“Roger that,” says Sarmax.
Spencer nods—watches the ship’s zone as all systems sync with the countdown. All the exterior doors slide shut.
Except for one.
Jesus Christ,” says Haskell.
“Thought you might say that,” says Carson.
Fun and games beneath the Moon: He’s propped her up in one of the driver’s seats of the railcar—has strapped her suit in. Through the windows she can see a large cave. The railcar’s sitting on a trestle bridge in the middle of it. Tunnels in the floor lead farther downward.
“What the hell was the East doing?” she asks.
“Not was,” says Carson. “Is. I only killed the ones up here. The rest are down there digging.”
“For what?”
“A way in.”
She stares at him. “How the hell do they know about that?”
“Maybe you told them.”
“Just now? They’ve been set up here for a while.”
“But not for much longer. My charges are about to go off. We need to get the fuck out of here pronto.”
He hits the gas. She feels the vehicle lurch into life as its retrorockets fire. It starts reversing. She watches through the window as cave gives way to tunnel. The Operative works the controls, and the train does a smooth 180-degree turn—and then accelerates forward …
“We’re heading to Tsiolkovskiy,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Is the East still holding out there?”
“Who knows?”
“Then why the hell are we going that way?”
“No one’s going to see us coming.”
The view is almost overwhelming. The Moon’s just backdrop to frenzied space warfare. Ships are strewn all around, firing at will. The L2 fleet is locked in combat with an unseen foe. The DE isn’t on the visible spectrum. It’s lighting up their screens all the same, a barrage of every type of energy weapon imaginable.
“Any idea how it’s going?” says Linehan.
“We’re destroying ’em,” replies Lynx.
Though the East is clearly putting up a fight. Parts of some of the larger ships look like plastic when it’s hit by a blowtorch. A lot of the smaller ships just aren’t there anymore. Clouds of missiles start emanating from a nearby dreadnaught—firing motors, they streak off into space.
“Probably aimed at incoming Eurasian ones,” says Lynx.
There’s a flash: an entire section of another dreadnaught suddenly gets pummeled by long-range laser. Debris and bodies pour from the ship’s interior. As quickly as it began, the flow stops.
“Sealed,” says Linehan. “They’ve cauterized what’s left.”
“Heads up,” says Lynx.
The hangar doors beside them are sliding open.
What the hell …?”
“What’s your problem?” asks Sarmax.
“Someone else just got aboard,” says Spencer.
“What difference does it make? We’ve got a few thousand assholes on this crate already.”
“Seems a little strange to be so last minute.”
Sarmax shrugs. He seems lost in his own thoughts. Spencer’s running zone on the last man aboard this ship—the last door having slid shut right as he got in. An exterior camera shows a train’s engine car reversing away along a bridge. The countdown moves under ninety seconds, and Spencer can’t find anything on the newcomer.
At all.
“This doesn’t add up,” says Spencer.
“So get some hard data,” says Sarmax.
A tremor ripples through the room they’re in. The platforms and catwalks nestled up against the largest spaceship ever built peel away in a single fluid motion.
“Here we go,” says Spencer.
They go supersonic in one easy burst, motoring down the tunnel toward Tsiolkovskiy. It’s going to take them all of twenty seconds—assuming the lines aren’t blocked. On the zone it looks good. But there’s a lot of interference around their destination …
“I’m going to need your help here,” says Carson.
“To enslave me?”
“To live through the next two minutes,” he says, firing a bracket of missiles ahead of them. She watches those missiles go hypersonic, streak into the distance. She knows he’s got a point—knows, too, that he’s got her right where he wants her: siphoning off the requisite processing power, filtering it through his own software. She tries to turn it around, but he knows what he’s doing. Especially with the help of the restraints the Eurasians placed upon her. The cage of his mind closes around hers. The missiles ahead of them start exploding. What’s left of the maglev rails starts to disintegrate as Carson detaches the car they’re in and fires its rockets. They roar toward Tsiolkovskiy’s cellars.
