Mountains are streaking in toward them. The Operative’s working the controls, banking the escape craft beneath the highest peaks, letting it drop down toward the valleys. Maschler does a doubletake.
“Wait a second,” he says. “This is—”
“Shut up and hold on,” says the Operative.
Spencer and Jarvin crawl through a narrow shaft that’s nearly identical to the one they had used to enter the cockpit on the Hammer of the Skies. Spencer was tempted to rig the Eurasian AI with hi-ex, but he realizes that would stretch the word superfluous to whole new levels. He’s got the files that machine downloaded in the back of his head. He’s got no time to bother with them right now. They reach the last hatch, shove it aside, fling themselves out into the abyss.
How much do you know?” asks Sarmax.
“Enough,” she replies. “He’s been using us—”
“When did you figure it out?”
“After we realized we weren’t guarding Sinclair.”
“When did he leave?”
“Some point before the war started, I guess. Now he’s at the Room, I don’t see how the hell we can stop him in time.”
He stares at her. “We can fucking try,” he says.
Terrain starts to appear in the windows of the dropship.
Ciphers so next-level that only a brain like Haskell’s can hope to penetrate them. She’s tearing through them on overdrive—making them think that she’s the one who’s created them. Who’s now reversing them. She’s through. The locks click through her mind—
A million shades of black and grey, a million lights flaring all around—and the soundtrack to all of it is silence as Linehan takes in the sight. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He suddenly feels that all the fighting and shooting and killing that’s going on around him isn’t really happening—that existence has dwindled to this tiny space inside his helmet even as he looks at all those stars. It seems like there’s a pattern all around, like somehow it’s all meant to happen. He and Lynx are freefalling, tumbling downward, that engine-that’s-now-a-bomb a distant firefly far below. Any moment now Congreve’s defenses are going to come to their senses. But a few moments more and it’s going to be too late—
They swoop over one mountain, veer in toward another. A giant sinkhole stretches out before them, carved straight through adjacent hills and valleys. It doesn’t look natural. More like—
“Someone had some fun with blasting powder,” says Riley.
“Couple of nukes,” says the Operative.
“Autumn Rain?”
“Several days back.”
“And you were there, huh?”
“Hey,” says Maschler, “that looks like another ship.”
Judicious bursts of their suit-thrusters as they exit—and the Righteous Fire-Dragon is rushing past, dropping beneath them as they gain height. It seems to have given up spitting nukes. It won’t matter—it’s still going to turn Copernicus into a big pancake. The sky above Spencer’s head is alive with lights, the vanguards of the American fleet clearly visible as they vector out from behind the Moon to do battle with the onrushing Eurasian fleet. Spencer can see quite clearly that the Yanks haven’t a fucking prayer. The ships of the East make the sky immediately above the nearside look like the center of the galaxy. The Righteous Fire-Dragon is dwindling below them as it moves into the last stage of its final plunge—
They’ve seen us,” says the pilot.
Velasquez just nods. The ship rocks from side to side as its pilots keep the trajectory unpredictable, letting the craft drop lower all the while. Moon’s filling the window now. It looks as if they’re maneuvering amidst a mountain range. But Sarmax’s vantage point prevents him from seeing the whole picture.
Which doesn’t mean he can’t be kept in the loop.
“Your friend Carson,” says Velasquez.
“Where’s he going?”
“Right where we thought he would.”
She’s got everything right where she wants. She’s pressing her head against the surface of the door, feeling the vibrations rumble deep within. She envisions dominoes falling, endless chains of locks turning like gears, grinding in upon hinges that slowly start to swivel. She backs up, moving out of the way as the door to the Room starts to open.
The engine punches straight through the main dome of Congreve, red flaring out as a chunk of antimatter explodes into the city.
“Wow,” says Linehan.
“They were all fucked anyway,” says Lynx.
And then some. The two men drop through what’s left of the shattered dome, firing at everything in sight.
The Operative hits the afterburners, sending the craft on a barely controlled plummet into the sinkhole that sprawls across so much of Nansen Station. He rockets in toward the bottom. There’s no way they’re going to stop in time.
“What the fuck are you doing?” yells Maschler.
