The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  “Because we’re kicking Eurasian ass. So he can afford to write it off.”

  Linehan shakes his head. “Fuck,” he says.

  “Textbook power play,” says Lynx. “Szilard’s luring everyone in his suspect file aboard this crate—all those other SpaceCom factions and anybody else who even might be trying to plot against him. All of them got assigned aboard the Montana. Seven out of nine of his generals, all the key prisoners, several of his less-reliable wet-ops squads: everyone’s gonna get it good. Gotta admit, Linehan, we really got outplayed by him. Though he still would have gotten fucked if—”

  “—you and Carson had managed to stick together.”

  “Yeah. Exactly. Look, we need to get off this ship.”

  “There’s still a way?”

  Lynx nods. “And it ain’t even by way of heaven.”

  The codes get transferred; the authorization gets transmitted. The train starts up again, accelerating down the tunnels. Walls flick past as two men struggle to figure out how to deal with a third.

  “So what happens to us?” asks the engineer.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re going to kill us,” says the driver.

  “Keep driving and you’ll keep living.”

  “You’re an American agent,” says the engineer.

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “Why else would you have that gun out?”

  “I could be Chinese.”

  “He could be Chinese,” says the engineer.

  “Doesn’t look it,” says the driver.

  “Doesn’t matter,” says the man. “Not these days. Anyone could be anyone.”

  The seismic tremors are starting up again, with renewed intensity. The major glances at the controls.

  “And now I need you to ditch this train,” he adds.

  “You mean get off it?” asks the driver.

  “No,” says the man, “sever our link to the rest of it.”

  The driver stares at him. “But it’ll stop—it’s not authorized—”

  “I don’t feel like arguing.”

  Neither does the driver. There’s a bump, then a lurch. The car accelerates markedly as the cars behind them go into automatic shutoff, disappearing in the rearview. The engineer pulls himself to his feet, stares at the major.

  “We just dumped twenty fucking cars,” he says.

  “And I’ll dump you if you breathe another word,” says the major. “Now floor it.”

  “That was our freight,” mutters the driver.

  “I’m your freight,” says the man.

  The driver nods, doesn’t take his eye from the rail ahead of him. It lances out, not bending for at least the next twenty kilometers. The train builds speed toward the supersonic. The driver exhales slowly.

  “So who are you?” he whispers.

  “I’m here to make sure we win this war.”

  “How?”

  “The Americans are killing us,” says the driver.

  “Just proceed along the following routes.” The major hands the driver a sheet of paper.

  “This is paper.”

  “Indeed. Now tell your engineer to sit the fuck down.”

  “Sit the”—but the engineer already has.

  “And don’t dwell on the baggage we just lost,” says the man. “Tunnel control has already been notified of a breakdown. And no one’s going to believe that the engine disappeared, so they’ll just leave that out of their reports.”

  “Someone will think someone’s mainlining vodka,” says the engineer, laughing in a tone that’s just a little too shrill.

  “But this is taking us off the maps,” says the driver suddenly.

  “Your point being?”

  “We should slow down. We’re heading way beneath the Himalayas.”

  “Best place to be right now,” says the man.

  Hanging in a shaft in the machine to end all machines: Spencer lets his mind expand out into the world around him. Not that it gets very far—he’s stopped at the confines of this vehicle within its microzone, completely shorn from any larger zone. But he can see everything he needs to all the same.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asks Sarmax.

  “Boarding,” says Spencer—and transmits pictures to the mech’s helmet, letting him take in the shuffle of boots through corridors, the syncopated beat of marching suits. For over a half-kilometer above them, passages are filling with Russian soldiers. The wider galleries beyond that are filling with treaded vehicles.

  “Fourth Mountain Division,” says Sarmax.

  “You know them?”

  “Of them, sure. They’re special forces.”

  “They’re just the half of it,” says Spencer, sending more images—these from the half-kilometer of corridors above the Russians. Sarmax laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head.

  “Chinese,” he mutters. “Fifth Commando.”

  Looking like they’re ready for the fight of their lives and then some. Their suits shuffle forward almost languidly, sit down and start strapping in while swarms of mechanics bolt their vehicles to the walls.

  “Time to get this show on the road,” says Sarmax.

  “I’m working on it,” says Spencer.

  “Work faster,” says Sarmax, as the elevators above them slide into motion.

  Haskell becomes dimly aware of faint vibrations. She’s lying on her back, strapped down. She opens her eyes, finds she’s in yet another train. Soldiers stand around her, their guns on her as they make signs to ward off the evil eye. She’s wishing she could find some way to live up to her reputation.

  But the soldiers have something else to worry about. Someone more senior is entering the car—the soldiers are saluting, clearly ill at ease. Haskell can see the newcomer only by craning her head inside her helmet—which is abruptly yanked off her. Someone strikes her over the head. Someone puts a metal clamp on the back of her skull. It hurts.

  “Fuck,” she says.

  “The Manilishi,” says a voice.

  She’s looking up at the newcomer—a Chinese officer. His suit’s insignia’s that of colonel. His English is perfect.

