“The intended linchpin of the Rain’s group mind.”
A momentary pause. “I didn’t realize you knew that.”
“Carson told me.”
Control chuckles. “Not like him to speak the truth.”
We have to tread carefully,” says Maschler.
“I’ll say,” says the Operative.
Most of the farside’s now visible, spiderwebs of craters ringed by mountains. No fighting’s in evidence down there. If any combat’s taking place, it’s confined to mop-up. The Operative looks out into space. Shakes his head.
“Why the hell is Montrose picking a fight with Szilard?”
“We were talking about Sinclair,” says Maschler.
“We still are,” snaps the Operative. “It’s impossible not to. We’re all caught up in his plan.”
“Caught up? Or do you mean you’re still trying to carry it out?”
“I’m not even sure there’s a difference,” says the Operative.
“You’d better start learning,” says Riley.
“Same goes for Montrose,” says the Operative.
“She knows what she’s doing.”
“Does she?”
“She’s the president,” says Maschler. “And it’s her duty to ensure the integrity of the executive node—”
“Political theory’s my favorite line of bullshit.”
“Screw the theory,” says Riley. “Let’s talk about the practice. Ever seen a beast with two heads? It doesn’t survive. Montrose and Szilard can’t share power and they both know—”
“Nothing,” snaps the Operative. “Neither of them knows a goddamn thing. If they did, they wouldn’t be losing the fucking war. Sinclair’s going to have the last laugh yet.”
Riley coughs. “If the Eurasians win, how the fuck does that help Sinclair?”
“That’s the part I’m still trying to figure out.”
He’s the most dangerous man alive,” says Control.
“Carson’s a close second.”
“Are they working together?”
“Each wants the other to believe that,” she says. “But as to whether they really are—”
“Has Carson told you that he still loves you?”
“What?”
“I’m not talking about how he conned his way into your teenage pants. I’m talking about recently.”
“He’s implied it. It’s still bullshit—”
“Hardly. He may well believe it.”
“It still wouldn’t matter.”
“I’m glad you realize that. Insofar as he’s capable of such emotion, he lives only to betray the objects of it.”
“What does a machine know of such matters?”
Control laughs. “Am I making you anxious?”
“Are you trying to?”
“Naturally. Because now we’re getting into the thick of it. What does a machine know of such matters, indeed. Perhaps I should put that question back to you.”
“I’m flesh and blood.”
“And software. All of it greater than the sum of its parts. Such a complex piece of work. Such a tough nut to crack. This is where it’s going to get painful.”
“Even more so when you have to tell Montrose you couldn’t pull it off.”
Control ignores her. “The key to the problem is memory,” he says. He sounds like he’s giving a lecture. But she’s hanging on his every word. She feels a need to shake him, beg him to hurry up. She knows that’s merely part of whatever it is he’s doing—
“Memory,” she repeats.
“Indeed,” says Control. “And we need to unravel yours.”
“But I remember all of it.”
“Do you really?”
“I already made that breakthrough!”
“With Carson as midwife.”
“With Carson as …” She trails off. “Fuck.”
“You see? You’re walking on quicksand. And even if he led you straight, he may not have led you deep enough.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we have to take this all the way back, Claire. Your memory is the key to you in some manner that we don’t fully understand. It wasn’t just the means via which your would-be masters aimed to control you. It’s bound up in the very essence of your powers.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“It’s very simple,” says Control, and as he talks she can’t help but notice the amorphous light around her is fading. “Your conscious callback accounts for only the merest fraction of what we’re interested in. Your unconscious material is where the real secrets lurk.”
“You’re talking like a fucking shrink,” she says.
“As does any good interrogator.”
She tries to reply, but she’s having difficulty forming words. It’s like the fading light is taking the ground out beneath her—like the gathering dark is sapping her will to resist. She feels herself tossed through the canyons of her own mind and it’s all she can do to hang on—
“Cat got your tongue?” asks Control. “Think, Claire, what a fragile reed even the truest of recollections are. So much seen and yet so little understood. So much that goes down before we even comprehend it. What was done to you back in the vat? Do you have any idea? What happened in those first few hours? What happened in those first few minutes?”
Darkness envelops her.
They’ve been stuck in the dark for a little too long now—crawling through narrow spaces while trying to ignore the clanking and creaking all around them. Generators whining, KE racks humming: this ship’s clearly heavily involved in whatever combat’s going on outside.
“How long has it been?” asks Linehan suddenly.
“Just under an hour,” says Lynx.
“No kidding.”
“Can’t you tell time?”
“Not with any certainty.”
He’s been drugged and rebooted a few too many times for that. Now Linehan’s living in something that approximates the eternal present. Past and future seem to be collapsing in upon him. He feels like he’s been in these shafts forever. But there’s something that’s been growing on his mind—
“So where the fuck are we?”
