The Machinery of Light

“Didn’t I tell you I’d call you when I did?”

“I figured it couldn’t hurt to know the exact status.”

“We’re working on it.”

“Where is she?”

“We’ve got her cornered in the Congreve sub-basements.”

“I heard she’s gotten a little farther than that.”

Which isn’t what she wants to hear. Szilard shouldn’t have access to that kind of data. Then again, he’s had years to put his agents all over Congreve and everything beneath it. The farside may be the only thing that’s out of the direct line of sight of the largest Eurasian guns, but it’s also SpaceCom territory. And Congreve is even more so. That’s why she’s several hundred kilometers away, in a bunker whose construction she supervised covertly for years and which has only just been switched on. Nobody save InfoCom personnel are getting anywhere near her. Still, she can’t help but feel that Szilard is way too close right now.

“She’ll be in custody shortly,” she says.

“And then?”

“We’ve already discussed that.”

“And I’ve been thinking some more about it.”

“Think all you like. She remains with me.”

“You’ve already got the executive node.”

“Because I’m president.”

“And I need to remain admiral of the fleet.”

“You can do that without the Manilishi.”

“Sure, but—”

“What are you proposing, Jharek?”

“Joint control.”

“Out of the question.”

“Or bring her up to the Montana.”

“The where?”

“You heard me. My flagship.”

“You must be joking.”

“I have trouble doing that,” says Szilard. “Look, the farside’s not safe.”

“It’s as safe as anything we’ve got.”

“The East is right there, Stephanie. They’re still holding out at Tsiolkovskiy crater —”

“Not exactly next door, Jharek”—her voice raised enough that nearby analysts dart covert looks her way. “And how is taking her to the Montana in any way consonant with joint control?”

“Doesn’t have to be the Montana,” he says evenly.

“Doesn’t have to be anywhere in the L2 fleet,” she says. “Haskell’s a bona fide superweapon. Why the hell would we put her on a spaceship while combat’s underway?”

“You think my position up here is exposed?”

She doesn’t answer. She knows what’s really going on here. They’re winning so quickly that Szilard has already started trying to define the postwar order. Meaning she might just have to start moving up her plans. Szilard clears his throat.

“Let me try to put you at ease,” he says. “SpaceCom’s built on the reversal of appearance. What might look like vulnerable tin cans are actually the high ground. There couldn’t be a more secure place to keep Haskell —”

“So why not L5?”

“Pardon?”

“We both know L2’s yours. L5’s a little more even. Once the war is over, we can move her there.”

“To where Sinclair’s in custody? I’m not sure putting her anywhere near her former boss is—”

“Interrogating them together may be the best way to crack them both.”

“He may not be crackable. Harrison failed to—”

“So he failed,” she says. “No reason we have to.”

“So you’ll move Haskell?”

“How about you let me catch her first?”

On the outside trying to get in: and just out of reach—Lynx can see the main data conduit that’s been set up between the InfoCom and SpaceCom leadership—can see it, but can’t get in. Which is too bad, because if he could crack the inner enclave, he might be able to figure a way out of this fucking place. He’s still stuck in the shafts of the Montana. He’s been crawling through Szilard’s flagship in the wake of his disastrous attempt on Szilard’s life, running low-grade hacks to keep the local wildlife in check, but unable to get much of a vantage point beyond that … until he got a break, stumbling upon a nest of wires that turns out to be the backup lines for some of the systems on the bridge. He’s been in those wires for the last five minutes, using them to finally broaden his scope beyond this slice of the Montana. The Earth-Moon system is in chaos. He’s relishing the sight.

The fact that SpaceCom marines are closing in on his position is a different story. He’s got a glimpse into the views maintained by the Montana’s garrison—can see they’ve blocked off all the entrances to the shaft-complex he’s in and set up checkpoints, all facing toward him. A move that makes no sense unless it’s accompanied by another. Even though he can’t see it, he knows it beyond a shadow of a doubt: the hunters have entered this section of the shafts. He can practically feel the hands reaching out for his neck.

But he stays where he is, uploading for the next thirty seconds, siphoning as much information from the comps as he can. He figures he’s going to need it—figures you never know what might come in useful, knows he’ll have only a few minutes to find a way to put it to use. He feels data fill him, rise up within him until he’s brimming with practically nothing else. He gets ready to start running.

The Earth shakes as they streak beneath it. It’s clearly only a matter of time before the tunnel collapses around them. They’re way too close to the surface. Presumably that’s why this train’s engineers are pouring on the speed, racing for the junctions that will get them to the one place they need to be.

Deeper.

The man eyes the car around him. Nobody is above the rank of colonel. The man’s only a major, but he’s got pull that goes a little beyond that. Yet right now he’s in the same boat as the rest of them—just Russian officers trying to make their luck go a little further, just soldiers all too glad they got assigned to this train and not the one behind it. There’s nothing back there now. The def-grids are crumbling. American hypersonic missiles are starting to smack into bases in the steppe above them. The train accelerates still further.

Is something wrong?” says Sarmax.

“I’m fine,” says Spencer.

“No you’re not.”

“No?”

“You just felt something grab at your mind, right?”

Spencer blinks. “You too, huh?”

“How much did you feel?” asks Sarmax.

“Just the hint of something.”

“Could you see who?”

“No idea.”

Not that he has much experience with stuff this weird. He was hooked up to the Manilishi during the run-in, via some kind of telepathy that was enabled surgically and had something to do with his zone interfaces. He has no idea as to the exact procedure—has no idea as to what this is really all about. Which is why he’s getting so desperate for some answers.

“You and Lynx and Carson,” he says.