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down?” she asks.
“Yeah right,” he says.
They’re making their move as the first of the corvettes slides out. Their suits’ thrusters flare gently, floating them down onto the hull of that corvette even as Lynx takes the hacks he’s been running to the next level. A hatch opens in the side of the ship, and they drop within. It’s that easy. Though …
“Something just occurred to me,” says Linehan.
“Hold on a second,” says Lynx.
The hatch slides shut and the airlock chamber pressurizes. Lynx looks around at the tiny room, then extends razorwire from his suit and plugs into the wall, tightening his grip on the ship’s computers as that craft draws away from the Montana.
“Look,” says Linehan, “there’s something we should be—”
“I’m sure there is, but will you shut up—”
“Think about it, Lynx.”
“Jesus Christ! Think about what?”
“This isn’t just a matter of getting off the Montana. Szilard won’t just have rigged his flagship. He’ll have these corvettes rigged too.”
Lynx raises an eyebrow. Linehan starts cursing: “Fuck’s sake man! Otherwise, some of the assholes he’s trying to nail might sneak aboard and—why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m way ahead of you.”
Whoever he is, he’s got some kind of special clearance,” says Spencer.
“We’re inside the Eurasian secret weapon, man. What the hell does special clearance mean now?”
“It means I can’t crack him!”
“Because?”
“He’s got some kind of souped-up zone-shield …” But Spencer’s voice trails off as he becomes aware of something else. Something that’s echoing through the ship. With under a minute to go, the countdown’s been patched through onto the loudspeakers. Both men can hear the chanting of the soldiers all around them as they join in. Sarmax nods his head in time with the rhythm.
“This is going to be fun,” he says.
Rocket-powered railcar.
Way too fast.
They roar through Tsiolkovskiy’s maglev station and into wider passages. Carson engages the ship’s guns, slinging shots out ahead of them. Haskell feels him shove her mind even farther out than that as the grids above them click into place. She can see that most of the Eurasians they’re killing are dying because they’re looking the other way—fighting desperately against the American commandos who have occupied the base’s upper levels and are now pushing deeper. The train’s coming in behind a set of last-ditch defenses. Carson’s trying to coordinate with the Americans above. It doesn’t look like he’s succeeding. The Yanks aren’t taking any calls. Up ahead, she can see the rearmost Eurasians turning to face them. Some of them are shoving a makeshift barrier into place. Looks like it’s some kind of wrecked crawler, blocking the tunnel up ahead.
“Fuck,” she says.
“I see it,” he replies—accelerates still further.
“We’re gonna crash,” she yells.
“And how,” he grins.
Szilard’s stacked the whole game,” says Linehan. He’s starting to feel like the walls of this little chamber are closing in—like the man who’s
crammed up against him is enjoying this way too much.
“That’s how he plays,” says Lynx.
“So how come you don’t seem concerned?”
“Because I’ve thought of it all already. Of course Szilard would rig this ship. Standard tactic—and it doesn’t matter. It’s still the only possible way off the Montana. Which, by the way, is about to go up like a fucking roman candle.”
“After which we do the fucking same, huh?”
“Charges are rigged just aft of the corvette’s cockpit. They’ll get detonated by wireless transmission.”
“Can you stop ’em?”
“Sure as fuck can try.”
The countdown’s reaching its final seconds. The chanting of the soldiers has reached a fever pitch. The noise is deafening. Spencer adjusts his magnetic-clamps one last time. He takes in the zone around him—the whole expanse of it crammed into this craft that’s about to vault toward the heavens. The last man to get aboard remains impervious to all attempts to breach his barricades. It’s the same with the cockpit. It’s going to be difficult to do much about that until more systems come online. Which presumably is going to happen once things get moving. Spencer glances at the man next to him.
“We’re about to find out how deep this goes.”
