The Machinery of Light (47 page)

S
he rockets through the basements of Shackleton. All the maglev is out, as is the rest of the electricity. It’s all a scorched-earth strategy to slow her down. The SpaceCom garrison is taking up positions. She can’t
see
it, but she can
sense
it—and the fact that nearly all of their defense sequences were prepped to deal with attacks from without makes it difficult to scramble to meet an incursion from within. Particularly since all Haskell’s really concerned about is getting out herself. She swerves back onto a set of passenger rails. Raw contingency hits her like a wave. A face starts boiling up inside her mind.

T
he Operative wills himself to remain calm. The last thing he wants is to sit here and wait while these things wake up. Particularly when everything around him is coming to a head. The Eurasians might start their final attack at any moment. The endgame could kick off anytime. The eyes of the sleeper nearest to him open.

S
pencer looks in the window. Sitting cross-legged against the wall opposite them is Matthew Sinclair. Unsuited, his eyes closed. Four people are chained adjacent to him. They wear Praetorian colors. Three are very clearly dead. Blood’s dripping from their ears and noses.

The fifth looks fine. Her face isn’t one that Spencer recognizes. But it seems like Sarmax does. He’s obviously struggling to control himself.

“Steady,” says Spencer.

Sinclair’s eyes open.

S
he’s transfixed—can’t turn away. The old man’s surging into her head like some tide she can’t withstand. She’s not sure why she ever wanted to. Her mind collapses in upon itself like some kind of sinkhole, yet the deeper it goes the more acute her insight gets. Tunnel blasts past her while she maneuvers through the Com forces with near-perfect precision. They’re still hoping to trap her and take her alive—and she’s only got a few more seconds before they realize that’s just not going to be possible. But anything can happen in those seconds. Particularly inside the endless reaches of her head. The jaws of Sinclair open to receive her.

T
he Operative can’t take his eyes off that woman—the one who resembles Claire. It isn’t her, of course. It’s not even a clone. But he can barely look away. It’s like watching someone being born. He feels the eyes of the others upon him now—feels himself caught up in a vortex of his own making. He wonders what happened to the old Carson—the one who never made mistakes, who always forced others to pay for theirs. He wonders what his motives for all this really are. The woman’s mouth is forming soundless words.

S
pencer’s trying to keep his mind focused. The eyes of Sinclair are like pits into which he’s tumbling. He’s fighting to pull himself away. He’s conscious of almost nothing else.

Except for Sarmax.

“Easy,” Spencer says again.

“Shit,” says Jarvin—but Sarmax is already igniting his las-knife, slashing through the seals on the cell door.

T
he SpaceCom forces are giving up on trying to capture her. They’re opening fire—but she’s firing first, unleashing a rack of torpedoes, then calibrating her own route to steer in amidst the blasts detonating throughout the labyrinth of Shackleton. And Sinclair’s riding her mind as she rides the tunnels—she shoots out through one of the larger caves—gets a quick glimpse of buildings all around—and then she’s back into the narrower passages as she closes in on the far side of the city. The very edge—she’s roaring in toward it as Sinclair forges in toward the center of her awareness. He seems to be looking for something. She’s terrified he’s about to find it. She pivots within herself—

C
arson,” whispers the woman.

The Operative isn’t surprised. It’s as though he’s been here before. It’s as though all this is memory in reverse. He tries to speak—succeeds—

I’m here,” he says.

The roar of autofire suddenly fills the room.

A
s Sarmax practically rips the door from its hinges, Spencer realizes that the man has shut down the zone-conduits for his armor.

“Stop him,” yells Jarvin.

But Sarmax is already firing.

S
he’s wrestling with the old man for what’s left of her sanity—all the while racing out of the transport-tunnels and into corridors intended for personnel, rushing in through the last streets of the city toward the city-wall. She’s almost there. The SpaceCom forces are falling back before her, waiting for her to slow down—waiting for her to turn. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that she’s not going to. She fires her last rack of torpedoes.