The Machinery of Light

glimpse of the outer Room as she shoots through the metal skin of the inner one—even as it closes up behind her and the lights of the inner Room switch on—

All she can do is stare.

A kilometer across: the inner Room is a massive sphere from which a series of ramps and rails descend to a smaller sphere positioned at the very center. She’s heading down toward that hub now. She can feel Sinclair waiting for her there, too—his mind’s suddenly turning back on at point-blank range—

—hauling her in—

—like some gigantic magnet—

—and she suddenly gets how much he’s been concealing from her, how much stronger he is than she ever thought. He’s been luring her down here all this time. She was fucking crazy to come this far. And the only way to win is to do something even crazier. She came in the back door of the Room. She’s going to leave out the front.

Right now.

We’ve got to get down as fast as possible,” yells Lynx.

Linehan’s not worried. Everything’s converging.

He’s just flotsam on whitewater. They’ve commandeered cycles left behind by a decimated mechanized unit —are riding those bikes at speeds a long way past anything safe. They’re getting into the heart of the farside now, and as they descend along ramps and drop through shafts, Lynx is transmitting data into Linehan’s head, along with a running commentary.

“The lower we get, the worse the fighting gets,” he says. “Probably because Szilard’s no longer even trying to hold the Eurasians to the surface.”

“Are you kidding? There’s fighting all around us—”

“Don’t you get it, man? Our fleet’s getting wiped out. The garrisons are getting overwhelmed. They’ll keep fighting. But they’re going down before sheer numbers. They’re just there to buy time while Szilard—”

“You really think he’s down there?”

“No question. Along with his most elite marines.”

“Trying to break through to the Room.”

“And this is our chance to fucking break him.”

Streaking through one of the deepest of the deep-grid maglev tunnels is a two-car armored train, bristling with guns. The front car contains Velasquez, Sarmax, and the other two members of the Rain triad. The rear one contains Riley, Maschler, and the Operative—who’s in the rearmost chamber of that car, communicating with Velasquez and Sarmax as he drives.

“As bad as we thought,” he says.

“Would have to agree,” says Velasquez.

“The Eurasians have the surface,” says Sarmax.

That seems to be an understatement. The last camera-feeds showed a sky practically blotted out by troopships. The American zone is crumbling as the Chinese forces consolidate their hold on the ground.

“Check it out,” says the Operative, showing the projections. Several Eastern spearheads are lancing deeper from Congreve—moving far faster than the rest of the East’s legions—

“Commandos,” says Velasquez.

“Of course,” says Sarmax.

“Whoever’s running the Coalition gets it,” says the Operative. “The real war’s going to be fought on the threshold of the Room.”

“Or in the Room itself,” says Velasquez. “Sinclair might already have—”

“I’m stunned he hasn’t already,” says the Operative.

“Doesn’t change the plan,” says Sarmax.

The deep-grids beneath Copernicus just aren’t deep enough anymore. But they’re the fastest option available. Jarvin and Spencer have commandeered a maglev car, having left its crew as mangled flesh in the tunnel some klicks back. They’re heading west, blasting everything in their path. The tunnels are a chaos of fighting. A temporary turn of the tide seems to be going on within this sector—the farthest Eurasian troops are being forced back upstairs by Americans who have realized that they’re running out of room to retreat. The line of battle is swaying back and forth. Sometimes Jarvin and Spencer find themselves pretending to be SpaceCom. Sometimes they’re pretending they’re Chinese. It’s a game that can only have one end.

“We’re rumbled,” says Spencer.

“I see it,” says Jarvin.

The pursuit moves in after them.

She turns in one fluid motion, fires all thrusters. The walls of her elevator car fall away like glass and she’s already flying straight through them, suit-jets burning as she presses down with her mind with all her might— catches Sinclair by surprise, gets him in a temporary mental lock, as though she’s pinning a more powerful opponent’s arms against his sides. It won’t last. Maybe it doesn’t need to. She blasts past that hub, upward toward the ceiling.

They get deeper into farside. The upper areas seem to be a free-for-all. It makes the going easy for two men who know where they’re going. They switch from cycles to transport-trains, switch from that to elevators that plunge through shafts. They’re keeping clear of the main fighting. They’re in between most of it now anyway. Above them the Eurasian legions are consolidating their hold. Below them—

“Gotta be Szilard,” says Lynx.

“This time we do it right,” says Linehan.

The train roars back into tunnels known only to Autumn Rain. All the combat’s elsewhere. They’re taking advantage of that fact while they wait for the world to end. Sarmax can’t believe any of this is happening. Particularly not this—Indigo’s pressurized the rear chamber of this car, lifted up her visor. He’s done the same. They’ve got enough time for only one lingering kiss. It’s so much more than it used to be. It’s not just their bodies, now—it’s their minds as well. She’s still the only thing he ever loved. He’s telling her she’s won—that she can do whatever she want to him now. She’s not disagreeing.

Straight shot from the depths of Copernicus to the hollows beneath the Imbrium, and this train just keeps on eating up the klicks. Overhead’s the world’s weight in rock. And that tunnel suffers from the same thing you do.

Pressure.

“We need more throttle,” yells Spencer.

“We can’t go any faster,” says Jarvin. He fires the rear-guns, catches one of the pursuers dead amidships—it explodes against the wall. But the gunship behind it is still coming on. The soldiers of the East are flush with victory. And they’re nothing if not—

“Persistent,” Spencer comments.

He takes the ship through a series of maneuvers; shoots through some mining shafts and back out into the deep-grids. The Eurasian gunship streaks after them—moving past the hi-ex mines that Spencer just slung against the tunnel wall. The ensuing explosions bring the roof down on it.

“Bought us some time,” says Jarvin.

“Not much,” replies Spencer.

It’ll have to do. The ceiling of the inner Room is peeling away above her. She’s streaking in toward another elevator now—one among so many, this one part of a funicular ramp that she’s setting in motion, her mind working its controls as she leaps on and turns to face the receding hub of the inner Room, targeting her guns and