The Machinery of Light

than mind now. Every cell in her body’s come awake. The outer perimeter of the Room is impending. She can see its lights dead ahead—a pale fraction of the lights that now blaze in every fiber of her being.

So how do you want to do this?” says Lynx.

“Hit that rock and get deeper,” says the Operative.

He beams over coordinates. “Via the farside—”

“Too bad there’s no teleporter—”

“You said that already.”

“Here we go,” says Lynx as he gestures at the window.

And Sinclair’s there already,” says Spencer. “At the Room—”

“Probably,” says Sarmax.

“Definitely,” mutters Jarvin. “Waiting for her.”

“Does she know something he doesn’t?” says Spencer.

“I think it’s the other way around.”

That’s when acceleration slams against them like some giant hand—

The Operative and Lynx can see it clearly on all their screens. At the vanguard of the Eurasian fleet, the megaships have shifted gears, accelerating at rates the rest of the ships can’t hope to match. But they’re bringing portions of that fleet with them—

“Bastards,” says Lynx.

“Tin-can alley,” says the Operative.

The megaships are towing order-of-magnitude more freight this time around. The systems of tethers stretching out to the side of their wakes is that much more complex. About ten percent of the Eurasian fleet is involved in the spearhead’s burn—one formation led by each megaship, two vectors driving in upon the Moon …

“This is going to be good,” says Lynx.

Spencer and Jarvin have to drop momentarily from zone to steady their bodies. They’re pressing themselves into corners adjacent to Sarmax, letting the G-forces shove against them as the ship throttles up.

“Who the fuck’s driving this thing?” says Spencer.

“We’ve lost our link to the engines,” says Jarvin. “That fucking triad that’s still out there—”

“Maybe not,” says Spencer. He’s mulling other possibilities, like the Eurasian leadership itself. After all the precautions they’ve taken, Spencer wouldn’t put it past them to have created one last backup option—equipping the motors of their megaships with stripped-down, primitive computers shorn from the rest of zone, on direct wireless links to their own bunkers. Just enough computer intelligence to take orders and pump bombs. Anything more than that’s inviting a little too much trouble. He forwards projected schematics to Jarvin.

“Yeah,” says Jarvin, “that’s an option, too. Praesidium could be pulling the strings.”

“And for all we know Sinclair’s pulling theirs,” says Sarmax.

Jarvin gestures at the consoles. “That’s why you need to have this AI crunch us some equations.”

“And decipher the last of Sinclair’s code,” says Sarmax.

“Let’s hope it’s a quick study,” says Spencer.

The orders flash out from the Harrison: maximum speed. The L2 fleet fires all afterburners and picks up steam as it closes on the farside. The ships are running at a velocity far below the two Eurasian squadrons now burning in toward the Moon’s nearside, but the Americans have to cover only a quarter of the distance. The Eurasians won’t just be trying to crush the American fleet—they’ll be trying to get as many shock-troops as possible onto the lunar surface. Prudence might dictate they take care of the first objective before they worry about the second. But the Operative has a feeling that they might try for both at once.

“Bad news,” says Linehan on the comlink.

“No one ever calls with good,” mutters Lynx.

The AI is going to town, crunching away on Sinclair’s last files while Spencer and Jarvin step back into the zone. Not that there’s much to see. All the action seems to be going on out in the real world. The Moon’s swelling in the screens. And through the flash of nuclear detonations from the megaships’ exhaust can be seen those scores of ships being towed, each one towing so many others, and virtually all of them are—

“Troopships,” says Sarmax.

“Invasion time,” mutters Jarvin.

The contest outside is approaching its climax. Same with the one down here. Sinclair’s somewhere below her. But he must have some kind of contingency for the overwhelming strength of the Eurasian fleet. Presumably that contingency involves the Rain triad that’s still on the Righteous Fire-Dragon. But as to how she’s going to deal with the Rain triad that’s right behind her—all she can do is run. She doesn’t dare try to stand against them with Sinclair and Control so near at hand. She hurtles forward, reaches a chamber she recognizes from her dreams. That narrow alcove in the corner—just tall enough for a man—or a woman. She steps within as suited figures blast into the room she’s left behind, codes flashing through her mind—

A M drive’s fucked,” says Linehan.

The secret weapon of the Harrison. Not to mention a good chunk of the reason the Operative and his crew fought their way onto this ship in the first place—excepting the now-destroyed Redeemer, the flagship is the only vessel employing the prototype antimatter drive. But it hasn’t been switched on yet. The Operative was saving that for one final burst of evasive action. He grimaces—

“What the fuck’s wrong with the thing?”

“It won’t prime,” says Linehan.

“Why not?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“Did you fucking check?”

“What do you think we’re fucking doing out here?”

The Operative turns off the comlink.

“Colonists probably trashed it,” says Lynx.

“Or just snipped the connection.”

They look at each other. Lynx clears his throat. “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

“Sure I am,” says the Operative.

And suddenly the whole zone just staggers—

All around them, it’s as though the entire zone has suddenly turned to liquid—as though waves are pulsing through that liquid, making everything ripple around them. It’s like nothing Spencer’s ever experienced.

It lasts the merest fraction of a second. Space folds in around, gives way before her like cobwebs brushing across her face. Her eyes see nothing. But she feels everything rip through her as she teleports right through the outer perimeter’s membrane. It’s about what she expected—enough psychic overload to destroy an unprepared mind. Or just give it a brain hemorrhage. And maybe that’s what’s happening in her head.

But then it all subsides.

Seems to be normal now,” says Lynx.

“Nothing normal about that,” says the Operative.

They’re starting to run diagnostics, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Something just seemed to twist the whole zone sideways before letting it snap back into place like a gargantuan