The Machinery of Light

knows? We’re in uncharted waters now. But none of this relates to the real reason the fleet’s staying put out here—”

“Us.”

“Yeah,” says the Operative. There’s a moment’s pause. “Nice to be wanted, huh?”

“Two of the three members of the first Rain triad, still on the loose, with the Redeemer blown all over the rest of the L2 fleet. At least fifteen sections docked in different places. You and I could be anywhere by now.”

“But still on the goddamn fleet. Pinned down.”

“It’s stalemate,” says Lynx. “We can’t get at him and he can’t get at us.”

“So let’s talk about what we can get.”

They can’t get their hands on anything that matters. To say they’ve been outmaneuvered is putting it mildly. They’ve been trapped on this stupid ship for two days now. These last forty-eight hours have seemed like years. Long enough to cut their way through to some of the main shafts, not that it’s done them any good. All the places worth getting to involve leaving this ship.

And that’s impossible. Everyone’s staying put. The crew’s been confined to the ship, as have all remaining soldiers. Spencer wonders if that means someone’s wise to their presence. Jarvin explained it’s just a precaution. Same reason the search parties are combing this ship. The Chinese know full well there are rats hiding within the walls. It’s just that every rat they’ve caught so far is Russian. On-the-spot executions are getting meted out like they’re going out of style. Though Spencer’s got a feeling they’ll always be in fashion.

Particularly now that the Eurasian Coalition’s under new management. All traces of the Russian zone have vanished completely. China’s making its bid for domination of all existence. Some of the Russian ships have been destroyed. Most just got taken over—repurposed with skeleton crews. Spencer’s got a ringside seat into the fleet that’s building up around the Hammer of the Skies. The size of it is way beyond unprecedented. It’s like nothing that Spencer’s ever seen—a colossal armada, and beyond it are still more ships: the endless reinforcements, long lines of convoys chugging up the gravity-well from Earth. A similar scene is going on at L4. The Coalition’s forces at the libration points already outnumber the American ships behind the Moon by two to one. Meaning things could kick off any time.

And that would really suck. Because it turns out that Spencer and Sarmax and Jarvin are on the wrong megaship. The one that counts is Righteous Fire-Dragon. That’s where Matthew Sinclair got taken as soon as he was placed in custody, along with all the other high-security prisoners. He’s still there now, because no one’s left this whole time. Not that Spencer sees where within the Righteous Fire- Dragon Sinclair’s being held: he’s got a clear enough view into the rest of the fleet, but not that megaship. It’s the same with Jarvin.

At least that’s what the man claims. Spencer doesn’t trust him for shit, of course. He’s spent a lot of the last forty-eight hours trying to devise a way to protect himself from whatever Jarvin might pull. Anyone who rose to head up CICom operations in HK is going to be a master manipulator by definition. Jarvin’s faking of Praesidium credentials was the icing on the cake. It was just too bad that he picked the wrong side of the impending civil war. They’re working on getting at one with the Chinese way of thought now. Jarvin gave them the Mandarin downloads. The Chinese zone’s harder to navigate than the Russian. But they’re managing so far. They’ve got new suits, stolen from one of the armories. They’ve got new identities. But nothing’s got clearance to get off this fucking ship.

Leaving Spencer’s software plenty of time to sort through zone permutations while his mind sorts through everything else. Memories pour over him … the lights beneath the Atlantic … the smile of a woman he used to know back in Minneapolis. He knows she’s dead. He wonders what it was like when the def-grids broke and the rain of fire poured in. He can’t believe the United States has been wiped off the map. He looks at the Moon, and he can’t believe what’s left. He knows this game is closing on its end. He knows that ultimately Jarvin and Sarmax are the competition—figures that’s the only sensible way to view things. Jarvin’s all analysis, no weakness. But Sarmax is getting ever more volatile—progressively more dangerous as his mood gets worse and worse. Spencer wonders what’s bugging him—guesses that whatever it is, it’s not what would be getting to the typical mech in this situation. The typical mech would be driven crazy by inaction—would be going out of his mind sitting there and waiting for the razors to come up with a solution. But Sarmax seems to be a man who’s used to dwelling within himself. Whatever’s eating him is something deeper. Particularly since he’s showing the same signs he was showing back when this run was first beginning—back when he and Spencer were hiding out in Hong Kong. Some demon’s eating at Leo Sarmax. Spencer wonders if it’s the same thing that dragged him back into the game after all those years on the lunar South Pole—maybe even the reason why he went AWOL in the first place.

