The Machinery of Light

Where the hell are we going?” asks the Operative.

“You really think I’m going to talk to you?” says Haskell.

He figured it was worth a try. They’re heading down a series of ramps, moving through ground that’s obviously already been prepared. Szilard’s advance guard deployed here during the last hour. Haskell herself came this way less than ten minutes ago. The remainder of the SpaceCom marines in this sector fan out on either side, letting their new mistress pass through, along with her entourage—

—she figures she’d better revel in her moment of power, because she’s about to go up against the ultimate foe. Why Sinclair didn’t confront her directly back in the Room, she doesn’t know. Perhaps he figured Control would be enough to stop her. Perhaps he doesn’t need her after all. She rounds a corner to see the shimmering transluscence of the membrane blocking the way ahead.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” she says—starts to give commands. And they’re doing exactly what she tells them—bunching together, getting in close. She can tell that goes against all their instincts—that the last thing any of them want is to be so near that their armor’s touching. But she needs to envelop them all with her mind’s shield. She’s giving last orders to the SpaceCom marines, telling them to defend to the end. She knows that ultimately the Eurasians will be able to reach this point anyway. But unless she screws up, they won’t be going any farther. And if she’s right about what’s about to happen, none of it will matter anyway. She synchronizes everyone on the zone that’s all her own and gives the orders to get moving into that membrane—

And they do. Fast. It’s all Linehan can do to keep up—all he can do to stay sane as apparitions loom before him and spirits gibber at him—hollow-eyed ghosts staring straight through the barrier that Haskell’s slung up around him, pressing against his head. It’s like those things are pounding against his skull, trying to break in—like all of reality’s boiling inside his head. When it boils away maybe he’ll see straight through to what’s been hidden from him all this time. He grits his teeth, follows this woman-who’s-no-woman as she keeps on driving forward—

What the fuck are we dealing with, Carson?”

Lynx’s voice sounds as on edge as the Operative has ever heard—the voice of a man grasping for something to hold on to and falling way too short. The Operative is almost tempted to just let Lynx stew. But he can’t be sure he won’t be going there himself any moment now. So he lets himself just describe.

“Sinclair’s got a psychic moat,” he says. “Something that no normal mind could pass.”

“Not too many abnormal ones either,” says Lynx.

Nor is the mind enough. Reflexes are at a premium as well. Maschler, Riley, Linehan, Lynx, the Operative, Velasquez, and the other two members of her triad—they’re all following the instructions that Haskell’s flashing to them, following her as she forges forward—

It’s a little easier because she’s been this way before. The only way to get in or out of the Room without using a teleporter—but the labyrinth’s geometry is unreliable. It shifts every time one passes through it, is never the same thing twice. She figures that’s fitting—she gets a glimpse of Sinclair as a minotaur lurking in the catacombs of eternity, of herself as Theseus threading the final maze toward him. She senses more emanations foaming in from the Room, senses something new—

And when we get there?” asks Sarmax.

“We do whatever she says,” says Velasquez.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”

Long experience. He’s considering all the angles as the maelstrom of the labyrinth whirls around them; he’s realizing that she’s playing at something, and he’s not sure he can stand to know—not sure that Haskell doesn’t know already—

“Control yourself,” hisses Velasquez, “or she will.”

“Our minds—”

“Your mind is under my protection. And mine is the only one that this superbitch can’t penetrate.”

“This superbitch is the only thing that can stop Matthew Sinclair—”

“She’s playing right into his hands,” snarls Velasquez.

Nor is she under any illusions on that score. There’s no contingency she can adopt that might not be something that Sinclair’s counting upon. Every stratagem she deploys might merely be the inverse of one of his. Every action she takes might be one more step in his master plan. His progeny have operated with all too many plans—all too many scenarios … and maybe they’re all just part of the design of the one who set it all in motion. But now she’s on the point of returning to the Room with the most elite armed escort ever seen. The fact that she doesn’t know whom among that escort she can trust is something she intends to turn to her advantage. She’s going to stay one step ahead of Sinclair yet. She powers through the other side of the membrane—glances back as they come on through behind her, almost laughs at the looks on their faces.

PART V AUTUMN RAIN

What’s your problem?” asks the Operative.

It figures. Alone of all of them, he’s already processed the Room’s vast contents—takes them in with a single glance and the expression of a man who resolved long ago never to be surprised. He’s thus the only one to notice the expression on her face.

“Sinclair’s no longer here,” she says. “Neither is Control.”

“Be more precise.”

“I can’t detect them.”

“That’s more like it,” says the Operative.

She nods—starts giving orders. The group starts to deploy onto parallel elevator-trains. Riley, Maschler, and the Operative in one; Sarmax, Velasquez, and her triad in another; Linehan, Lynx, and herself in the third. They drop down toward the inner Room, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing—

We’re in the kingdom of heaven,” says Linehan.

“Shut up” says Lynx.

But it’s true all the same. Even if Lynx is too blind to see, Linehan’s not … and all he can do is thank God for sending him this—for giving him this life, for taking him to this place where all paths converge. He sights his guns on those terrariums sprawling past—vast shimmering walls that contain more greenery then he’s ever seen.

So the stories were true,” says Velasquez.

“Every last one,” says Sarmax.

This is just gone,” says Maschler.

“It’d be even better if someone explained it,” says Riley.

“Just keep your eyes peeled,” says the Operative.

The Room’s stretching out all around her in the panoply of false color and she can’t see any movement anywhere. But the Operative’s right: Sinclair’s still here. Where else could he be? Especially with the Room