The Machinery of Light (25 page)

“And the route past the outer perimeter.”

“You catch on fast,” says Lynx.

They extend crampons, start to rappel out onto the slopes of freeze.

S
ir,” says a Russian sergeant, “your codes.”

“Here,” says Jarvin—sends them over. At least, that’s what Spencer is forced to presume. But now the Chinese sergeant steps forward.

“Your codes,” he says. “Sir.”

“Again?”

“I must insist.”

“Don’t you trust your colleague?” says Jarvin, indicating the Russian sergeant.

“I trust my orders.”

“In other words, no.” Sarmax’s voice is coming through loud and clear on the one-on-one in Spencer’s head. “Things must be getting tense in that fucking cockpit.”

“They’ve probably got the balance just so.” Spencer’s thinking fast. “Three more Russians may throw things out of whack.”

“But the Praesidium is supreme authority across the whole Coalition. So they have to let—”

“They don’t have to do
shit,”
says Sarmax—but the Chinese sergeant nods. The Russian sergeant clears his throat.

“You’re cleared, sirs,” he says. “They’re sending an elevator down now.”

“Very good,” says Jarvin—and now that voice echoes in Spencer’s helmet: “This whole place is in lockdown mode. God only knows what it’s like up there.”

“We’d better be ready for anything,” says Sarmax.

“We’ve got the highest clearance,” says Jarvin. “Theoretically, we can confront the captains and take command of the ship.”

“Theoretically,”
says Spencer.

An elevator door opens. Jarvin starts toward it—just as the ship suddenly changes course without warning. Spencer’s hurled toward the wall—along with everyone else.

F
uck
, she says.

“What?”

But there’s no answer. He gets a quick glimpse of what might be Haskell’s face, falling away from him as though it’s tumbling through some endless space. And suddenly he’s back in the real one—opening his eyes. A boot is prodding against him.

“Wakey wakey,” says Maschler.

S
he’s coming ’round,” says a voice.

It’s news to Haskell. She feels like a freight train just ran through her skull. She senses something fading that might be vertigo, but in reverse—as though she’s already hit the ground and is still getting used to that fact. Awareness starts to crystallize all around her—as if all existence is a grid, and she’s sitting at the very center.

She opens her eyes.

“Welcome back,” says Stephanie Montrose.

T
hey’re creeping along sheets of ice. Sensors are everywhere. Linehan can only hope Lynx is dealing with them. He normally doesn’t worry about stuff he can’t control, but this place is giving him the creeps. As extensive as it is, it’s also intensely claustrophobic. The sheets of ice are only a few meters apart at points. Linehan feels like the whole thing could fold up at any moment—like he’s about to end up in a glacier sandwich.

“How much more of this?” he says.

“Carson told me nothing rattled you,” says Lynx.

They crawl over a slope and along its other side. They seem to have left the central portions of the ice behind. The space they’re in is getting even narrower—so cramped now that Linehan can brace himself against both walls. Soon it’s just a tunnel in the ice. He follows Lynx along it, sees the razor opening another hatch. He follows him through.

And finds himself in a small chamber. Looks like some kind of storage space. There’s only one other way out—yet another hatch. But Lynx scarcely spares it a glance. Instead, he sits down in a corner. Linehan looks at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up and take a seat,” says Lynx.

H
ammer of the Skies
is changing its trajectory. The fact that it’s doing so without warning is causing no little inconvenience for many of those within. Spencer can hear the intercom ringing in his ears, instructing everybody to assume the brace position, but the position he’s already assumed has very
little to do with anything he had a chance to brace for. He’s spread-eagled against the wall. So is everyone else. He hears the voice of Sarmax ringing inside his head.

“Must be evasive action.”

“No shit,” says Spencer.

“Wrong,” says Jarvin. “We just got a new destination.”

H
askell struggles to focus. She’s still on that souped-up gurney, back in the InfoCom HQ. The place looks like it’s cranked up to even more frenetic levels of activity. She can see screens showing the megaships. Only they’re no longer heading for the Moon.

“Next stop L5,” says Control. The voice is coming from one of the consoles. She suddenly realizes that’s the console her mind’s held in—that she’s actually in that console too, watching her body watch her, feeling Control’s zone-presence hovering around her. As her zone-view coalesces, so do the InfoCom battle management systems, spread out across hundreds of thousands of kilometers of vacuum. Earth’s a lost cause—entirely Eastern now, along with the rest of the near-Earth orbits. Most of the Eurasian ships are consolidating at the geo. Yet most of the zone-focus is on the East’s advance team—the two megaships. They’ve climbed about half of the distance to the Moon and have just veered off at a sharp angle, attaining even greater speeds as they race toward L5. Haskell can see the lunar batteries flailing away, can see the smaller fleet at the libration point raining fire down upon the approaching dreadnaughts and the ships they’re towing. The battle management computers don’t seem to think it’s looking good.

“Sinclair’s about to get taken off the board,” says Control.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Haskell mutters.

“You’d be advised to avoid them as well,” says Montrose—and as she speaks, Haskell feels something tighten around her in the
zone—like a vise that’s constricting all around her, cutting off her energy, starting to suffocate her …

“Fuck,”
she says.

“Let’s get some things straight,” says the president.

G
et up,” says Maschler.

The Operative staggers to his feet, pain gripping his head as he looks around.

“Same as you left it,” says Riley.

And all too familiar. That cargo chamber, the two InfoCom agents, that sarcophagus-suit—and the woman within it. Unconscious again now.

“So who is she, really?” he asks.

“No one,” says Maschler.

“A temporary receptacle,” says Riley.

“Sure, but what the hell’s the receptacle?”

“Cloned body,” says Maschler. “Implanted with an artificial personality construct. A primitive one.”

“But effective,” says Riley.

“Enough to get us near Szilard?” says the Operative.

“We’re about to find out.”

S
o when do we start the run?” asks Linehan.