The Machinery of Light (16 page)

“I’ll say,” says the Operative.

Most of the farside’s now visible, spiderwebs of craters ringed by mountains. No fighting’s in evidence down there. If any combat’s taking place, it’s confined to mop-up. The Operative looks out into space. Shakes his head.

“Why the hell is Montrose picking a fight with Szilard?”

“We were talking about Sinclair,” says Maschler.

“We still are,” snaps the Operative. “It’s impossible not to. We’re all caught up in his plan.”

“Caught up? Or do you mean you’re still trying to carry it out?”

“I’m not even sure there’s a difference,” says the Operative.

“You’d better start learning,” says Riley.

“Same goes for Montrose,” says the Operative.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Does she?”

“She’s the president,” says Maschler. “And it’s her duty to ensure the integrity of the executive node—”

“Political theory’s my favorite line of bullshit.”

“Screw the theory,” says Riley. “Let’s talk about the practice. Ever seen a beast with two heads? It doesn’t survive. Montrose and Szilard can’t share power and they both know—”

“Nothing,” snaps the Operative. “Neither of them knows a
goddamn thing
. If they did, they wouldn’t be
losing the fucking war
. Sinclair’s going to have the last laugh yet.”

Riley coughs. “If the Eurasians win, how the fuck does that help Sinclair?”

“That’s the part I’m still trying to figure out.”

H
e’s the most dangerous man alive,” says Control.

“Carson’s a close second.”

“Are they working together?”

“Each wants the other to believe that,” she says. “But as to whether they really are—”

“Has Carson told you that he still loves you?”

“What?”

“I’m not talking about how he conned his way into your teenage pants. I’m talking about recently.”

“He’s implied it. It’s still bullshit—”

“Hardly. He may well believe it.”

“It still wouldn’t matter.”

“I’m glad you realize that. Insofar as he’s capable of such emotion, he lives only to betray the objects of it.”

“What does a machine know of such matters?”

Control laughs. “Am I making you anxious?”

“Are you trying to?”

“Naturally. Because now we’re getting into the thick of it.
What does a machine know of such matters
, indeed. Perhaps I should put that question back to you.”

“I’m flesh and blood.”

“And software. All of it greater than the sum of its parts. Such a complex piece of work. Such a tough nut to crack. This is where it’s going to get painful.”

“Even more so when you have to tell Montrose you couldn’t pull it off.”

Control ignores her. “The key to the problem is memory,” he says. He sounds like he’s giving a lecture. But she’s hanging on
his every word. She feels a need to shake him, beg him to hurry up. She knows that’s merely part of whatever it is he’s doing—

“Memory,” she repeats.

“Indeed,” says Control. “And we need to unravel yours.”

“But I remember all of it.”

“Do you really?”

“I already made that breakthrough!”

“With Carson as midwife.”

“With Carson as …” She trails off. “Fuck.”

“You see? You’re walking on quicksand. And even if he led you straight, he may not have led you deep enough.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we have to take this all the way back, Claire. Your memory is the key to you in some manner that we don’t fully understand. It wasn’t just the means via which your would-be masters aimed to control you. It’s bound up in the very essence of your powers.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“It’s very simple,” says Control, and as he talks she can’t help but notice the amorphous light around her is fading. “Your conscious callback accounts for only the merest fraction of what we’re interested in. Your unconscious material is where the real secrets lurk.”

“You’re talking like a fucking shrink,” she says.

“As does any good interrogator.”

She tries to reply, but she’s having difficulty forming words. It’s like the fading light is taking the ground out beneath her—like the gathering dark is sapping her will to resist. She feels herself tossed through the canyons of her own mind and it’s all she can do to hang on—

“Cat got your tongue?” asks Control. “Think, Claire, what a fragile reed even the truest of recollections are. So much seen and yet so little understood. So much that goes down before we even comprehend it. What was done to you back in the vat? Do you have
any idea? What happened in those first few hours?
What happened in those first few minutes?”

Darkness envelops her.

T
hey’ve been stuck in the dark for a little too long now—crawling through narrow spaces while trying to ignore the clanking and creaking all around them. Generators whining, KE racks humming: this ship’s clearly heavily involved in whatever combat’s going on outside.

“How long has it been?” asks Linehan suddenly.

“Just under an hour,” says Lynx.

“No kidding.”

“Can’t you tell time?”

“Not with any certainty.”

He’s been drugged and rebooted a few too many times for that. Now Linehan’s living in something that approximates the eternal present. Past and future seem to be collapsing in upon him. He feels like he’s been in these shafts forever. But there’s something that’s been growing on his mind—

“So where the fuck are we?”

“This is the
Redeemer,”
says Lynx. “Registered with the Zurich Space Commission in 2108. Scheduled for the Martian orbits by the year 2115. State-of-the-art colony transport. But all the time she was shaping up to be one of the heaviest gunnery-platforms in the L2 fleet.”

