The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  Spencer finds that annoying. It doesn’t matter what Jarvin thinks or says, now that Spencer has the data in his head—the vantage point on Eastern zone he’s been seeking, which in turn provides perspective on so much else. He steps from the cable onto the wall of the shaft, his magnetic grips clinging while his camo cranks away. The others follow him through a crawlspace that leads into one of the parallel shafts. This one’s much narrower. The elevators that run through it are intended purely for personnel. They grab another cable, alight on an elevator car that’s moving fast toward the rear of the ship—they enter via the ceiling into the empty car.

  “Let’s hope your confidence is justified,” says Jarvin.

  “Not my fault you couldn’t translate what you stole,” says Spencer.

  “You really broke through on everything?”

  “Not all of it, no.”

  “But enough of it to—”

  “It’s their zone tactics,” says Spencer. “Their strategy.”

  “Autumn Rain’s.”

  “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. Precise guidelines—a fucking manual—for how to use the legacy zones to creep up and around the current ones.”

  “Like they did in South America.”

  “And at the Europa Platform. And everywhere else. And how to remain undetected while they were doing it. I took a tour through yesterday’s Russia, climbed out into today’s Moscow, and got in behind the Praesidium’s firewall.”

  “Penetrated it altogether?” Jarvin sounds skeptical.

  “The next best thing. Managed to move a few files outside of it. Got the blueprints for what we’re heading toward—not to mention the real lowdown on the fleet logistics.”

  “Which are?”

  “They’re about to green-light the final assault,” says Spencer. He works a sequence on the zone; the elevator slows, slides to a halt.

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

  “We’re between floors,” says Jarvin.

  The doors are opening anyway—

  Haskell walks up to the president. He looks down at her, floodlights reflected in his visor. The blighted garden stretches all around them. Szilard’s bodyguards stand close at hand.

  “Quite a place,” she says.

  “It used to look a little more impressive.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “What happened here?” he asks.

  She shrugs. “Some Rain operatives had a dustup.”

  “Fighting among themselves?”

  “A habit of theirs.”

  “Sarmax and Carson, right?”

  She nods.

  “Who won?”

  “Does it look like anyone won?”

  “And you know all this because—?”

  “Carson told me.”

  “He told you? Or can you sense it?”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “Not yet,” he says.

  There’s a pause. “So how much do you know?” she asks.

  “A lot more than I did.”

  “These last forty-eight hours—where have we been?”

  “All over,” Szilard replies. “Some backup mainframes beneath Agrippa. Some bombed-out tunnels beneath what used to be Eurasian territory. A storage locker in Congreve. Not to mention—”

  “Nansen Station?”

  Szilard shakes his head. “I delegated that one. Didn’t think it would be prudent to go there myself.”

  “Too predictable?”

  “‘Predictable’ is a word I rarely use,” he says. “If something’s predictable enough, then only a fool would do it, meaning no one expects you to do it, meaning more often than not you can pull it off. The possibility for double- and triple-fakes is endless, especially if you’re dealing with Rain. And God only knows how many would-be pretenders are trying to do to me what I did to Montrose. I’ve stranded most of the problem cases up at the L2 fleet, but the Moon’s crawling with collateral fallout from the last few days: surviving Praetorians, rogue InfoCom agents, everyone who’s been dispossessed by the constant regime changes—”

  “But this isn’t just about your staying out of the crosshairs of those who would take your place.”

  Szilard says nothing.

  “It’s also about getting ready for the next phase,” adds Haskell. “And thus your scavenger hunt.”

  Szilard nods.

  “Found much?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “I’ve found enough. Old files of Harrison’s, captured Eurasian intel briefings, interrogation transcripts—it’s strange how much got scattered across more than twenty years. You’ve got something you want hidden, you put it out of reach, and yet that doesn’t mean it gets passed over forever. These days your data often has a longer lifespan than you do.”

  “Sarmax’s hasn’t outlived him yet.”

  “No,” says Szilard. He looks thoughtful. “And yet I think that man died inside many years back.”

  “Because of Indigo Velasquez?”

  “Indeed.”

  “She’s still alive.”

  “You assert that with such confidence.”

  “Because I saw her.”

  “Along with who else?”

  “She’s part of Sinclair’s team up at L5.”

  “And what about Sinclair’s team down here?”

  Pause. “I’ve seen nothing.”

  “You hesitate.”

  “I was thinking it over,” she says.

  “I think you’re only seeing what he wants you to see.”

  “Possibly.”

  “That’s his M.O., isn’t it? All the way from the start, right? He put you and Marlowe alongside each other to keep you preoccupied, keep you distracted while—”

  “He’s not invincible. Look at how Morat played him—”

  “And now Morat’s dead.”