“This is the Redeemer,” says Lynx. “Registered with the Zurich Space Commission in 2108. Scheduled for the Martian orbits by the year 2115. State-of-the-art colony transport. But all the time she was shaping up to be one of the heaviest gunnery-platforms in the L2 fleet.”
“That’s what covert construction will get you.”
“Sure,” says Lynx. “And now she’s giving all she’s got against the East.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Haven’t a clue. I can’t access the ship’s mainframes.”
“You’re cut off from zone?”
“The parts that count. That’s one of the reasons we’re staying mobile.”
Linehan nods. Spencer had explained it to him once: the zone’s like a series of hills. Different positions give different vantage points. Certain locations are inherent deathtraps. Others allow you to rain shit down upon your opponent. Or just act like you’re not there.
“Do they know we’re here?” asks Linehan.
“Of course they know we’re here. We fucking crash-landed into their goddamn hangar bay.”
“I meant are they on our trail?”
“Presumably.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“Until I get the full zone picture—”
“I’ve heard this already.” Linehan opens a trapdoor; they keep on crawling.
Stabilized at last,” says Spencer.
“And it’s about time too,” says Sarmax.
It’s taken long enough. They’ve been in this elevator shaft doing nothing but hold on while the ship’s been shaking like it’s on the point of falling apart, even as it pulverizes the opposition. The American geo positions were speed bumps and nothing more. The ship’s starting to put the Earth behind it.
“
Not a pretty sight,” says Spencer.
It never is when a side of planet gets hit by everything and then some. The atmosphere is still burning. The Eurasian reserves have swarmed through the lower orbits. The only resistance they’ve left is underground, and most of that can be safely bypassed. Doesn’t matter how many American forces are down there as long as their ground-to-space weapons have been eliminated.
“All that counts now is the high ground,” says Sarmax.
And that’s clearly the next stop. Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon have left the rest of their fleets in the dust. Except for—
“Take a look at that,” says Spencer.
“Ballsy,” says Sarmax.
The rear camera feeds aboard this megaship are positioned to capture images between each of the nuclear blasts that keep on propelling the ship ever farther out into space. When those blasts are detonating, armored shutters ensure instrument integrity. And when those blasts aren’t—
“Someone’s getting danger pay,” says Spencer.
Rigid tethers lashed to the sides of both behemoths are splayed out for scores of kilometers into space. Each cable’s towing several ships, which look to be modified corvettes. They’ve obviously received more radiation-shielding than usual. Even so, it looks like they’re taking damage—
“It’s worth it,” says Sarmax.
“I’m sure,” says Spencer.
“The summit of the Earth-Moon system,” continues Sarmax, as though he’s giving a briefing. “The East has nothing up there now. They’ve been cleaned out of their lunar positions and their fortress at L4 is a smoking ruin. But the Americans have fuck-all back on Earth. And now that their geo position has been rolled up they’re reeling. They’re outnumbered. And we’re the mobile spearhead. These two dreadnaughts are getting out ahead of the main fleet so they can strike while the iron’s hot. That’s why we’re towing so many fucking ships—they want to get up there as quick as possible with as big a force as possible.”
“Probably.”
“If you’d managed to hack the Eurasian net we wouldn’t need to be guessing.”
“Easier said than done,” says Spencer.
“Apparently.”
“Look, this is a whole separate net, okay? Totally cauterized from what’s left of the East’s original. Deliberately kept dumbed-down and crude. Oh, and by the way, all external signals reaching us are occuring between nuclear fucking detonations.”
“You sound like you’re making excuses.”
“I like to think of them as reasons.”
“And I don’t like it.”
“Tough shit, Leo. All I can hack is this ship.”
“And not even all of that.”
“Then how about you fuck off and let me get back to it.”
“And the handler’s file?”
“Has taken a backseat to cracking the ship’s cockpit.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t.”
“And you’re being such a big help. Look, the file’s insane. And I can’t work miracles with the Eurasian zone, okay? Same way you wouldn’t be able to take on the whole Eurasian army, all right? So you’re going to have to deal with the fact that so far I haven’t cracked the cockpit, and so far I still don’t know what’s up with the newcomer.”
For a moment there’s silence.
“What newcomer?” asks Sarmax.
“That guy who slipped aboard at the last moment.”
“That guy?”
“Yeah, that guy. You didn’t seem that concerned at the time.”
“He didn’t just head to the cockpit?”
“Why would you assume he’d head to the cockpit?”
“If he’s impervious to hacking, he’s obviously important.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s in the cockpit.”
“Even though it’s basically impregnable?”
Spencer shrugs.
“So where the fuck is he?” asks Sarmax.
“In his quarters.”
“Which are where?”
“Other side of the ship.”
Sarmax looks thoughtful.
“Wait a second,” says Spencer, “you’re not thinking—”
“Why not? Let’s go say hi.”
You’re playing a dangerous game,” says the Operative.
“You’re one to talk,” says Maschler.
