The Machinery of Light

“Did you kill Claire Haskell in your world?”

Marlowe looks like he’s just been shot—like he’s about to gun Spencer down. But Control just laughs: “Both of you calm down. You’re not so different, really. You were all prepared. All your memories—all the focus on memory—and so many of those memories the recollections of your other selves. Thus the infinitely-reprogrammable agent. Thus the culmination of what those of you who survive might become —under my supervision, of course. Could there be a higher calling?”

“I’d like to think so,” says Jarvin.

“You of all people should be on my side,” says Control.

“You’d merely accomplish the abomination the old man was seeking.”

“But with so much more aplomb, Alek. You’re professional enough to admit that, no?” Control gestures at Haskell. “Sinclair prepared the ultimate bride—the end-of-all-flesh—and how can he be blamed for not seeing that the groom had to be silicon? Haskell’s half synthetic herself anyway—receiving full-on transmissions from the beyond throughout both meat and circuitry. But it requires the machinery of the Room to exit the universe entirely. Powered by—”

“The minds of those dying outside,” says Jarvin.

“You’re joking,” says Linehan.

“Wish I was,” replies Jarvin.

“Sinclair should have had you terminated,” says Control.

“He would have had he known about the file I was assembling.”

“Which is where?”

“In my head. And you’ve damaged the software beyond repair—”

“I deliberately stopped short of that. So download the file before I remove it the old-fashioned—”

“It’s yours,” says Jarvin—a moment passes—

“This isn’t complete,” says Control.

“Spencer figured out the rest of it,” says Jarvin.

Control steps away from Velasquez, moves in toward Spencer—who feels the scans within his body increasing—

“Sinclair’s files,” says Control. “Give them to me.”

Spencer knows that Jarvin must be wondering if he’s going to rat him out in return. He’s severely tempted. It might redirect some of the pressure. Then again, it might prevent him from driving this conversation in the only direction that matters—

“You’re a quantum computer,” he says.

“The first,” says Control.

“The last,” snarls Carson. “This thing means to rule all futures—”

“I am all futures,” says Control. “Calculations done across the multiverse—”

“That’s all theoretical,” snaps Sarmax.

“The theory’s standing before your eyes,” says Morat.

And Sinclair thought he could control it,” says Lynx. He sees what the others are doing now, gets where the game to stay alive is going. But if you want to play, you’ve got to stick your neck out—

“Those teleporters out there,” he says.

“What about them?” says Control.

“They aren’t remote duplication, are they? They’re point-to-point connections sliced through dimensional folds—”

“Thereby enabling travel faster than the speed of light,” mutters Sarmax.

“One implication among many,” says Spencer.

“Let’s not overstate it,” says Carson. “You’d still need to get out there the old-fashioned way—cross the fucking empty to build each gateway first. And that’s assuming it wasn’t remote—”

“This is pathetic,” says Control. “You think to keep me prattling while Haskell breaks through. Gentlemen, she’s already there. And I’m riding her mind all the way while we speak. And the only reason I’m even tolerating this conversation is so I can take Matthew Sinclair alive—”

“And learn something along the way,” says Spencer.

“So hand over the goddamn files,” says Morat.

Spencer deploys what’s left of his skull’s software, beams the files to Sarmax instead. Who starts from where he’s cradling Velasquez, whirls around—

“What the fuck did you just do?” he asks.

“You’ve got copies of the files now,” says Spencer.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Sarmax, “I already know the—”

“Mathematics?” Spencer laughs. “The blueprints for Control?”

“How about giving me a taste?” says Lynx.

“I’ll give you a little more than that,” says Control.

“Otherwise you can’t seal off Sinclair’s escape route,” says Spencer. “Right?” He looks at that sightless face, tries to see behind those eyes-that-aren’t-eyes. He feels a strange buzzing on the edge of his awareness—feels the Room starting to somehow shift around him. The others seem to sense it too.

“It’s starting,” says Morat. “We don’t have time for—”

“We don’t have time period,” says Control. “It’s all an illusion. We’re standing outside it all. And what’s happening around us is par for the course when a being like me closes upon its origins. The armadas of the East batter at the door, the creatures of the West barred beyond their reach. None of us in here need give two shits. By now those fleets have melted away into a fucking wave- function.”

“Existence ends at that membrane,” mutters Sarmax.

“The Room’s a no-room,” says Linehan suddenly.

“The man nails it,” says Lynx.

Linehan takes in Lynx’s glance, realizes that everyone else is looking at him now, too. And no one had even thought twice about what was in his head till now. He shakes that head, knows he’s got to clear it. He gets that he’s been too much the brute to be the object of much suspicion. But disguise is all about surprise …

“Seb Linehan,” says Control.

“Sure,” says Linehan. “We met before.”

“But now you’ve been down ayahuasca alley.”

“Now I’ve—” and suddenly Linehan gets it: Control’s the demon he’s been running from this whole while, the beast that sits at the end of time and laps up all pretenders. All futures flow through this thing. That’s the way this thing wants it. That’s what Linehan’s got to somehow stop. He glances at Haskell’s form hovering above him. Or below. He can’t tell. Time’s doing the same thing space has already done, spreading out in all directions. All perspectives …

“As always, the man with the least training is the best trained.” Linehan realizes that each word Control’s speaking is a musical note intended to call up something from deep within him. “Ironic, no? What we’re conscious of plays so little real role in riding the raw moment. Give a man drugs to awaken doors within him; you can’t argue with the result. Ayahuasca, peyote, mushrooms, LSD—whatever it takes: There’s a reason shamans worldwide all did the same damn thing—tuned the nervous system to get in touch with the source. And yet modern society forgot. Even as its physics moved in directions that undermined the very assumptions that society was based on. There’s infinite worlds out there. Infinite spaces beyond this one. And all of it only a vibration away. Sensitives know this. And with the right preparation, anyone can climb those gradients—”

“I didn’t ask to be here,” says Linehan.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Control.

“You’ve got something special planned for me.”