  “I’m Colonel Tsien,” he says.

  “Chinese Intelligence.”

  “Of course.”

  “And this whole incursion was for my benefit?”

  “So to speak,” he says.

  “I’m useless to you.”

  “No need to be so modest.”

  “You know I’m not going to help you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not up to you to decide.”

  “Don’t be so sure. A lot could happen between now and Tsiolkovskiy.”

  He smiles. “What makes you think we’re going there?”

  “Don’t bullshit me. It’s the closest base you’ve got.”

  “Tsiolkovskiy’s getting overrun.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s true,” he says. “We just got word. Your accursed Stars and Stripes will be raised over what’s left of it within a quarter-hour. Something that even these soldiers around you don’t know. See how I confide in you, Claire?”

  “So where the hell are we going?”

  “Somewhere we can hide.”

  “You mean somewhere you can interrogate me.”

  “I mean somewhere we can finish up.”

  “What?”

  But Tsien just snaps his fingers—a soldier grabs her head while another slides a new helmet onto her. They lock it into place. She stares up at Tsien as his voice echoes inside her head.

  “One chance,” he says.

  “Let’s talk this over.”

  “We don’t want to damage you.”

  “You’ll have to take that risk.”

  “This will be painful.”

  “Like you care.”

  “Of course I care,” he says—his smile increasing. “My people are fighting for their lives. You’re a monstrosity built to destroy them. Such irony if you could be harnessed.”

  “Do your worst
.”

  He does.

  The Operative watches on his rear screens as the tunnel behind him collapses. So much for the rest of his force. He’s on his own now. At this point, it’s the way he prefers it. Because there’s nothing left to fight him. The Eurasian rearguard is shattered. Their main force has bugged out, leaving cameras and sensors in their wake. But the Operative’s all over them, hacking them with abandon, snipping off the sensors, getting in there and replacing his image with shots of still more tunnel. He sets course toward Tsiolkovskiy. The tunnel that he’s in merges with others tunnels; those tunnels contain more rails. The Operative knows that if the Eurasians have tossed Haskell onto a train, he’s never going to catch her. But hacking into maglev is the work of a moment: his suit’s insulation protects him as he extends a tendril onto the rail, his view telescoping all the way to Tsiolkovskiy base.

  But he can’t see any trains.

  The Operative runs the sequence again. Nothing doing. There’s nothing on that line. His mind races, considering all the angles. He’s scanning the last battle management reports he received from Montrose. His side has probably already overrun Tsiolkovskiy. Meaning the East would have been idiots to take Haskell there.

  And maybe they have been. People do stupid things in war. But none of what the Operative has seen so far looks stupid. The Operative’s guessing the original idea in digging all these tunnels was simply to disrupt Congreve in the event of conflict. But presumably the Eurasians received intel that gave them a far more specific target. And they must have received that intel recently, because this war’s less than an hour old. Meaning Montrose’s operation has at least one leak. Probably more.

  But that’s not the Operative’s main concern right now. The Eurasians will be planning to break Haskell, and they’ll need to break her quickly. The Operative traces along that line again—his mind flashes back and forth to Tsiolkovskiy several thousand times. He starts hacking at the codes that control the line—the data that might reveal what’s happened along it in the last several minutes. He starts feeding in all the other data he’s got on this section of the moon—triangulates from all sides, makes the only connection he can.

  His thrusters flare, and he’s closing on a point several klicks ahead, where a number of old mining veins come suspiciously close to this tunnel—veins that are neither American nor Eurasian, that were mined out when the Moon was just another venue for prospectors and cash-hungry combines. The Operative’s noticed that the area where those veins converge is the same place where he’s detecting traces of what might be a zone-bubble designed to maximize stealth. Rendering whatever’s inside almost invisible to detection.

  But not quite. Because now the Operative’s hacking into a special set of sensors that have clearly been set up to keep an eye on this part of the tunnel. Their presence confirms what he’s suspecting. By the time he rounds the bend in the tunnel and sees the opening in the wall a short distance ahead, he’s already got a good idea of what he’s going to be facing. No rails lead into that opening. Had he hurtled past at full speed he would have missed it. But it’s positioned in such a way that a railcar equipped with rockets could easily move within.

  So the Operative does, too: turns off his motors and steps inside, straight through beams that are intended to act as tripwires—but his suit’s already got the drop on them as he maneuvers through and into a cave beyond. The tripwires are convinced nothing’s tripping them. There seems to be activity up ahead. He’s in full-stealth mode now. Nothing can see him. And—as his sensors adjust—he can see all he needs to …

  The razor locks in the mech, and they’re off, traversing the maintenance shafts of the Montana once again. Only now they’ve got a different objective.

  “The forward docks,” says Lynx.

  “What about them?”

  “That’s where the cleanup crew’s basing.”

  “Cleanup crew?”

  “Can’t put all your enemies in a box and leave no one minding the store, can you? Wouldn’t be very prudent, would it? Someone’s got to make sure it’s all going to go to hell the way the master chef wants it, and—”

  “Speak English, for fuck’s sake.”