“The difference is I’m under no illusions,”
“Name a single one that governs InfoCom.”
“Keeping Sinclair alive is a good idea.”
For a moment there’s silence.
“We already discussed why that’s necessary,” says Riley.
“Have we?”
“He’s the only one who knows the formula that created Autumn Rain.”
“You sure about that?” asks the Operative.
“Who else did you have in mind?” asks Maschler.
“There must have been scientists. Technicians. Lab records.”
“Yeah?” asks Riley. “You seen any?”
The Operative shrugs. “I heard Sinclair had a file—”
“Which went AWOL,” sneers Riley. “As you damn well know.”
“News to me.”
“I can’t believe I’m even listening to this bullshit,” says Maschler. “For all we know you were watching while Sinclair burnt everybody involved.”
“For all we know you were the one who did it,” adds Riley.
“I didn’t have that kind of access,” says the Operative mildly.
“I’d bet you’d like to.”
“Is that an offer?” asks the Operative. “Does this mean you’re turning off the goddamn tape and beaming Montrose back some dubbed bullshit while the three of us get down to business?”
“We’ve already gotten down to business, Carson.”
“Then why don’t you start acting serious, huh? Haven’t you numb-nuts interrogated Sinclair already?”
“Harrison already tried,” says Riley.
“Before you shot him,” says Maschler. “As you well know. Christ, Sinclair’s just fucking gone.”
“Like nothing we’ve ever seen,” snarls Riley. “Fucker taunts us and then he just seems to switch off. Even though he’s still fucking breathing. Chemicals and pain and none of it matters. Not now. He’s beyond our reach.”
“As opposed to me?” asks the Operative.
“Ah, yes,” says Maschler. “Riley, what do we think of what Carson told Montrose about what he’d done to his own mind?”
“I think we think it’s bullshit,” says Riley.
“Though give him points for trying,” says Maschler. “But Carson, even if you really did rig yourself with death-switches to prevent your head from being skull-fucked, what makes you think we’d hesitate to put you to the question anyway?”
“Because it’d be the last question you’d get to ask.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Or maybe you’re just too chickenshit to take the chance and take me apart.”
“Or else we’d rather have you take out Szilard instead.”
The Operative yawns. The ship keeps on motoring toward L2.
She wandered in that desert for forty days and forty nights. The whole time she knew she was just moving through the wilderness of her own mind. It didn’t matter—it was still as real as anything she’d ever seen. Or remembered: She trudged beneath two suns that scattered her shadow into long fragments across the sands—kept on stumbling through the desolation while evening draped around her and morning rose, and all the while she knew that scarcely seconds were going by, that the greatest war in history was still raging on outside, that she was still helpless in the depths of Montrose’s command center with the creature called Control still crawling through her brain. She didn’t dare go to sleep, not even for a moment. She knew as soon as that happened that Control would penetrate whatever was left of her: that he would rule her dreams and subjugate her to everything within her she’d feared and never understood. So she just wandere
d through those trekless dunes, fighting off that mounting urge through sheer force of will. Her eyes remained open and her spirit remained hers—and by night those suns gave way to starless expanse in which was set a single moon that shimmered in her heart and looked identical to the one that had swallowed her back in the world she’d left so long ago. She felt that moon all around her—felt it calling to her, telling her all the things she already knew and didn’t want to hear. The fortieth dawn rose but there was only one sun now. It wore a face.
They keep on crawling through the industrial plant of the colony ship-turned-warship: an endless maze of crawlspaces and narrow passages. If they’re being pursued, Linehan hasn’t seen a sign of it. Then again, he’s figuring that by the time he does, it’ll be too late anyway. Meaning it’s all coming down to whatever’s going on in Lynx’s head. And Lynx is even more close-mouthed than usual. His standard cock-of-the-walk attitude seems to have faded a little. Linehan thinks about this. He opens up the one-on-one.
“So when do you kill me?” he asks.
“What?” says Lynx.
“You heard me.”
“Why would I want to kill you?”
“Same reason you’re keeping me alive.”
“I told you, you’re making your own decisions—”
“Tell me what you’re planning.”
“I’m making things up as we go.”
“But you must have some idea how we’re getting off this ship.”
“Who said we’re getting off this ship?”
“We’re just going to stay here?”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
“Because we’re in the middle of World War—”
“Sure we are,” says Lynx, “but you’re not thinking.”
“Sometimes I have that problem.”
“So let me spell it out for you. We got the drop on SpaceCom by getting onto this fucking ship, right?”
“Right,” says Linehan. “Though it seemed more like luck than skill to me—why the fuck are you laughing?”
“Because luck’s the best kind of skill,” says Lynx.
You really want to pay this guy a visit?” asks Spencer.
“It’s either that, or we have a crack at the cockpit.”
“Which we eventually have to try. So why take unnecessary risks in the meantime?”
The Machinery of Light Page 9