The Machinery of Light (44 page)

S
he’s roaring through more tunnels, and her mind’s awhirl with a million thoughts. She’s got a very narrow window on the zone now, too—the microzone contained within this tunnel. She can see the pursuit boiling in behind her. Szilard’s marshaling the rest of his force. He’s coming after her with the most elite marines SpaceCom can muster. He knows if he doesn’t take her back he’s meat. She feels the rock around her shake as though a large explosive just detonated. She can guess what just blew. She wonders how the hell Sarmax acquired it in the first place—wonders if he even knew it was there. Her thoughts are racing—Szilard didn’t seem to realize what he was dealing with, thought this was the gateway to Sinclair’s true fortress—that he could get there before the old man himself showed up. But he ended up getting punked. Haskell’s wondering whether maybe she did, too. She’s still doing analysis on the nature of the device she was just face to face with—the radiations it emitted, the energies it was accessing. She reaches the end of a tunnel, drops through a trapdoor—sees what she’s been told was there, starts its motors before she’s even reached it.

T
hey come through into the rear areas of the lab and reach another door. It’s got several seals on it.

“We need to put on special suits to proceed,” says Sorenson.

“We’re dressed just fine,” says the Operative.

Sorenson glances back at the Operative’s armor. “At least let
me—”

“Fat chance,” says Lynx. He rips off the seals, yanks open the door and—

“Shit,” he says.

T
hey’re into some of the more restricted areas aboard the
Righteous Fire-Dragon
.

They’re still seeing no one. They transition from passageways to shafts, quickly crawl down them, smash through a grille—and drop down into a room.

That room contains three Chinese soldiers in powered armor. They’re still alive, but only just. Their armor’s malfunctioning about as badly as Spencer’s been intending it. Same as it ever was: once you get the high ground on the zone you can wreak havoc on everything below it. Spencer and Jarvin mesh minds and catch what’s left of their targets in a death grip. The suits go haywire, electrocuting the men within them.

Sarmax climbs into the room and stares at the bodies.

“What have we here?” he asks.

“The key to Sinclair’s cell,” says Spencer.

M
ore like a missile than a vehicle: it’s a state-of-the-art maglev minicar, already starting to sling itself down the tracks toward the tunnel at the far end of the room. Haskell adjusts her thrusters, matches speeds—drops down into the single seat, straps herself in as the canopy lowers and the car accelerates. She catches a glimpse of suits pouring into the room behind her, but then rounds a bend in the tunnel.

S
hould have guessed it,” says the Operative.

The room contains twenty transluscent cryo-units.

Each one’s occupied. Half are male, half are female.

“And none of them are human,” says Lynx.

“They’re Rain,” says the Operative.

Sorenson says nothing.

“Never mind the Rain,” says Lynx on the one-on-one.
“We need to find his goddamn teleporter.”

“He told you already,” says the Operative. “He ain’t got one.”

“And you believe him?”

“It was always a longshot. His expertise never extended to that kind of stuff anyway.”

“So how the fuck are we getting off this fucking fleet?”

“The old-fashioned way,” says the Operative.

W
ho the fuck were these guys?” asks Sarmax.

“Us,” says Spencer.

“You mean now we’re them.”

“I always was,” says Jarvin.

Sarmax frowns. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Jarvin kicks one of the Chinese soldiers with his boot. Sarmax can’t help but notice the major’s insignia on the shoulder of the dead man’s armor. And suddenly it all clicks—

“My counterpart,” says Jarvin.

“Oh,”
says Sarmax.

“Yeah.”

“You were sent by the Praesidium as one of the two interrogators of Matthew Sinclair. Took the place of the Russian one—”

“Who would have died anyway when the Chinese purged them,” says Spencer.

“Maybe,” says Jarvin. “Maybe not. Who cares? The point is, now he’s dead. And so is this one. And we’ve got their codes.”

“So let’s go say hi to the head of CICom,” says Spencer.

H
askell accelerates, pouring on the speed. But she still can’t get access to the larger zone—just a mere fraction of it, a tiny thread that represents this rail line. Obstensibly, this particular tunnel is a component of Sarmax’s ice-processing operation, eighty klicks north of Shackleton. Only now it’s more like sixty klicks. Haskell’s feeling okay about keeping the pursuit behind her for the next few minutes. It’s what’s in front of her that’s got her worried.

S
o what exactly was your plan?” asks the Operative.

Sorenson laughs. “Who says I had a
plan?”

“This flesh,” says Lynx, gesturing at the cryo-tanks.

Though right now that flesh isn’t saying much of anything. It’s just sitting there, all life systems reduced to an absolute minimum. The Operative can’t read anything in those faces. But he can see a thing or two in Lynx’s. He opens up the one-on-one again.

“What the hell’s on your mind?” he says.

“The colony ships,” Lynx replies.

“What about them?”

“They’re
full
of sleepers.”

“That’s why they call them colony ships, Lynx.”

“The ships are a subterfuge. Why not the cargo?”

The Operative addresses Sorenson: “What about the colony ships?”

“Mostly just colonists.”

“But not exclusively.”

“There are a few anomalies here and there.”

“Made by who?”—but even as he asks the question, the Operative realizes its absurdity. Everyone’s been trying to duplicate the Autumn Rain batch ever since it came out of the vat. Every player’s got their own breed of posthuman in the mix. Szilard’s undoubtedly been working his own angles. But no one’s ever been able to attain the breakthroughs that Matthew Sinclair made two
decades back. Nobody’s come close to replicating them. Partially that’s because he executed all the scientists.