The Machinery of Light

She shrugs. “Some Rain operatives had a dustup.”

“Fighting among themselves?”

“A habit of theirs.”

“Sarmax and Carson, right?”

She nods.

“Who won?”

“Does it look like anyone won?”

“And you know all this because—?”

“Carson told me.”

“He told you? Or can you sense it?”

“I’m not that good.”

“Not yet,” he says.

There’s a pause. “So how much do you know?” she asks.

“A lot more than I did.”

“These last forty-eight hours—where have we been?”

“All over,” Szilard replies. “Some backup mainframes beneath Agrippa. Some bombed-out tunnels beneath what used to be Eurasian territory. A storage locker in Congreve. Not to mention—”

“Nansen Station?”

Szilard shakes his head. “I delegated that one. Didn’t think it would be prudent to go there myself.”

“Too predictable?”

“‘Predictable’ is a word I rarely use,” he says. “If something’s predictable enough, then only a fool would do it, meaning no one expects you to do it, meaning more often than not you can pull it off. The possibility for double- and triple-fakes is endless, especially if you’re dealing with Rain. And God only knows how many would-be pretenders are trying to do to me what I did to Montrose. I’ve stranded most of the problem cases up at the L2 fleet, but the Moon’s crawling with collateral fallout from the last few days: surviving Praetorians, rogue InfoCom agents, everyone who’s been dispossessed by the constant regime changes—”

“But this isn’t just about your staying out of the crosshairs of those who would take your place.”

Szilard says nothing.

“It’s also about getting ready for the next phase,” adds Haskell. “And thus your scavenger hunt.”

Szilard nods.

“Found much?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I’ve found enough. Old files of Harrison’s, captured Eurasian intel briefings, interrogation transcripts—it’s strange how much got scattered across more than twenty years. You’ve got something you want hidden, you put it out of reach, and yet that doesn’t mean it gets passed over forever. These days your data often has a longer lifespan than you do.”

“Sarmax’s hasn’t outlived him yet.”

“No,” says Szilard. He looks thoughtful. “And yet I think that man died inside many years back.”

“Because of Indigo Velasquez?”

“Indeed.”

“She’s still alive.”

“You assert that with such confidence.”

“Because I saw her.”

“Along with who else?”

“She’s part of Sinclair’s team up at L5.”

“And what about Sinclair’s team down here?”

Pause. “I’ve seen nothing.”

“You hesitate.”

“I was thinking it over,” she says.

“I think you’re only seeing what he wants you to see.”

“Possibly.”

“That’s his M.O., isn’t it? All the way from the start, right? He put you and Marlowe alongside each other to keep you preoccupied, keep you distracted while—”

“He’s not invincible. Look at how Morat played him—”

“And now Morat’s dead.”

“Maybe.”

Szilard cocks his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Morat appeared to me when Montrose was interrogating me.”

Pause. “Montrose was using his image.”

“I’m not so sure,” she says. “His presence felt … real.”

“Well, of course it would—”

“And Sinclair appeared soon after, and he was real. That tank Montrose was holding me in had leaks. Maybe more than one. For all I know, Morat’s out there playing his own game. Or is back in the saddle with Sinclair—”

“But I thought you were the one to kill Morat.”

“I killed a robot. The original might have been elsewhere. Or somebody might have created more.”

“Well,” says Szilard, “one more reason for me to take my precautions.”

“It won’t save you.”

Szilard grins ruefully. “I doubt anyone thought I’d be the one to harness you either. Sinclair and Harrison cut me out of the loop from the start. They thought I was just one more nonentity. Harrison tried to take me out, and I took him instead. The Rain tried to play me, and I spaced their hit squad. Montrose tried to make me second fiddle, and now she’s a frozen husk. Because I do my homework, just like I’ve done with you. Everyone else just rushed in and got what they deserved. You’re something you don’t fuck with. You mind envelops anything that tries to control it. Your brain uses whatever tries to use you—you escalate automatically beyond the ability of any interrogator to reach. Montrose thought she’d cracked you, and all she’d done was undermine her own defenses.”

“What about Carson?”

“What about him?”

“Back on Harrison’s ship. He knew what he was doing—”

“Thought he did, sure. He had Sinclair’s backing, but Sinclair gave him only part of the data. The old man wasn’t stupid enough to allow your full powers into the hands of any of his minions. ’Cause suddenly the minion starts thinking they can be the master, right?”

“Just like you’re doing now.”

“And I’m not going into the lion’s den without some serious hardware. These last two days have been quite the journey, Claire. Quite the haul. The sequencing on your incubation. The diagrams of your mind’s metaprocesses, the way you run zone—I’ve got them now. I’ll be able to get past the hurdles that tripped up Montrose. All that’s left is one more step.”

“Assuming Sarmax comes through for you.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

Two marines step into the gazebo with them. The floor begins to descend.

A shudder passes through the shuttle as it docks with the dreadnaught Lexington. Exterior hatches swing open. Everybody gets up and starts heading for the exit—or nearly everybody, anyway. Five people stay behind. Maschler and Riley look befuddled. Everyone else looks amused. The pilot appears in the cockpit doorway.

“End of the line,” he says.

“Not for us,” says the Operative.

“What’s your problem?”

“Check your schedule,” says Lynx.

“I already did,” says the pilot.