“And how high it’ll reach,” replies Sarmax.
The screens hit zero.
Shit,” says Haskell.
“Believe it,” replies Carson; he seizes her with both hands, firing his suit’s jets and bursting through the train window, out into the tunnel as their vehicle blasts past them and into the Eurasian position up ahead. There’s a blinding flash—but Carson’s already crashing through a side door and out into a labyrinth of industrial plants. Haskell feels her body shift as he twists and turns at breakneck speed. He’s obviously trying to steer clear of the bulk of the fighting. She’s doing what she can to oblige.
Lynx has hacked into this corvette’s computers. He’s got them covered. He’s having a little more difficulty with the charges rigged right beneath the pilots’ asses. And he’s running out of time. Because now white light’s permeating the pilots’ view, blossoming across the windows.
“Fuck,” says Lynx.
“What’s up?” asks Linehan.
What’s up is that the SpaceCom flagship just blew to kingdom fuck. A series of microtacticals, rigged at judicious intervals: a gaping hole’s opened at the very center of the L2 fleet. Lynx can see the way the charges have been rigged to minimize the debris—can see the firing patterns of the fleet adjust automatically to take into account the fact that one of their capitol ships is no longer available. But all of that’s secondary to the more immediate problem. The two corvettes have now traversed more than half the distance to the ship they’re making for. Only they’re not going to get there—
“I just thought of something else,” says Linehan.
“Shut up,” says Lynx.
“Even if you defuse the charges, surely the rest of the fleet can just—”
“I said shut up,” snarls Lynx.
The other corvette detonates.
The noise is overwhelming. The floor beneath them’s shoving upward. The G-forces are going to town. The ship’s rising out of the root of the mountain while door after door opens above it. Kilometers of rock are surging past.
“Looking good,” says Sarmax.
Spencer’s barely listening. He’s just probing on the zone, pressing in at the entryways to the ship’s cockpit, calibrating the communications going on all around. He’s gaining more room to maneuver as the weaponry systems come online—all too many bomb-racks, far too many guns. But the real weapon is the ship itself, the name of which rises into view on its own zone like something glimmering within oceanic depths …
“Hammer of the Skies,” says Spencer.
“Catchy,” says Sarmax.
The last door swings open above them.
They rise through a series of ventilation shafts, coming out into one of the auxiliary hangars. It’s just been overrun by American forces. But Carson and Haskell are no longer trying to talk to them. They’re hacking them instead, splicing additional orders into the ones that the soldiers have just received, establishing the two of them as high-value assets that need to be removed from the premises immediately. The hangar doors open as an unmanned SpaceCom drop-pod descends into the chamber. Hatches on the pod slide back. The Operative shoves Haskell in, following right behind her. Engines roar as the hangar drops away, followed by all of Tsiolkovskiy base. Haskell gets a glimpse of American assault troops and ships pressing in upon it from every side. She feels the drop-pod accelerate. Moon streaks by below.
But she’s detecting something else above.
“The hinge of fate,” says Carson softly.
“Is that all?” she replies.
Snipping off the loose ends. It’s what Jharek Szilard is good at. It’s why he’s now second-in-command to the president herself. And why a lot of people aboard the surviving corvette are suddenly realizing they’ve just become something they never planned on being.
Expendable.
Lynx is doing all he can to salvage the situation. He knows the whole thing was a longshot to begin with. He knew all along that should the charges aboard the corvettes not go off, Szilard would have backup guns ready to take out those ships, along with announcements to the rest of the fleet about how the corvettes contained the Eurasian saboteurs who just blew the Montana. Lynx has managed to hack the wireless conduits on the hi-ex, not to mention fucking with the guns that the nearby dreadnaughts have trained on them. He thought he’d done it in such a way that everyone would think the orders were to let the corvettes land—that he could run interference on Szilard’s personal supervision. But now more guns are swinging onto the corvette. He’s giving contrary instructions; his mind races out into the L2 fleet—out in too many directions. He’s getting overextended. He can’t keep up. He knows he’s dead. The screens around him start to flare.