The Operative says nothing. But now all three men can see that what looks to be the deepest part is actually the beginning of a tunnel—
A kilometer of disintegrating megaship crashes through Copernicus’s dome, detonating as it goes. Enough of its fuel was intact to make it interesting. Thousands of nukes are going off, enveloping the lunar capital in sheets of energy, making the whole nearside shake. Radiation pummels the suits of the two men who are still several klicks above the city. They start playing evasive action with the debris that they’re descending into.
“We’ll need some new gear,” says Spencer.
“First things first,” says Jarvin.
They swoop down toward that smoking crater.
The ship lifts away from the sinkhole, pivots, drops in toward an adjacent valley.
“What the hell’s going on?” says Sarmax.
“Carson’s gone to ground,” replies Velasquez.
“And we’re not?”
“We’re going in another way. Are you ready to get back in the fight?”
Sarmax nods. Tunnel closes in around them.
The door’s as massive as it is reinforced. As it swings open, Haskell can hear the creaking of doors behind it doing the same thing. A whole succession of gates, and she’s cracked them all. She steps behind the first one, starts moving past the procession—starts to get intimations of the space that lies beyond—
The upper levels of Congreve are totaled. The lower levels are pure chaos. The fact that Lynx has hacked the inner enclaves of the city’s defenses is only adding to the insanity. He and Linehan charge into the city’s basements, shooting in all directions, heading downward as fast as possible.
“Ain’t gonna be enough,” says Linehan.
“Shut up and keep moving,” mutters Lynx.
That’s the key ingredient of the Operative’s plan. Maschler and Riley are holding on for dear life while he pilots the escape ship down a tunnel, dropping ever farther beneath Nansen Station, on the cusp of far and nearside. He and Lynx and Sarmax came down here once in search of the Rain, only to have the Rain blow their base right in their face. He maneuvers through a maze of passages, trying to guess which ones have collapsed and which ones haven’t.
“Do you know where you’re going?” demands Riley.
“Somewhere off the maps.”
“I thought the Praetorians searched this whole place.”
“Doesn’t mean they found the good bits.”
Copernicus is history. Radiation’s aftermath churns on their screens as they descend through what’s left and into the hole that the Righteous Fire-Dragon has bored into the city’s basements. The zone beneath the Moon starts to click into Spencer’s head. It’s not a pretty sight.
The dropship starts maneuvering through the tunnels beneath Nansen. SpaceCom marines are trying to stop it. They’re getting gunned down for their troubles—and hacked too. The software in their skulls is going haywire, shoving their brains over the edge. Velasquez hauls the dropship door open. Sarmax staggers to his feet, joins her there, and they start lacin
g targets while the ship accelerates.
The last of the doors swing toward her as she closes in on it. She feels all of existence pivot around her—feels time close in like a vise. She feels other minds out there, still trying to reach her even though she can see they’re far too late. But Sinclair and Control aren’t. They’re waiting for her inside. She steps past the final door—steps within—
Lynx and Linehan are shredding their way through Congreve’s basements. Lynx’s hack has the comps so fucked they don’t even know which way is up. Complete confusion reigns amidst the tunnels. All the more so as it looks like Eurasian forces have already deployed across the lunar surface. The garrison is deserting their posts, fleeing deeper beneath the surface. All too many are getting shot as they flee.
“Still too fucking slow,” Lynx mutters.
The Operative knows the feeling. This crazy operation’s going like clockwork, yet by the time he gets near the Room it’ll be way too late. He can fucking sense it, as certain as anything he’s ever known. But he’s come too far to just give up. So he keeps on forging his way forward, moving back up into the lower reaches of Nansen, letting his mind move out and run hacks that release the restraints on the thousands of convict-miners who work the mines—and who now swarm out and start overwhelming the stunned marines. Beyond, the Operative’s catching glimpses of the lunar zone, getting caved in now as the main weight of the Eurasian fleet bombards the Moon at close range. He can see he’s got to get deeper fast.
The war is lost. Jarvin and Spencer take stock while they don new armor and load up at a reserve ammo dump. Glimpses on the zone show Spencer that the American fleet is getting pulverized above the nearside—fighting heroically, but overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Spencer wonders whose retarded idea it was to charge straight toward the Eurasian fleet. Not that there’s going to be a court of inquiries this time. There’ll be nothing left of the United States within the hour. Eurasian artillery is slamming into what’s left of Copernicus at point-blank range. Spencer and Jarvin feel more than a little relieved now that they’ve got roof above their heads. They move out, getting ever deeper into the lunar capital’s subbasements.