But all of it is mere background to the main event that’s going down in Spencer’s head. His primary focus across the hours has been dealing with the thing that’s plagued him for so long. All those files within his head, compiled by the man whose suit is attached like a limpet a little farther down this shaft—and who stole those files from the man held captive in the other megaship. And the deeper he gets into those files, the more Spencer finds that it’s all starting to blur together—the men around him, the ship about him, the clouds of lights beyond—all of it coalescing while Spencer paces through the canyons of his mind, thinking along angles he’s never thought before. The files are giving way before him. Twenty-four hours, and he’s making progress by pure process of elimination. Twelve more, and finally he’s cracking some codes. All those letters from all those faux alphabets—he’s at last seeing a rhythm to their seeming randomness. Something’s coming into view before him. Vast realms of data, and he really doesn’t want to believe what it’s telling him. The audacity of it all floors him. The fact that this is simply the tip of the iceberg scares him shitless. But it also offers a new way to approach the current situation. He keys the conduit to the other two men.

“I got an idea,” he says.

The president’s convoy has been on the move inside the Moon for two days now. Two days in which Haskell’s lived many lifetimes over within herself. She keeps on thinking of the face of Strom Carson. She can’t believe he’s dead. She wonders if he really had turned a corner—if he glimpsed something larger than his own ambition in the moments before he died. She wonders if he died well. She’s wondering who did it— speculating whether she could have pulled the trigger if it had ever come to it. She’s glad it never will. The endless trek through the Moon seems like some kind of relentless dream. President Szilard doesn’t intend to make the same mistake as his predecessor. He believes in mobility. It seems to be working so far—no coups have come close to succeeding. He’s still running things, even if they’re falling down around his ears. Haskell’s been in and out of more maglev trains than she can count. And a lot of crawlers too—moving down long tunnels bereft of rail, en route to the next railhead, shifting through the seemingly endless labyrinth of tunnels dug across the century of man’s occupation of the Moon.

Now they’re in a shuttle of some kind. She can’t believe that Szilard’s risking a move above the surface, but presumably he has his reasons. His marines have continued to show her every courtesy. She figured they’d be keeping her in a crate. But instead they’ve allotted her comfortable quarters aboard every vehicle. Maybe Szilard’s trying to win her over. Or soften her up.

But what he hasn’t tried to do is interrogate her. He hasn’t attempted to do what everyone else has—take her apart and find out what makes her tick. She knows he’s going to have to try. Particularly when what’s in her brain might be his only hope of staving off the East. But he’s been holding off. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. She’s a Pandora’s box. Her mind’s a maelstrom stretching out beyond time. She can’t even begin to get a grip on what she’s becoming. Despite the fact that Szilard’s cut her off from zone, she’s somehow eavesdropping on the universe. Static pours across her naked brain, most of it unintelligible, but shot through that cacophony are thoughts, emotions … other minds … she catches images of refugees pouring south into Mexico, of the mass graves the Eurasians are digging up and down the U.S. eastern seaboard. She feels the agony of the planet itself as though the biosphere was a living thing—as though it was flesh from which great chunks had been torn. She figures she’s going insane. She can’t wait to get all the way there. The expressions of the marines who bring her food and water tell her just how far gone she is. They’re all too conscious of the designs scratched upon her body. They won’t even look at her—they’re terrified of her. She knows the feeling.

But eventually the moment that she’s been waiting for arrives. It’s just a moment like any other. Yet somehow