The Machinery of Light

We attack them. That’s the offer, Jharek. It’s either that or civil war right now—and then the Eurasians can cruise into the world’s biggest junkyard.”

“What about my flagship?”

“My flagship,” says the Operative.

He and Szilard stare at each other. “For now,” says Szilard.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” says the Operative.

“You should,” says Szilard. “When you get here, I’ll tear you fuckers limb from limb.”

“Can’t wait. How’s the Manilishi?”

Szilard doesn’t say anything. Save for a flicker in his eyes—

“Thanks,” says the Operative—switches the screen off.

They switch back on, plunge into zone—or at least what’s left of it. The AI rides shotgun, runs backup as the grids of the Righteous Fire-Dragon open up all around them—the central elevator shafts like some kind of multibarreled spine, the massive hive of corridors and chambers stretching out around it. The camera-feeds show carnage. Marines butchering each other, gunning down the crew, turning guns upon themselves, driving vehicles at full tilt, firing at everything that moves. When software hasn’t been used to hack the flesh directly, the flesh is simply being dragged along for the ride. Spencer catches glimpses of horrified faces behind visors while the armor they’re trapped within pursues relentless arcs of self-destruction. It’s total pandemonium. Haskell’s done her work well.

But there’s no sign of Rain.

“They’ve gone to ground,” says Spencer, his voice echoing through the cockpit.

“They’re out there somewhere,” says Sarmax.

“Probably still think we have Haskell,” adds Jarvin.

Spencer doesn’t reply. He’s just riding the zone farther out, looking beyond the ship. The Eurasian armada is spread out behind the Righteous Fire-Dragon, motoring in toward the Moon, drawing ever closer to its brethren fleet that’s launched from L4. The Moon’s caught between two onrushing vectors—and between them is a single ship, the Hammer of the Skies, rushing from the L5 fleet on a path that will intersect the one emanating from L4 about forty thousand klicks out from the Moon—

“Switching it up,” says Jarvin.

Spencer nods. Keeping the wings balanced—and as he looks further, he sees what might be the reason. His purview expands to take in the Moon itself: the L2 fleet is moving toward that rock. The final battle of this war will be the largest engagement to ever take place in space. He watches those lights drift ever closer.

Lights parade inside her, stretch out beyond her, and it’s all she can do to tell herself that it’s all just some kind of illusion. That this is what happens when one’s mind gets shorn from the leash, bathed by radioactive static and deprived of external stimuli. All she’s got are these endless walls streaming through the headlights of her crawler. But she’s starting to get glimmers of something else, too—some signal that’s far more real than these illusionary lights that keep on taunting her. She can’t tell if it’s deeper in the Moon or deeper in her mind. It occurs to her that maybe there’s no difference.

The minutes crawl by. The Moon looms ever larger, the hordes of Eurasian ships growing above the left and right horizons. The L2 fleet’s holding steady in formation. The Harrison’s holding steady under their thumb. Kill-crazy meat-puppets roam all corridors beyond the bridge’s blast-doors. Everything within is in total lockdown. The three mechs who comprise the muscle have got the situation handled.

Which leaves Lynx and the Operative to their own devices. They’ve been using their exalted position on the zone of the L2 fleet to ransack all the data they can find. But it turns out that Szilard had precious little left stashed up here—

“That’s the rest of it,” says the Lynx.

“Yep,” says the Operative.

“We’re going to have to wait till we get back to the Moon to figure out the—”

“We can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Wait.”

This is getting tight,” says Jarvin.

His face is on one of the screens in the main room of the cockpit. Spencer’s is on the opposite. Both men are still in the zone, meshed with the AI, scanning for the Rain triad that’s somewhere in the bowels of the ship. Sarmax is sitting in a corner where he can see both screens. He stretches, looks at the screens that show the two fleets closing.

“One last chance to talk,” he says.

She’s moving within range of her ultimate destination.

The one her life has been building toward for all this time. And the thing that’s now materializing within her mind is as much a function of what lies in the depths of Moon as in the deepest recesses of herself. She can’t explain it. Can’t understand it. All she can do is stare at the face of the child appearing before her. It’s a face she recognizes.

It used to be her own.

Don’t bullshit me, Carson.”

“I’m not bullshitting you. We need to figure out the game plan now.”

“You really want to go there?”

“Not a matter of want. A matter of necessity.”

“Because you thought you could win this game on your own and now you’re waking up to the fact that—”

“I was wrong.”

“You sound scared.”

“I am scared.”

“Given what’s going down, you should be.”

“So let’s talk about the gameboard,” says the Operative.

Those fucking files,” says Jarvin.

Spencer starts to speak—stops. He gets that he’s in over his head—that he’s taken this as far as he can go on his own. He knows way too much—needs whatever pieces of the puzzle the others have. His mind’s been searching for a way out and the only one he can come up with is—

“Spit it out, man.” Sarmax seems to be sinking ever farther back into the corner—

“Not even sure how to say it,” Spencer says.

Haskell’s inside a child’s mind now. Cathedrals of sensory impression from another era rise around her.

The universe fractals in vast kaleidoscopic patterns. The child’s eyes open. Her own follow an instant later.

Time machines,” says Lynx. “That’s what you said back—”

“Yeah,” says the Operative.

“Still a bullshit artist till the last, huh?”

“I’m not bullshitting you.”

“You and I both know that’s only the start of it.”

The Autumn Rain hit-teams were just the tip of the iceberg,” says Spencer.

“We know that,” says Sarmax. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Time was I ran the Autumn Rain hit-teams for Harri—”