The Machinery of Light (19 page)

“Waste of space,” says Linehan.

“Not really,” replies Lynx.

They’re looking at a vast garage of vehicles. Most of them are crawlers. Rigged for some heavy terrain from the looks of their treads …

“Ready to tame the red planet,” says Lynx.

“I thought this wasn’t really a colony ship.”

“It’s not,” says Lynx. “This is in case it needs to pacify the Moon or something.”

“Or something?”

“Or land dropships on Earth. Give me a fucking break, man. I’m no strategist. I’d thought the sole point of this ship was to rig as many guns as they could fit on it.” He gestures at the vehicles. “What they want with this shit, who the fuck knows. Maybe it was in case of inspections by the Eurasians under some fucking Zurich armaments limitation line-item—”

“Where exactly are we going, Lynx?”

“Told you already. We’re getting away from the hull—”

“Stop bullshitting me. You know more than that.”

“And trust me, you don’t want to.”

T
hey’ve made their way into some high-ceilinged chambers positioned around the spine of the ship. Below them are hundreds of grav-couches. Each one contains a power-suited Russian soldier. Those soldiers have received orders to stay put. Unexpected accelerations could tear through this ship at any time. If that happens, Spencer’s hoping he can hold onto his current perch. He can practically feel hundreds of eyes staring through him. He makes himself as one with the ceiling as possible, gets busy figuring out the next step—hesitates a moment, then leads the way into another duct.

D
eja-vu: the auxiliary cargo chamber looks disconcertingly like the cargo hold in the Antares rocket that lifted the Operative from Earth several days back. For a moment, the Operative’s brought up short, thinking about all that’s transpired since—all that scrambling to stay alive, making sure all those others died. He follows Riley to a pressurized door set into the wall. Riley keys codes, breaks the seal—

“You sure you want to do that?” asks the Operative.

Riley says nothing. There’s a hiss as the door slides aside. The room that’s revealed is small. A raised platform is set into its center. Lying on that platform is something that looks like a cross between a suit of powered armor and a sarcophagus. Screens atop it show vital signs.

“Voilà,” says Riley.

“You are shitting me,” says the Operative.

“Not even vaguely,” says Maschler. He’s standing in the open door, his expression wary while Riley leans over the sarcophagus and keys in more codes. A visor slides back. The Operative recognizes the face behind it.

S
o you made it,” says Haskell.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” says Marlowe.

“Lovers reunited,” says Morat.

“That would be tricky,” says Marlowe, “since I’m dead.”

He looks even worse than that. Another disembodied head—a second sun burning in the leaden sky. But his face is the one she remembers from right before she killed him: that strange mixture of boyish wonder and unreflecting mind. He looks like he’s genuinely pleased to see her. Like maybe he still loves her.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she says.

“I was here all along,” replies Marlowe.

She nods. She feels that Control’s probably almost at her center. Everything’s shifting around her. Desert blooms in fast-forward, becoming jungle. She feels she’s no longer alone—feels the eyes of all too many predators upon her body.

“I can hear them, Jason.”

“Them?”

“The surviving members of the Rain. I can feel their minds.”

“How many triads?”

“That’s your first question?”

“That’s the
only
question, Claire. What does Sinclair have left? What has he kept in reserve?”

“I can’t tell.”

“You can’t
tell?”
asks Morat.

“It’s fuzzy,” she says. “There could be one. There could be many.”

“Your powers are still in their infancy,” says Marlowe. “You’ll know soon enough.”

“You’ll be both searchlight and laser when we figure out how to
really
switch you on,” says Morat. “The rest of the Rain won’t stand a chance against you. And then we can neutralize Sinclair from a distance.”

“But why not execute him right now?”
she asks.

There’s a flicker of hesitation up there. Around her, the jungle
abruptly starts to wither. She shivers as the temperature plunges, watches as greenery shrivels.

“You can’t, can you?” she asks.

“No,” admits Morat.

“Montrose no longer controls the L5 flagship,” she says.

“Montrose no longer controls the L5
fleet,”
says Marlowe.

