The Machinery of Light (72 page)

T
he tunnels beneath farside—the deepest levels of which lead directly to the Room. Though only those who have the whole picture know the correct routes. Thousands of klicks of passages sprawling out beneath the lunar farside, stretching down for hundreds of kilometers—most of it’s been signed off at various levels within Space Command across the decades. Some of it’s mining. Some of it’s R&D. Some of it was commissioned in secret by Harrison himself, dug out by his Praetorians. And some of it’s known only to—

“Autumn Rain,” says Lynx.

“An increasingly nebulous concept these days,” says Linehan.

But Lynx doesn’t reply. He’s just processing data—integrating the glimpses he’s got on the collapsing zone with the flickers of mind he can see out there. He has no idea why his mental abilities are getting better by the moment. It’s as if they’re being hauled toward ever greater heights regardless of his own feelings in the matter. He’s not about to argue.

“Well?” demands Linehan.

“Here’s the situation,” says Lynx.

I
nsider information: they’re burning away from Nansen along Rain tunnels that the Praetorians never found, heading for the edge of the main network of tunnels beneath the farside. The Operative and Maschler and Riley are in one chute; Sarmax and the Rain triad are in a parallel one. But the Operative has gone ahead and linked his mind with Sarmax and the triad all the same. It feels strange to have done so. But he knows it’s the only option that might see them through. Even though the Operative can see they’re going to need more margin—can see they’re going to have to consolidate still further.

S
pencer no longer has any view of what’s happening on the surface. But it sounds like the entire Eurasian armada is coming down on top of them. Rumbling shakes the tunnels through which they’re streaking. Spencer listens on the zone as the American forces fall back, heading ever deeper.

V
ast shapes hanging like monstrous chandeliers, intimations of impossibly intricate machinery: she gets a glimpse of the outer Room as she shoots through the metal skin of the inner one—even as it closes up behind her and the lights of the inner Room switch on—

All she can do is stare.

A kilometer across: the inner Room is a massive sphere from which a series of ramps and rails descend to a smaller sphere positioned at the very center. She’s heading down toward that hub now. She can feel Sinclair waiting for her there, too—his mind’s suddenly turning back on at point-blank range—

—hauling her in—

—like some gigantic magnet—

—and she suddenly
gets
how much he’s been concealing from her, how much stronger he is than she ever thought. He’s been luring her down here all this time. She was fucking crazy to come this far. And the only way to win is to do something even crazier. She came in the back door of the Room. She’s going to leave out the front.

Right now.

W
e’ve got to get down as fast as possible,” yells Lynx.

Linehan’s not worried. Everything’s converging.

He’s just flotsam on whitewater. They’ve commandeered cycles left behind by a decimated mechanized unit—are riding those bikes at speeds a long way past anything safe. They’re getting
into the heart of the farside now, and as they descend along ramps and drop through shafts, Lynx is transmitting data into Linehan’s head, along with a running commentary.

“The lower we get, the worse the fighting gets,” he says. “Probably because Szilard’s no longer even trying to hold the Eurasians to the surface.”

“Are you kidding? There’s fighting all around us—”

“Don’t you get it, man? Our fleet’s getting
wiped out
. The garrisons are getting overwhelmed. They’ll keep fighting. But they’re going down before sheer numbers. They’re just there to buy time while Szilard—”

“You really think he’s down there?”

“No question. Along with his most elite marines.”

“Trying to break through to the Room.”

“And this is our chance to fucking break him.”

S
treaking through one of the deepest of the deep-grid maglev tunnels is a two-car armored train, bristling with guns. The front car contains Velasquez, Sarmax, and the other two members of the Rain triad. The rear one contains Riley, Maschler, and the Operative—who’s in the rearmost chamber of that car, communicating with Velasquez and Sarmax as he drives.

“As bad as we thought,” he says.

“Would have to agree,” says Velasquez.

“The Eurasians have the surface,” says Sarmax.

That seems to be an understatement. The last camera-feeds showed a sky practically blotted out by troopships. The American zone is crumbling as the Chinese forces consolidate their hold on the ground.

“Check it out,” says the Operative, showing the projections. Several Eastern spearheads are lancing deeper from Congreve—moving far faster than the rest of the East’s legions—

“Commandos,” says Velasquez.

“Of course,” says Sarmax.

“Whoever’s running the Coalition gets it,” says the Operative. “The real war’s going to be fought on the threshold of the Room.”

“Or in the Room itself,” says Velasquez. “Sinclair might already have—”

“I’m stunned he hasn’t already,” says the Operative.

“Doesn’t change the plan,” says Sarmax.

T
he deep-grids beneath Copernicus just aren’t deep enough anymore. But they’re the fastest option available. Jarvin and Spencer have commandeered a maglev car, having left its crew as mangled flesh in the tunnel some klicks back. They’re heading west, blasting everything in their path. The tunnels are a chaos of fighting. A temporary turn of the tide seems to be going on within this sector—the farthest Eurasian troops are being forced back upstairs by Americans who have realized that they’re running out of room to retreat. The line of battle is swaying back and forth. Sometimes Jarvin and Spencer find themselves pretending to be SpaceCom. Sometimes they’re pretending they’re Chinese. It’s a game that can only have one end.

“We’re rumbled,” says Spencer.

“I see it,” says Jarvin.

The pursuit moves in after them.

S
he turns in one fluid motion, fires all thrusters. The walls of her elevator car fall away like glass and she’s already flying straight through them, suit-jets burning as she presses down with her mind with all her might—catches Sinclair by surprise, gets him in a temporary mental lock, as though she’s pinning a more powerful opponent’s arms against his
sides. It won’t last. Maybe it doesn’t need to. She blasts past that hub, upward toward the ceiling.