly while she keeps on tightening the noose around Szilard’s position—watching on the cameras as Carson walks down a corridor, pushing a cart that contains a woman who looks a little too familiar—

And it’s all the Operative can do to not look at her face. He knows that if he’s fucked, this woman’s doubly so. Even if it’s not Haskell, he’s falling for her anyway. He’s guessing that’s the point. He wonders what happened to the man he used to be, the man who never gave a fuck about anyone, the man for whom Haskell was just one more assignment. But that was back when he thought he was going to outlast them all. Now that he’s wised up it’s way too late. The corridor bends left, then right, becomes a ramp that steepens to the point where the Operative’s having to hit the brakes on the cart. Some kind of room is just ahead. It doesn’t seem to be small. The woman’s eyes open.

“Hello again,” she says.

Like a flock of birds alighting: Lynx feels something descend out of the zone and into his mind. It’s Haskell—not just on the zone, but full-on telepathy. He thought it couldn’t happen, but here she is anyway, and he hasn’t the foggiest idea how. And right now it doesn’t matter, as she syncs with him on both zone and mind. The final map of the inner enclave of Jharek Szilard clicks into his head. He fires his suit-jets.

“You sure about this?” asks Linehan, as he does the same.

“Prime your weapons,” snarls Lynx.

They’re scrambling out of the crawler and into the shaft as fast as they can. Radiation’s still pouring over them all the same. Their suits are getting soaked. Their flesh is okay so far—they’ve got more immediate problems to contend with.

“Close this goddamn hatch,” snarls Sarmax.

“We’re working on it,” says Spencer.

They’re having to do some serious multitasking. Spencer and Jarvin are damping the sensors along the shaft while they simultaneously check out the approaches to the cockpit and—

“Get rid of it,” snarls Jarvin. Spencer’s already on it, hacking the controls of the crawler they’ve just left, releasing the brakes. The crawler slides past the opening, tumbles off into space. Hopefully it’ll just be written off as one more piece of metal knocked loose from the surface, annihilated in the bomb-blasts that keep flaring beyond the rear-shielding. It’s out of their hands now. The hatch swings shut. The cockpit schematics expand in Spencer’s head.

“About time,” says Jarvin.

She arrives at the core of the Redeemer’s inner enclave. She’s got all their numbers now. Except for that anomaly, which keeps on sprouting new tendrils, keeps on growing, encompassing her while she continues on with the mission. Nothing tangible seems to be affected. She’s still running smooth. She wonders if this is something that Control is doing to gain a more complete mastery of her—the formula through which Montrose unlocks her still further. Maybe she isn’t supposed to have noticed it. Maybe the fact that she has will give her some margin. But suddenly it’s as if she’s being drawn on a string, hauled across vacuum—

Here we are,” says the woman who wears the face of Claire Haskell.

The Operative looks around. The room is as large as it is empty. All it contains is a dais in the center. The walls are cut through three levels, a walkway circling the room halfway up. Several marines stand along that walkway. Several more ring the entrance in a semicircle. They wear the insignia of Szilard’s bodyguard. Their guns are trained on the Operative and the conveyor. He raises his hands.

“I’m unarmed,” he says.

But none of the marines say anything. And as the Operative stares at them, he realizes why.

“They’re dead,” says a voice.

Still rotting too, from the looks of the faces inside the visors. But apparently their armor’s working just fine. The suits immediately in front of the Operative step aside, gesture at him to move forward. A man’s appeared on the dais, though he’s flickering ever so slightly. A holograph.

“Admiral Szilard,” says the Operative.

“Forgive me that it’s not in the flesh,” says Szilard.

We’ve got him,” says Lynx.

“So where the fuck is he?” says Linehan.

In one of about twenty rooms, according to the readouts—a complex on which Lynx and Linehan are now closing. Lynx’s mind centers on the chamber where Carson is, traces back along the signal that’s being projected to that room: the signal that shows the holograph of Szilard—the signal that’s being sent from one of those twenty chambers—now narrowing down to fifteen … ten …

“You are so mine,” says Lynx.

The cockpit of Hammer of the Skies isn’t small. It’s divided into two areas—Chinese and Russian—each of which sweeps back from a central section where two captains monitor events. Pilots and navigators and gunnery specialists man consoles. Soldiers line the walls. There are only two ways in. One’s the elevators. The other’s the escape shaft in which three men are crouching.

“So what now?” says Spencer.

“Now we take over,” says Jarvin.

She’s getting slotted into cranial matter that’s not her own but that’s all too familiar nonetheless. Her mind’s turning in upon itself, wandering through the meat of someone else’s brain while she wrestles with some kind of pattern that’s threatening to overwhelm her. She’s trying to hold steady, but it’s no use. Everything’s collapsing in upon her, and it’s all she can do to keep from getting buried. But in the cacophony that’s sounding all around her she’s starting to get glimpses of what she’s been missing. She opens her eyes—

So this is the Manilishi,” says Szilard.

The Operative can see why people call this man the Lizard behind his back. He’s as tall as he is thin. His tongue keeps on flickering out in a disquieting manner. There’s a scar down the right side of his face that looks