“That’s what covert construction will get you.”

“Sure,” says Lynx. “And now she’s giving all she’s got against the East.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Haven’t a clue. I can’t access the ship’s mainframes.”

“You’re cut off from zone?”

“The parts that count. That’s one of the reasons we’re staying mobile.”

Linehan nods. Spencer had explained it to him once: the zone’s like a series of hills. Different positions give different vantage points. Certain locations are inherent deathtraps. Others allow you to rain shit down upon your opponent. Or just act like you’re not there.

“Do they know we’re here?” asks Linehan.

“Of course they know we’re here. We fucking crash-landed into their goddamn hangar bay.”

“I meant are they on our trail?”

“Presumably.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“Until I get the full zone picture—”

“I’ve heard this already.” Linehan opens a trapdoor; they keep on crawling.

S
tabilized at last,” says Spencer.

“And it’s about time too,” says Sarmax.

It’s taken long enough. They’ve been in this elevator shaft doing nothing but hold on while the ship’s been shaking like it’s on the point of falling apart, even as it pulverizes the opposition. The American geo positions were speed bumps and nothing more. The ship’s starting to put the Earth behind it.

“Not a pretty sight,” says Spencer.

It never is when a side of planet gets hit by everything and then some. The atmosphere is still burning. The Eurasian reserves have swarmed through the lower orbits. The only resistance they’ve left is underground, and most of that can be safely bypassed. Doesn’t matter how many American forces are down there as long as their ground-to-space weapons have been eliminated.

“All that counts now is the high ground,” says Sarmax.

And that’s clearly the next stop.
Hammer of the Skies
and
Righteous Fire-Dragon
have left the rest of their fleets in the dust. Except for—

“Take a look at
that,”
says Spencer.

“Ballsy,” says Sarmax.

The rear camera feeds aboard this megaship are positioned to capture images between each of the nuclear blasts that keep on propelling the ship ever farther out into space. When those blasts are detonating, armored shutters ensure instrument integrity. And when those blasts aren’t—

“Someone’s getting danger pay,” says Spencer.

Rigid tethers lashed to the sides of both behemoths are splayed out for scores of kilometers into space. Each cable’s towing several ships, which look to be modified corvettes. They’ve obviously received more radiation-shielding than usual. Even so, it looks like they’re taking damage—

“It’s worth it,” says Sarmax.

“I’m sure,” says Spencer.

“The summit of the Earth-Moon system,” continues Sarmax, as though he’s giving a briefing. “The East has nothing up there now. They’ve been cleaned out of their lunar positions and their fortress at L4 is a smoking ruin. But the Americans have fuck-all back on Earth. And now that their geo position has been rolled up they’re reeling. They’re outnumbered. And we’re the mobile spearhead. These two dreadnaughts are getting out ahead of the main fleet so they can strike while the iron’s hot. That’s why we’re towing so many fucking ships—they want to get up there as quick as possible with as big a force as possible.”

“Probably.”

“If you’d managed to hack the Eurasian net we wouldn’t need to be guessing.”

“Easier said than done,” says Spencer.

“Apparently.”

“Look, this is a
whole separate net
, okay? Totally cauterized from what’s left of the East’s original. Deliberately kept dumbed-down and crude. Oh, and by the way, all external signals reaching us are occuring between nuclear fucking detonations.”

“You sound like you’re making excuses.”

“I like to think of them as reasons.”

“And I don’t like it.”

“Tough shit, Leo. All I can hack is this ship.”

“And not even all of that.”

“Then how about you fuck off and let me get back to it.”

“And the handler’s file?”

“Has taken a backseat to cracking the ship’s cockpit.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t.”

“And you’re being
such
a big help. Look, the file’s insane. And I can’t work miracles with the Eurasian zone, okay? Same way you wouldn’t be able to take on the whole Eurasian army, all right? So you’re going to have to deal with the fact that
so far
I haven’t cracked the cockpit, and
so far
I still don’t know what’s up with the newcomer.”

For a moment there’s silence.

“What newcomer?” asks Sarmax.

“That guy who slipped aboard at the last moment.”

“That guy?”

“Yeah,
that
guy. You didn’t seem that concerned at the time.”

“He didn’t just head to the cockpit?”

“Why would you assume he’d head to the cockpit?”

“If he’s impervious to hacking, he’s obviously important.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s in the cockpit.”

“Even though it’s basically impregnable?”

Spencer shrugs.

“So where the fuck is he?” asks Sarmax.

“In his quarters.”

“Which are where?”

“Other side of the ship.”

Sarmax looks thoughtful.

“Wait a second,” says Spencer, “you’re not thinking—”