  Lynx laughs. “Szilard sent in some picked marines to ferry in the last of the riff-raff. Not to mention making sure the charges are rigged and that no one else gets off.”

  “And we’re heading to where they’ve docked.”

  “Sounds almost simple, doesn’t it?”

  There’s some sort of barrier up ahead,” says the driver.

  “That’s why I’ve been having you slow down,” says the major.

  And now they’re coming to a stop. Eurasian soldiers stand in front of the blast-barrier that’s blocking the tunnel. They’ve got their weapons out. The major looks at the driver.

  “Open this train’s door,” he says.

  The driver’s complying. The door slides open as the train comes to a halt. A power-suited officer looks up into the cab.

  “You’re a long way off course,” he says on the one-on-one, his words crackling in the major’s head.

  “I need admittance,” says the major.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Careful how you speak to me.”

  “Because you’re under arrest?”

  “Because I’m an agent of the Praesidium.”

  The officer stares as the major transmits codes. Even though everything seems to be falling apart for the rulers of the Eurasian Coalition, the Praesidium is still the most feared thing this continent’s seen since Mao and Stalin. The special agents who report directly to them are the stuff of legend. No one wants to meet one. Nor does anyone want to prolong any such encounter they might have.

  “Sir, a thousand apologies. You’re cleared. But the two men you’ve got with you aren’t autho—”

  “I’ll take care of them,” says the man.

  “Sir,” says the officer—switches off the one-on-one. The blast-barrier starts to slide open.

  The elevators are in motion now, and so are they. They’re hanging onto the cables, moving up the shafts, then shifting onto other cables, descending. They’re camouflaged acrobats, busy doing the one thing all good performers know how to do.

  Buy time.

  “Got it,” says Spencer.

  “Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.

  Spencer beams the data over. He hasn’t totally cracked the vehicle’s microzone, but he’s made some serious inroads. He’s figured out where all the places worth cracking are. There’s one in particular that’s looming large on all his screens, more than a kilometer above them.

  “That’s it,” he says. “The cockpit.”

  “How well defended?”

  “So well I can’t even see how to get in.”

  “I don’t think we want to get in yet anyway.”

  Spencer nods. Sarmax is right. There’s no reason to fuck with the flow. This thing’s taking off, and they’re going with it. Intervention can come later. Spencer takes in the position of the craft’s cockpit and its defenses—marvels at how suspicious the Russians and the Chinese are of each other. The multileveled cockpit’s nestled in just above the forward vehicle-hangars, all approaches scrupulously divided between the soldiers of the two nations. Same with the cockpit personnel. There are two captains, both of them strapped down, along with everybody else. Spencer turns to Sarmax.

  “They’re getting ready to hit it.”

  “Let’s get in closer before they do.”

  She’s plunging downward into herself. Darkness swirls in from all around. She can feel Tsien somewhere out there—circling her like a predator, hungry for what she contains. Fear billows up, threatening to choke her like thick smoke. She knows damn well what her captors are trying to do: turn her into something they can use.

  And if they can’t do that, they’re going to destroy her. And since they’re on the brink of utter defeat, they don’t have much time. They’ll have to cut some corners. She can feel them going a
t it too—coming in from all sides, trying to unravel her to find out what the hell she really is. It’s tough when she doesn’t even know herself. She wants to help them—she really does. She’d do anything to avoid the pressure that’s now gripping her brain. But she can’t see a way past it. She can’t evade it: it’s all starting to come apart and so is she. Darkness starts to shimmer. Shapes start to form within it—a face emerges from out of the blackness. A voice sounds in her ear.

  “Claire.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’ve got to wake up.”

  “Fuck you,” she repeats.

  “Fuck this,” says the voice—and then it’s fire flashing through her, causing her heart to kick into overdrive, and she comes awake in a single instant. She gasps in pain, opens her eyes—finds herself staring into the eyes of Strom Carson.

  “Shit,” she says.

  Blood’s everywhere. So are shattered suits. What’s left of Colonel Tsien’s seems to have been mashed against the wall.

  “You killed them all,” she mutters.

  “No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”

  “Except for you.”

  “You’ll see the light soon enough.”

  Lynx steps it up, making the zone think they’re something they’re not, making the sentinels past whom they’re creeping think they’re having just another boring moment. The two men slide on through the makeshift perimeter that’s been thrown up around this portion of the Montana’s docks. They’re starting to pick up a lot of static.

  “Jamming,” says Linehan.

  “Not exactly,” says Lynx.

  They crawl between steel girders, emerging onto the ceiling of one of the medium-sized hangars. Two corvettes dominate the floor. They look like they’re in the final stages of boarding. SpaceCom marines are positioned at the hangar’s interior doorways. The larger exterior door is shut.

  “Looks like we’re on time,” says Linehan.

  “Just barely,” replies Lynx.

  According to his calculations, pushback’s only a few minutes away. He starts leading Linehan along the latticed ceiling, toward the Montana’s hull. They climb up another level and find themselves in a crawlspace. Unearthly light shimmers from some opening up ahead.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” says Linehan.