Pressurized armor offers only so much protection. Spencer’s getting knocked black and blue. Yet even with all the specs in his head, he’s having difficulty processing what he’s seeing on the screens. Hammer of the Skies is more than two klicks high, more than half a klick wide. It shits out one nuclear bomb every second, channeling that detonation against the massive pusher plate layered up against its foundation as the ship climbs a column of atomic fire out of the Himalayas. Nuclear contamination rains down beneath it. But when you’re fighting the war to end all wars the last thing you’re worried about is environmental impact statements.
“Holy shit,” says Spencer.
“For sure,” says Sarmax.
The screens show it plainly—that the thing they’re in is merely the pride of the massive fleet it’s leading. The Eurasian Coalition has committed its main reserves from bases hidden deep beneath the Earth. The scale of the force now entering the fray beggars description. The sky above western China is turning black with ships and flame. And now those ships open fire on everything above them.
It’s unmistakable. A new factor’s entered the equation. Something’s bringing long-range fire to bear upon the L2 fleet above them. And from the look of the emissions now lacerating the vacuum, those shots are coming all the way from—
“Earth,” says Haskell.
The shit going on overhead is invisible to the naked eye. But no one uses those anymore anyway—it’s all enhanced vision and extended wavelengths now. The sky is almost caked with fire. Shots slam against L2’s dreadnaughts even as they return the favor.
“The East is bouncing DE off our nearside mirrors,” says Haskell.
“Of course,” says Carson. She’s propped up next to him in the cockpit. He’s injected her with something that makes it tough to feel her flesh. Everything’s gone all fuzzy. But her mind’s working on overdrive all the same.
“We need to talk,” she says.
Lynx isn’t one to miss an opportunity—his mind shoulders the pilots
aside, seizes key software nodes in the cockpit, and sets the controls to send the corvette skimming past the nearest dreadnaught and straight at the converted colony ship that’s just beyond it. Both those ships have other shit to worry about right now—like the fact that they’re being shelled from the other side of the Earth-Moon system. Disorder hits the L2 fleet as it struggles to react to the new threat. The corvette plunges in toward the colony ship, which fills the screens as the pilots struggle desperately to regain control. Lynx hasn’t the slightest intention of letting them do so.
Clearing ten thousand meters,” says Spencer.
“Roger that,” says Sarmax.
The coast of Asia is passing beneath them. The vid-feeds show the chaos that’s gripped the Chinese cities across the last hour. The American attack has punctured the Eastern def-grids in multiple places and left the population centers helpless.
“They’re still intact,” breathes Spencer.
“Exactly,” says Sarmax.
The logic’s plain enough. Why wipe out cities when you can tip them into anarchy instead? The electric grids are gone. The zone’s fucked. Spencer and Sarmax gaze on pure pandemonium in the streets of New Shanghai and all its brethren. The occasional DE blast from the American satellites overhead has only added to the madness.
“Not gonna distract the East that much,” says Spencer.
“But every little bit helps.”
Meaning that every military resource the Coalition had in its megacities has been totally preoccupied. Meaning there’s been that much more that the East’s command structure has had to worry about. But now the tide is turning. The fleet that’s just over a minute into its ascent is spreading out around all sides of the Hammer, all ships careful not to stray within the fiery clouds of the behemoth’s exhaust. Yet Spencer can see that he hasn’t been thinking big enough all the same …
“Fuck,” he says.
“Hello,” says Sarmax.
Off to the north: Hammer of the Skies has a twin. With its own fleet spread out around it. Combined, the carpet of Eurasian ships extends for several hundred klicks in all directions. An armada the likes of which the world has never seen—and Spencer can only imagine what it must look like from the American positions in low-orbit.
The Machinery of Light ar-3 Page 6