The Machinery of Light

piece of elastic. And not just the zone either—

“I felt something in my mind as well,” says the Operative.

“Me too,” says Lynx.

They glance at each other.

“Fuck,” says the Operative.

“If Sinclair’s starting up the party—”

“All the more reason for you to get the fuck back there and get that damn drive working.”

“What the fuck makes you think I’m going to do it?”

“Because kickstarting busted engines on spaceships is something I’ve done once too often,” says the Operative. It’s not much of an answer, but at this point, he could give a rat’s ass if Lynx is satisfied. He only wonders if Lynx will choose to make this the moment—if he’ll decide to have it out right here. It’d be betting against the odds, given that the Operative’s the expert in physical combat, but he wouldn’t put it past him. He watches recognition of the inevitable coalesce on Lynx’s face—

“I’m taking Linehan with me.”

“Be my guest,” says the Operative.

Spencer and Jarvin are taking stock. The zone went crazy. The zone’s back to normal. But Spencer simultaneously felt something shifting in his mind, too. As brief as it was unmistakable, the implications scare him shitless. Something’s almost certainly going on downstairs. And something’s now surfacing within what’s left of the megaship’s zone. A signal being sent in the clear, because they’re the only ones left to hear it—

We need to talk.

She’s somewhere else now, looking out at a different room—and even as she rips circuitry from the walls to preclude anyone following, she’s checking the coordinates … no sign of zone, but she’s using what’s left of gravity to ascertain her position. She’s moved away from the Moon’s north-south axis, into the depths of the farside. The inner perimeter of the Room is right above her.

Along with Matthew Sinclair.

You’re shitting me,” says Linehan.

“You wish,” says Lynx.

Linehan’s in the door of the inner bridge. He looks about as pissed as the Operative expected. The idea of leaving the bridge during this madness clearly hadn’t even begun to occur to him. Because that would be—

“Total fucking insanity,” says Linehan.

“Probably worse than that,” says Lynx.

“And yet you’re up for it?”

“Piece of cake,” says Lynx.

“You’re higher than a motherfucker,” says Linehan.

“Aren’t we all,” says the Operative.

What the fuck is that?” asks Spencer.

“Probably a trap,” says Jarvin.

Though it’s hard to see how. Embedded on the surface of the signal is the frequency for a zone-channel. All they have to do is tune into it to enable conversation. There’s no need to inter-mesh minds. No reason to move outside their zone-enclave. In theory, no risk. But in practice—

“We’d have to be nuts to take that call,” says Spencer.

“If Sinclair’s revving up the Room, what do we have to lose?”

“The chance to see it happen.”

“We’re just talking about a little dialogue.”

“These days that’s the most dangerous thing.”

Jarvin shrugs, then switches them over to the zone-frequency. A face awaits them there.

The zone’s coming alive within her skull once more—not the American zone at all, but something that’s nonetheless the most robust microzone she’s ever seen. She marvels at all that clockwork—sensing as she does the machinery of Sinclair’s fortress crouching all around—stretching out for kilometers around her, metal burrowed through endless tunnels, intricate patterns all waiting for one thing. She moves down a passage, sees a door ahead, knows what it is even before it slides open. She’s expected all of it.

Save the voice.

They don’t waste time. They get moving, through the bridge’s emergency airlock and out onto the hull and—

“Don’t look up,” says Lynx.

But Linehan does, takes in the most demented sight he’s ever seen, far crazier than any drug-vision that’s ever assailed him: the two wings of the L2 fleet stretching away on both sides into what looks like forever, the Moon filling most of the sky beyond them. And past that rock are all too many stars—

“The Eurasian vanguard,” breathes Linehan.

“Let’s move,” says Lynx.

Broadcasting from somewhere on this ship: the face is that of a woman. Spencer recognizes it from the files. He wonders if that particular file is bullshit—wonders whether this face is, too. All the more so as he knows exactly where this is going—knows what the woman’s going to say even before she says it.

“I want to talk to Sarmax,” she says calmly.

It’s the voice of Jason Marlowe. Or whatever’s passing for it. It’s been so long. Its feel like it’s only been a moment. This moment now: it sounds inside her head, and she’s never heard anything louder. Even though she can’t understand a single word. Because it’s some language she’s never heard. Chills shoot up her spine while the elevator car she’s stepped within rushes through the rock.

They’re creeping along the hull of the superdreadnaught like two mountain climbers. They’ve got magnetic clamps turned up to maximum and have tethered themselves to each other for good measure. Linehan can only imagine what’s going on beneath his feet. He keeps expecting DE shots from the incoming Eurasian ships to sweep them off altogether. He doubts he’d feel a thing—his brain would be vaporized before it even processed the bad news. He tries not to look at the Moon as he and Lynx work their way around some gun-turrets. But it’s tough. It feels like that Moon’s a lodestone—like it’s pulling at him with a force way beyond mere gravity. The middle sections of the ship stretch out beyond them.

That’s a good one,” says Spencer.

“He’s the only one I’ll talk to,” says Indigo Velasquez.

Or at least, a face that looks like Indigo Velasquez. Spencer knows what this face does to Sarmax. He knows the Rain isn’t above trying the same trick twice. Spencer’s doing his best to think of what he’s looking at as a thing. He meets its eyes.

“You must think we’re stupid,” he says.

“He’s the only one I trust.”

“Didn’t he try to kill you?” asks Jarvin.

“His final lesson to me.”

“And you’re not getting near him. God only knows what voice-activation shit he’s been rigged with.”

“Maybe we did the same to you.”

“Try it, bitch.”

“We’re razors,” says Jarvin. “Sarmax isn’t. And you’ve had a lot more opportunity over the years to get your hooks into him.”