The Machinery of Light (61 page)

The secret weapon of the
Harrison
. Not to mention a good chunk of the reason the Operative and his crew fought their way onto this ship in the first place—excepting the now-destroyed
Redeemer
, the flagship is the only vessel employing the prototype antimatter drive. But it hasn’t been switched on yet. The Operative was saving that for one final burst of evasive action. He grimaces—

“What the fuck’s wrong with the thing?”

“It won’t prime,” says Linehan.

“Why not?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“Did you fucking
check?”

“What do you think we’re fucking doing out here?”

The Operative turns off the comlink.

“Colonists probably trashed it,” says Lynx.

“Or just snipped the connection.”

They look at each other. Lynx clears his throat. “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

“Sure I am,” says the Operative.

And suddenly the whole zone just
staggers—

A
ll around them, it’s as though the entire zone has suddenly turned to liquid—as though waves are pulsing through that liquid, making everything ripple around them. It’s like nothing Spencer’s ever experienced.

I
t lasts the merest fraction of a second. Space folds in around, gives way before her like cobwebs brushing across her face. Her eyes see nothing. But she feels everything rip through her as she teleports right through the outer perimeter’s membrane. It’s about what she expected—enough psychic overload to destroy an unprepared mind. Or just give it a brain hemorrhage. And maybe that’s what’s happening in her head.

But then it all subsides.

S
eems to be normal now,” says Lynx.

“Nothing normal about that,” says the Operative.

They’re starting to run diagnostics, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Something just seemed to
twist
the whole
zone sideways before letting it snap back into place like a gargantuan piece of elastic. And not just the zone either—

“I felt something in my
mind
as well,” says the Operative.

“Me too,” says Lynx.

They glance at each other.

“Fuck,”
says the Operative.

“If Sinclair’s starting up the party—”

“All the more reason for you to get the fuck back there and get that damn drive working.”

“What the fuck makes you think
I’m
going to do it?”

“Because kickstarting busted engines on spaceships is something I’ve done once too often,” says the Operative. It’s not much of an answer, but at this point, he could give a rat’s ass if Lynx is satisfied. He only wonders if Lynx will choose to make this the moment—if he’ll decide to have it out right here. It’d be betting against the odds, given that the Operative’s the expert in physical combat, but he wouldn’t put it past him. He watches recognition of the inevitable coalesce on Lynx’s face—

“I’m taking Linehan with me.”

“Be my guest,” says the Operative.

S
pencer and Jarvin are taking stock. The zone went crazy. The zone’s back to normal. But Spencer simultaneously felt something shifting in his mind, too. As brief as it was unmistakable, the implications scare him shitless. Something’s almost certainly going on downstairs. And something’s now surfacing within what’s left of the megaship’s zone. A signal being sent in the clear, because they’re the only ones left to hear it—

We need to talk
.

S
he’s somewhere
else
now, looking out at a different room—and even as she rips circuitry from the walls to preclude anyone following, she’s checking the coordinates … no sign of zone, but she’s using what’s left of gravity to ascertain her position. She’s moved away from the Moon’s north-south axis, into the depths of the farside. The inner perimeter of the Room is right above her.

Along with Matthew Sinclair.

Y
ou’re shitting me,” says Linehan.

“You wish,” says Lynx.

Linehan’s in the door of the inner bridge. He looks about as pissed as the Operative expected. The idea of leaving the bridge during this madness clearly hadn’t even begun to occur to him. Because that would be—

“Total fucking
insanity
,” says Linehan.

“Probably worse than that,” says Lynx.

“And yet you’re up for it?”

“Piece of cake,” says Lynx.

“You’re higher than a motherfucker,” says Linehan.

“Aren’t we all,” says the Operative.

W
hat the fuck is that?” asks Spencer.

“Probably a trap,” says Jarvin.

Though it’s hard to see how. Embedded on the surface of the signal is the frequency for a zone-channel. All they have to do is tune into it to enable conversation. There’s no need to inter-mesh minds. No reason to move outside their zone-enclave. In theory, no risk. But in practice—

“We’d have to be
nuts
to take that call,” says Spencer.

“If Sinclair’s revving up the Room, what do we have to lose?”

“The chance to see it happen.”

“We’re just talking about a little dialogue.”

“These days that’s the most dangerous thing.”

Jarvin shrugs, then switches them over to the zone-frequency. A face awaits them there.

T
he zone’s coming alive within her skull once more—not the American zone at all, but something that’s nonetheless the most robust microzone she’s ever seen. She marvels at all that clockwork—sensing as she does the machinery of Sinclair’s fortress crouching all around—stretching out for kilometers around her, metal burrowed through endless tunnels, intricate patterns all waiting for one thing. She moves down a passage, sees a door ahead, knows what it is even before it slides open. She’s expected all of it.

Save the voice.

T
hey don’t waste time. They get moving, through the bridge’s emergency airlock and out onto the hull and—