The Machinery of Light (77 page)

M
Y NAME IS
M
ANILISHI
. T
HE RUMORS OF MY EXISTENCE ARE TRUE
. I
LEAPT INTO
S
OUTH
P
OLE WHILE ALL YOUR CAMERAS WATCHED AND ALL YOUR GUNS COULD DO NOTHING
. I
FOUGHT AT THE SIDE OF
P
RESIDENT
H
ARRISON
. I’
M HERE TO RALLY ALL
A
MERICAN FORCES
. I
CALL UPON ALL WHO ARE STILL ALIVE TO COMBINE—THOSE WHO SERVED
H
ARRISON, THOSE WHO SERVED
M
ONTROSE OR
S
ZILARD—TO REMEMBER THAT WE ARE STILL THE
U
NITED
S
TATES
. F
IGHT THE
E
AST WITH EVERY MEANS AT YOUR DISPOSAL WHILE
I
TEAR THEM APART WITH MY MIND, WHICH
G
OD
H
IMSELF SENT TO LIGHT UP OUR DARKEST HOUR
. F
IGHT ON, FOR OUR CAUSE IS JUST
. F
IGHT ON, AND MAY THE HEAVENS FIGHT FOR US
.

I
thought you said there was nothing worth being president of,” says Lynx.

“There isn’t,” says Haskell.

They stare at her.

“It’s just a rearguard action,” she says. “Buy us some time to get back to the Room; keep the Eurasians from that door as long as possible.”

Velasquez looks confused. “Your mind can’t—”

“—stop the Eurasians in their tracks? I’m not
that
good.”

“Not yet,” says the Operative.

She shrugs. “I could probably drive the first hundred thousand of them nuts, but the odds have become overwhelming. We’re outnumbered by at least ten to one. And as the bulk of their fleet lands they’ll eventually just send in waves of robots shorn from zone.”

“No
one
has an angle on the Eurasians?” asks Sarmax.

“I assumed that
someone
was controlling them,” says Lynx.

“That someone being Sinclair?”

“Or one of the other Rain triads,” says Sarmax.

“The Eurasians no longer matter,” says Haskell.

W
hat about us?” asks Linehan. He’s daring now to look at this woman who seems so familiar—realizes now he’s seen her before, but how he failed to see her for real he has no idea. Because now there are colors dripping off her, and some kind of energy glowing in her that’s a pale fraction of something that’s emanating from the rock below. Linehan realizes his mind’s come totally apart. And if it hasn’t, then he’s probably died and has reached the afterlife for real. He knows how afterlifes work, too—one false step and you’re fucked for all eternity. Only by following this woman can he hope to stay true. She’s giving orders now, and everyone’s scrambling to carry them out—powering up their jets, following her ever deeper into Moon—

W
here the hell are we going?” asks the Operative.

“You really think I’m going to talk to
you
?” says Haskell.

He figured it was worth a try. They’re heading down a series of ramps, moving through ground that’s obviously already been prepared. Szilard’s advance guard deployed here during the last hour. Haskell herself came this way less than ten minutes ago. The remainder of the SpaceCom marines in this sector fan out on either side, letting their new mistress pass through, along with her entourage—

—s
he figures she’d better revel in her moment of power, because she’s about to go up against the ultimate foe. Why Sinclair didn’t confront her directly back in the Room, she doesn’t know. Perhaps he figured Control would be enough to stop her. Perhaps he doesn’t need her after all. She rounds a corner to see the shimmering transluscence of the membrane blocking the way ahead.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” she says—starts to give commands. And they’re doing exactly what she tells them—bunching together, getting in close. She can tell that goes against all their instincts—that the last thing any of them want is to be so near that their armor’s touching. But she needs to envelop them all with her mind’s shield. She’s giving last orders to the SpaceCom marines, telling them to defend to the end. She knows that ultimately the Eurasians will be able to reach this point anyway. But unless she screws up, they won’t be going any farther. And if she’s right about what’s about to happen, none of it will matter anyway. She synchronizes everyone on the zone that’s all her own and gives the orders to get moving into that membrane—

A
nd they do. Fast. It’s all Linehan can do to keep up—all he can do to stay sane as apparitions loom before him and spirits gibber at him—hollow-eyed ghosts staring straight through the barrier that Haskell’s slung up around him, pressing against his head. It’s like those things are pounding against his skull, trying to break in—like all of reality’s boiling inside his head. When it boils away maybe he’ll see straight through to what’s been hidden from him all this time. He grits his teeth, follows this woman-who’s-no-woman as she keeps on driving forward—

W
hat the fuck are we dealing with, Carson?”

Lynx’s voice sounds as on edge as the Operative has ever heard—the voice of a man grasping for something to hold on to and falling way too short. The Operative is almost tempted to just let Lynx stew. But he can’t be sure he won’t be going there himself any moment now. So he lets himself just describe.

“Sinclair’s got a psychic moat,” he says. “Something that no normal mind could pass.”

“Not too many abnormal ones either,” says Lynx.

Nor is the mind enough. Reflexes are at a premium as well. Maschler, Riley, Linehan, Lynx, the Operative, Velasquez, and the other two members of her triad—they’re all following the instructions that Haskell’s flashing to them, following her as she forges forward—

I
t’s a little easier because she’s been this way before. The only way to get in or out of the Room without using a teleporter—but the labyrinth’s geometry is unreliable. It shifts every time one passes through it, is never the same thing twice. She figures that’s fitting—she gets a glimpse of Sinclair as a minotaur lurking in the catacombs of eternity, of herself as Theseus threading the final maze toward him. She senses more emanations foaming in from the Room, senses something new—