The Machinery of Light (62 page)

“Don’t look up,” says Lynx.

But Linehan does, takes in the most demented sight he’s ever seen, far crazier than any drug-vision that’s ever assailed him: the two wings of the L2 fleet stretching away on both sides into what looks like forever, the Moon filling most of the sky beyond them. And past that rock are all too many stars—

“The Eurasian vanguard,” breathes Linehan.

“Let’s move,” says Lynx.

B
roadcasting from somewhere on this ship: the face is that of a woman. Spencer recognizes it from the files. He wonders if that particular file is bullshit—wonders whether this face is, too. All the more so as he knows exactly where this is going—knows what the woman’s going to say even before she says it.

“I want to talk to Sarmax,” she says calmly.

I
t’s the voice of Jason Marlowe. Or whatever’s passing for it. It’s been so long. Its feel like it’s only been a moment. This moment now: it sounds inside her head, and she’s never heard anything louder. Even though she can’t understand a single word. Because it’s some language she’s never heard. Chills shoot up her spine while the elevator car she’s stepped within rushes through the rock.

T
hey’re creeping along the hull of the superdreadnaught like two mountain climbers. They’ve got magnetic clamps turned up to maximum and have tethered themselves to each other for good measure. Linehan can only imagine what’s going on beneath his feet. He keeps expecting DE shots from the incoming Eurasian ships to sweep them off altogether. He doubts he’d feel a thing—his brain would be vaporized before it even processed the bad news. He tries not to look at the Moon as he and Lynx work their way around some gun-turrets. But it’s tough. It feels like that Moon’s a lodestone—like it’s
pulling
at him with a force way beyond mere gravity. The middle sections of the ship stretch out beyond them.

T
hat’s a good one,” says Spencer.

“He’s the only one I’ll talk to,” says Indigo Velasquez.

Or at least, a face that
looks
like Indigo Velasquez. Spencer knows what this face does to Sarmax. He knows the Rain isn’t above trying the same trick twice. Spencer’s doing his best to think of what he’s looking at as a
thing
. He meets its eyes.

“You must think we’re stupid,” he says.

“He’s the only one I trust.”

“Didn’t he try to kill you?” asks Jarvin.

“His final lesson to me.”

“And you’re not getting near him. God only knows what voice-activation shit he’s been rigged with.”

“Maybe we did the same to you.”

“Try it, bitch.”

“We’re razors,” says Jarvin. “Sarmax isn’t. And you’ve had a lot more opportunity over the years to get your hooks into him.”

“After all,” says Spencer, “that’s why you fucked him.”

“You’ll pay for that.”

“About time you dropped the mask.”

C
laire,” says Marlowe.

He’s speaking English now. Her past smolders through her. She knows there’s only one way to settle this. Only one way to respond.

“This isn’t you,” she says.

“So why do you use the second person?”

“What I’m talking to is not Jason.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“You’re Matthew Sinclair.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you’re his tool. Even if you wear Marlowe’s flesh, you’re still—”

“You’re walking into a trap,” he replies.

Pause. “I know.”

“So if I’m Sinclair, why am I telling you that?”

“Because Sinclair’s trying to make me think you’re alive,” she says. “To fuck with my head the only way he can.”

“But you do that so well all by yourself,” says the voice.

T
hey’re maneuvering through a wilderness of turrets and panels. Energies of every wavelength crackle past them as guns discharge at the closing Eurasian fleet. The Moon’s moving visibly closer with every moment as the American fleet keeps accelerating. But the
Harrison’s
going to need all the margin it can get. Whether the antimatter drive’s been taken apart by crazed colonists is anyone’s guess. And if the rest of the motors are threatened, then they’ve got even bigger problems. The two men move through onto the rear portions of the ship. The stern looms before them, the stars beyond that shimmering in the ship’s exhaust.

O
ur personal feelings no longer matter,” says the woman.

“And that’s why you so desperately need to talk to Sarmax?”

“This has gone out of control,” she says. “Sinclair’s on the verge of winning everything.”

“I thought your triad was loyal to him,” says Jarvin.

“No longer.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’ll consume us all.”

Jarvin laughs. “You just figured that out, huh?”

“We need to join forces.”

“Oh sure,” says Spencer.

“I’m serious.”

“You
really
think we can work together?”

“We’ve got to.”

“Wrong,” says Spencer, turning off the channel.

S
omehow she finds the strength to switch him off.

Because there’s no way that voice can help her. If there really
is
a Marlowe clone inside the Room’s outer perimeter, then it belongs to Sinclair utterly. By definition. Though in truth she doubts whatever’s out there has anything to do with Marlowe in the first place. It’s just a voice that’s all too adept at mimicry. She steels herself, tells herself her time with Jason is past.

Unless she can somehow fuck with that past. She’s wondering if that might be possible. She’s thinking it’s the worst kind of temptation. The elevator streaks in toward the heart of everything.

A
flash—one among many, but this one’s way too close.