The Machinery of Light

Redeemer. But the static that’s engulfed Szilard’s signal seems to be intensifying. It occurs to Lynx that maybe he’s the one who’s getting punked—that maybe the SpaceCom marines are closing in on his position even now. He wonders if he should just have Linehan charge on in. He scans back over the Redeemer one last time.

Fuck,” says Jarvin.

“What?” asks Sarmax.

“EMP,” snarls Spencer.

“L5’s guns must have nailed the cockpit,” says Jarvin.

Meaning they’ve all got the same problem. The ship’s circuitry just went haywire. Backup comps are coming on, but the hack that Jarvin was running on the cockpit has been lost. The three men crouch in that access-shaft while a backup zone flickers on and Spencer and Jarvin try to get things back on track. Only to find that—

“No gunnery breakthroughs on the forward armor,” says Spencer.

“What?” says Sarmax.

“That EMP,” says Jarvin. “It came from inside the ship.”

Not sure I follow,” says the Operative. “I don’t have—”

“You don’t need Sinclair’s files,” says Szilard. “You fucking wrote half of them anyway.”

“Or you were there while the recorders took dictation,” says Haskell.

“If you want to know what’s driving the retrocausality, you can forget it,” says the Operative. “I don’t know, and the only way to find out is—”

“To take me apart,” says Haskell. “Which Montrose is doing her best to do.”

“Even as you use that amplifier of yours to ransack the Redeemer’s systems,” says Szilard. “Turning me inside out, eh?”

“I already finished,” says Haskell. “Your ship’s mine. And you’re—”

“Full of surprises,” says Szilard.

A massive explosion rocks the ship.

What the hell was that?” yells Linehan.

“All part of the plan,” says Lynx.

Though he’s a lot less confident than he sounds. Nothing was supposed to happen until they reached Szilard. The plan may just have gone belly-up. Or maybe he never understood the plan in the first place. He hopes he’s not getting sold down the river again. He hears something else—close at hand—gunfire—

“Someone’s lighting this place up,” says Linehan.

Inside the ship?” says Sarmax.

“Definitely,” says Spencer.

“Maybe a malfunction,” says Jarvin. “Or maybe—”

“We got combat ten decks down,” says Spencer.

Kill him,” says Szilard—but the Operative’s already moving, leaping at one of the bodyguards, vaulting over its shoulder and landing on its back while Haskell hacks the bodyguard’s armor, handing control off to the Operative —who grasps it with his neural software on wireless, starts riddling the other bodyguards even as they start getting their own shots off. Projectiles are flying everywhere. Szilard’s image has disappeared. An explosion tears away part of the ceiling—

—a long with part of the wall. Lynx and Linehan blast through from different directions, add their guns to that of Carson, catching Szilard’s bodyguards in a crossfire. Linehan dodges a micromissile, smashes into one of the remaining bodyguards, rips its helmet off with jet-enhanced fists—rips off the head as well, screaming obscenities all the while. Haskell starts screaming too.

“What the fuck’s up with her?” yells Lynx.

“It’s not her,” says Carson.

Not anymore. She’s falling away from all of them—tumbling back from L2 as though she’s being hauled back toward the Moon on a tether. Space and time reel before her, reveal that her mind’s back in that tank again. She’s struggling to get her bearings.

Apparently everybody else is too.

“What the hell’s wrong?” asks Montrose.

“We’re still processing,” says Control. For the first time, Haskell hears emotion grip that voice—or more precisely, tension. Same with Montrose:

“Hurry it up,” she snaps.

“The Manilishi’s back online,” says Control. Haskell feels everything stabilize around her—a kind of equilibrium. It’ll have to do.

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

“I can,” says Haskell. She takes in the confusion that’s starting to grip the war-room. The battle-management computers are still functioning, but not much else is. There’s something wrong. Some kind of—

Anomaly.

“Fuck,” says Haskell.

“We’re under attack,” says Control.

Fighting underway outside the cockpit,” says Jarvin. Spencer wonders whether that’s too fine a distinction. The cameras show that chaos is breaking loose throughout the Hammer of the Skies. Explosions are going off. Firefights are everywhere. It’s total pandemonium. And it looks like commandos are trying to force their way up the elevator to reach the cockpit—

“Americans,” says Sarmax. “Must be.”

“Not a chance,” says Spencer.

He knows there’s no way—not in the numbers that are now wreaking havoc aboard this ship. This involves the ship’s soldiers and crew. And the only Americans aboard are in this shaft.

As far as they know.

“It’s Autumn Rain,” says Jarvin.

“Shit,” says Sarmax.

The last of the lifeless bodyguards collapses against the wall, shredded, busy being deceased again. The woman who’s neither dead nor living keeps on screaming.

“You’ve lost,” she howls. “You’ve fucking lost and your souls are forfeit and Satan’s going to fuck you in the ass—”

“Shut up,” yells Lynx—and puts a bullet through her head, sends chunks of brain flying. The Operative whirls on him.

“Goddamn you—”

“You’ve got bigger problems,” says Lynx.

The Operative can see he’s not kidding. Lynx’s powered armor looks virtually undamaged. The Operative’s got fuck-all. He stares as his erstwhile razor’s guns line him up.

“You were saying?” asks Lynx.

“We need to work together,” says the Operative.

“Feel like I’ve heard that one before.”

“He’s right,” says Linehan. “We need to join—”

“I’m making the decisions,” says Lynx.

“Sure you are,” says the Operative, “but where the fuck’s Szilard?”

“I’m asking the questions!” yells Lynx.