The Machinery of Light

fresh. The woman in the cart clears her throat, coughs—

“I’ve come to make you an offer,” she says.

“Are you really in a position to do that?” replies Szilard.

“Do you want to be president or not?”

“Maybe you should let me speak to the man who stole you.”

“Maybe you should both shut up,” says the Operative.

They look at him—her face staring up from her cart, his face blinking as though he’s just been slapped. He knows he’d better talk fast. He can think of only one thing to say.

“There’s a plot against you.”

“Just one?” says Szilard.

“Instigated by Montrose.”

“Oh,” says Szilard, in a tone that says is that all.

“This man’s lying,” says the woman.

“Who cares what you think?” says the Operative.

“Sounds like you two need to get your story straight,” says Szilard.

The Operative laughs. “I’m the one who stole her.”

“My fucking heart, you mean.”

He glances at her. He suddenly realizes she really is Haskell now. That’s when he hears her voice inside his head too.

“You’re doing great,” it says.

“What’s the nature of this plot?” asks Szilard.

“What happened to your bodyguards?” asks Haskell.

“Only people I can trust are those who are already dead.”

“And either you or Montrose are about to join them,” says the Operative.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” says Szilard.

“The president’s one step ahead of you,” says Haskell.

“What do you mean?”

“The only way to get inside your perimeter. Hand you something you have to have.”

“That cuts both ways,” says the admiral.

The Operative nods. He examines that image, examines the lifeless visors of the bodyguards—gets ready to move fast. Szilard laughs.

“You think I don’t know what this is all about? That I don’t know who you are?”

“He’s Strom Carson,” says Haskell. “We know you know it.”

“The leader of the original Rain triad,” says Szilard.

“Leader’s not exactly how I’d put it,” says the Operative.

“So how the hell does Montrose think you’re going to nail me?”

“She doesn’t,” says the Operative.

“You sure?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a captive.”

“But whose captive?” adds Haskell.

“Ah yes.” Szilard’s tongue flashes out again. Another holograph materializes in midair beside him: a camera- view of the interior hangar, looking out along the line of sight of a KE gatling, aimed down on the shuttle that the Operative rode to L2.

“Jon Maschler and Nik Riley,” says Jharek Szilard. “I get it. Really, I do. The idea was to make me think they’d stolen the Manilishi.”

“A story only a fool would buy,” says the Operative.

“Right,” says Szilard. “Because if they really stole the most valuable object in the fucking solar system, why the hell would they bring it to me?”

“Because they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Haskell.

“Of course they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Szilard. “Treacherous ones, too.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t be useful,” says Haskell.

Szilard shrugs. “How else was I to get my hands on the original Rain operative?”

“And the Manilishi,” says the Operative.

“Stop patronizing me,” says Szilard, “I know damn well—even if she’s speaking through it— that’s not the Manilishi.”

“But it was intended to be,” says the Operative.

“More bullshit,” says Szilard. “Lies within lies. Montrose wanted me to believe she’d created a duplicate Manilishi.”

“She almost did,” says the Operative.

“And if she had, she could have switched it on at your very doorstep,” says Haskell. “Checkmated you at point-blank range.”

“Too bad she failed,” says Szilard.

“You don’t know the half of it,” says Haskell.

“But I do,” says Szilard. “Montrose almost ran off the rails completely. In creating a link between you and your would-be doppleganger, she opened the door to Sinclair.”

“You saw that?” asks Haskell.

“Don’t count me out of the game yet,” says Szilard.

Lynx frowns. “Shit,” he mutters.

“What’s up?” says Linehan. Lynx doesn’t even look at him.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“You can’t admit something’s wrong?”

“I’ll admit to anything if you’ll shut the fuck up.”

Run the fucking sequences,” says Sarmax.

Jarvin’s already doing just that. And it’s all Spencer can do to keep up with him; his mind’s getting swept up in Jarvin’s, up along the wires that lead into the cockpit, into the main consoles that contain the executive software for the ship. There are two such consoles. One’s Chinese. One’s Russian. Jarvin’s going for both of them simultaneously, and Spencer’s running backup. He’s starting to get a sense of just how good a razor Alek Jarvin is—how easily that man’s been running rings around him. Now that they’re within the main cockpit firewall, Jarvin’s taking those databases apart—running a blizzard of sequences while Spencer triple-checks them, processes the patterns, scans the implications. The codes necessary to take control of the entire ship are coming into focus. Until—

“Shit,” says Jarvin.

The screens go crazy.

I’m not even Montrose’s biggest problem,” says Szilard. “Sinclair is—”

“—about to get two megaships up his ass,” says the Operative.

“Or else Sarmax is going to hand the Eurasian fleet over to him,” says Haskell.

“Give me a break,” says the SpaceCom admiral. “Sarmax is out of the picture by now—”

“As opposed to you,” says the Operative. “Machinery to register mental emissions? Tracing Haskell’s telepathic signature? Not bad. And yet—”

“Not enough to get in on any conversations,” says Szilard.

“Though that might change if you got your hands on the rest of Sinclair’s files,” says the Operative.

“Are you trying to make a deal?”

“He might if he actually had those files,” says Haskell.

“I hate it when people play stupid,” says Szilard.

Data blurs in Lynx’s mind. He’s bringing all his zone-prowess to bear, triangulating across the decks of the