They’re smashing their way through what’s left of Nansen, reducing everything in sight to rubble. The fact that all the convict-miners seem to have somehow slipped their leashes is only adding to the confusion. The dropship roars through several larger caves, Velasquez and Sarmax doing door-gunner duty as they spray fire everywhere. Velasquez puts her helmet up to Sarmax’s.
“I’m going to need your mind, too,” she says.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says.
She tells him.
She’s in the Room now, and darkness is all around her. She’s afraid to use her lights. She’s seeing with her mind anyway, and so far that’s more than enough. As she steps forward, she can sense abyss on all sides—can sense structures all around her. She’s not surprised in the slightest when the floor beneath her shudders, starts moving, folding up around her to become another elevator car, sliding in toward the very core of Room.
They fight their way deeper, moving out of the Congreve subbasements and onto the threshold of the larger lunar infrastructure that stretches beneath the farside. Lynx struggles to focus on the zone, but he can’t make out much, save for the fact that combat is underway everywhere. It makes him wonder just how far the Eurasian commandos have penetrated. Linehan gets out in front, on point; they start moving downward at speed.
It’s good to be back. Even though somehow it’s like he never left—like he’s been hanging out near Congreve this whole time, still waiting for Lynx to hurry up and figure out a way to get into that city and up to the L2 fleet. Four days have passed since, and it seems like it’s been only four minutes. It seems like there are only four minutes to go. He can feel everything he’s ever been running from coming in to claim him. Ayahuasca’s edge is sharpening ever further, rising like a new sun bursting in his mind. He feels like he’s almost at the hub of the universe—like maybe it’s just below him. He can hardly wait to get there.
And suddenly a mind’s sliding straight into the Operative’s head. It’s one he recognizes. He’s been aware of it for many years now, just never in this way. But there’s a first time for everything. Even this.
“Leo.”
“The same.”
“You’ve learned some new tricks, huh?”
“Or just remembered some old ones,” says Sarmax.
“Bullshit. Who took you out of latency?”
“Indigo.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“She’s right here with me. With her triad—”
“In Nansen.”
“Sure,” says Sarmax.
“She’s calling the shots.”
“So what if she is? We need to team up.”
“Heard that one before,” says the Operative.
Spencer and Jarvin put ever more rock between them and the surface. The tunnels beneath Copernicus give them slightly more of a vantage point on zone. Enough to show that it’s crumbling everywhere. The bulk of Eurasian forces are still polishing off the American fleet. But more of the East’s shock-troops are hitting the Moon with every minute. Most of the initially vulnerable points are on the nearside. But as the Eurasian flanks envelop the farside, that’s starting to change.
“That’s where the real action’s at anyway,” says Jarvin.
“You think the Eurasians know that?” asks Spencer.
“I think they know the only thing that counts now is getting inside the Room.”
“So aren’t we a little too far from the main event?”
“That’s the idea,” says Jarvin.
He cut us off,” says Velasquez.
“So?”
“Didn’t think he could do that. Thought I was—”
“He’s a resourceful man.”
They come out into a cavern far larger than anything they’ve seen so far. Looks like explosions have torn it nearly apart—the floor and walls are mostly rubble. They ignite their jet-packs, start to move through in tight formation. They’ve just reached the other side when lights and sensors transfix them from much higher in the cavern.
In the flesh this time,” says the Operative.
“Fuck,” says Sarmax. The Operative’s standing on a ledge, flanked by Riley and Maschler. Everybody’s got their guns pointed at one another now.
“Easy,” says Velasquez.
“You sold me,” says the Operative. “We do need to team up.”
There’s a pause.
“On my terms,” he adds.
“Which are?”
The Operative keeps it brief.
Her body’s on a platform hurtling toward the inner confines of the Room. But her mind’s way ahead of her: it reaches the controls, switches them on. Software starts powering up. The lights go on. The sight practically drops her to her knees.
The 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.
Insider i
nformation: 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.
Spencer 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.
Vast 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.
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