The temperature keeps dropping. Snow’s falling in sheets. Vast ice sculptures are visible in the middle distance. The suns above her are growing faint.

“Sinclair’s taken over up there,” she mutters.

“Apparently,” says Morat.

“But the L5 ships are still fighting the East?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Still coordinating with the rest of the American fleet. Still firing on the oncoming Eurasians.”

“Normal communication is being maintained,” says Marlowe. “It’s the higher-ups we can’t get through to.”

“Classic Rain takeover,” she says.

“Probably,” says Morat.

“You have to let me out of here.”

“You have to help us,” says Marlowe.

“We need you back in the game,” says Morat.

“So release me.”

“First we need you to allow us control.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’re about to find out. We’ve almost broken through.”

She feels that’s correct, like the final wall in her mind is paper-thin, about to be torn. She feels something bearing down upon her that she can’t hope to avoid. The snow intensifies, swirls against her face. The ground starts to freeze beneath her feet.

“So now we move to the
real
question,” says Morat.

“Why did you kill me?” says Marlowe.

“Don’t you dare go there,” she says.

But he already has. And it’s already set something in motion that she knows she can’t stop. Some kind of chain reaction going
off within her as though she’s nothing but thousands of tiny gears and pulleys now cranking into operation—ten million dominoes toppling in long lines across vast illuminated floors—and she’s powerless to stop it. She’s on the ground now, and it’s all ice beneath her while she lies on her back and snow falls into her open mouth and eyes. Her innermost desires are exposed to the light—and the face of Jason Marlowe is streaking fire as it drops burning from the sky toward horizon …

“I didn’t know what compulsions he’d been rigged with,” she whispers.

“You don’t know what compulsions
you’ve
been rigged with,” says Morat. “Why didn’t you shoot yourself too?”

“Maybe I should have.”

“Carson might not like that.”

“Who cares what he likes?”

“He thought to enslave you.”

“It’s me who’s enslaved him.”

“Given that he’s the world’s best actor—”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” she says. “He’s only fooling himself. He’s spent his whole life running from his own emotions. If he faces me again, his mind will be in my power. Trust me on that—”

“I don’t need to trust you ever again,” says Morat. “That’s the beauty of all this.”

“That’s what you think—”

“Your psychology is endlessly fascinating, Claire. The more cornered you get, the more arrogant you become. Even though that acrid odor you’re smelling is the core of your own mind burning out.”

She can’t smell a thing. Still can’t move either. She hears sharp cracking noises around her. Turns out that what she’s sprawled on is really pack ice breaking up. She feels herself pulled in all too many directions. Everything beneath her is starting to go.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Claire.” Morat’s voice morphs seamlessly into that of Control. “Take comfort in the fact that you’re the most fascinating challenge I’ve ever faced.”

“You’re done?”

“In ten more seconds.”

“Which is when—”

“You become the world’s most intelligent automaton. A shame you won’t be able to let me know how it feels.”

“Fuck you to the gates of damnation—”

Frigid liquid closes in around her head.

T
hey’ve entered the domain of gravity. Apparently this is the rotating part of the ship. They cross a bridge, and Linehan can’t even see the bottom. Lynx isn’t even looking. Linehan can only imagine how much wider of a purview that man must have. He always thought razors were sad, confined creatures who couldn’t take the world and lived within themselves. Now he’s realizing that they’ve got the only world worth having. Ayahuasca taught him that. That, and Spencer—who told him that for a razor, it was basically altered consciousness every time they jack in, that all life was just a shimmering of maya anyway—endless pixel fragments scattered down some endless well of dark. He can believe it. He’s heard that back on Earth there are tribes that believe that by eating the bodies of their enemies they consume their souls. He feels like maybe that’s what happened to his. He follows Lynx as that man leads the way into a vast chamber.

And then he sees what lines the walls.

“Oh dear God,” he says.

“That’s what they’ll be calling me when this is all over,” says Lynx.

O
ne-third of the way to the Moon,
Hammer of the Skies
is drawing within range of lunar artillery. It’s starting to take increasing amounts of fire. It’s not bothering to return the favor.