  “Maybe.”

  Szilard cocks his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Morat appeared to me when Montrose was interrogating me.”

  Pause. “Montrose was using his image.”

  “I’m not so sure,” she says. “His presence felt … real.”

  “Well, of course it would—”

  “And Sinclair appeared soon after, and he was real. That tank Montrose was holding me in had leaks. Maybe more than one. For all I know, Morat’s out there playing his own game. Or is back in the saddle with Sinclair—”

  “But I thought you were the one to kill Morat.”

  “I killed a robot. The original might have been elsewhere. Or somebody might have created more.”

  “Well,” says Szilard, “one more reason for me to take my precautions.”

  “It won’t save you.”

  Szilard grins ruefully. “I doubt anyone thought I’d be the one to harness you either. Sinclair and Harrison cut me out of the loop from the start. They thought I was just one more nonentity. Harrison tried to take me out, and I took him instead. The Rain tried to play me, and I spaced their hit squad. Montrose tried to make me second fiddle, and now she’s a frozen husk. Because I do my homework, just like I’ve done with you. Everyone else just rushed in and got what they deserved. You’re something you don’t fuck with. You mind envelops anything that tries to control it. Your brain uses whatever tries to use you—you escalate automatically beyond the ability of any interrogator to reach. Montrose thought she’d cracked you, and all she’d done was undermine her own defenses.”

  “What about Carson?”

  “What about him?”

  “Back on Harrison’s ship. He knew what he was doing—”

  “Thought he did, sure. He had Sinclair’s backing, but Sinclair gave him only part of the data. The old man wasn’t stupid enough to allow your full powers into the hands of any of his minions. ’Cause suddenly the minion starts thinking they can be the master, right?”

  “Just like you’re doing now.”

  “And I’m not going into the lion’s den without some serious hardware. These last two days have been quite the
journey, Claire. Quite the haul. The sequencing on your incubation. The diagrams of your mind’s metaprocesses, the way you run zone—I’ve got them now. I’ll be able to get past the hurdles that tripped up Montrose. All that’s left is one more step.”

  “Assuming Sarmax comes through for you.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Two marines step into the gazebo with them. The floor begins to descend.

  A shudder passes through the shuttle as it docks with the dreadnaught Lexington. Exterior hatches swing open. Everybody gets up and starts heading for the exit—or nearly everybody, anyway. Five people stay behind. Maschler and Riley look befuddled. Everyone else looks amused. The pilot appears in the cockpit doorway.

  “End of the line,” he says.

  “Not for us,” says the Operative.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Check your schedule,” says Lynx.

  “I already did,” says the pilot.

  “So check it again,” says the Operative. There’s something in his tone that makes the pilot do just that—accessing screens within his head—looking bemused—

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “Last-minute update,” says Lynx.

  “You guys intel or something?”

  “Something,” says the Operative.

  “And we haven’t got all day,” says Linehan, getting out of his seat. He’s twice the size of the pilot. The pilot re-enters the cockpit, the door to that chamber starts to slide shut—

  “You can leave that open,” says Lynx.

  The door slides back open. The pilot works the controls. Exterior hatches shut; engines rumble into life as the shuttle pushes back once more. The Operative hears the one-on-one start up within his head.

  “You’d better be right about this,” says Lynx.

  “Shut the hell up,” says the Operative.

  We’re between floors,” says Sarmax, echoing Jarvin.

  “Let’s go,” says Spencer.

  They move through a series of passages that aren’t on any of the ship’s blueprints they’d had access to previously. They see no other sign of life, no sign that anything’s been here since it got built. There’s that much dust. It reminds Spencer of all that nanotech back on the Europa Platform. He hopes he hasn’t signed on for a repeat performance. They reach a door that looks to be quite strong.

  “You got the key?” asks Jarvin.

  “I’d better,” says Spencer.

  Turns out he does. They go through more, each one thicker than the last. Each time he finds he’s got the right access codes. Turns out the cockpit wasn’t the most secure area on the ship, because everyone knew where it was. But this—

  “Everyone stand back,” says Spencer.

  The last door slides open.

  The gazebo floor-turned-elevator trundles downward. Shaft walls slide by. Szilard’s two bodyguards eye Haskell. Haskell eyes Szilard.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “Can’t you see the future?”

  “It’s a very clouded view.”

  “That’s about to change.”

  They descend through the ceiling of a room unlike any Haskell’s ever seen.

  Way out near the edge of the L2 fleet is a medium-grade war-sat that was obsolete as of ten years ago. It’s nothing special. It sees very little traffic.

  That’s the point.

  “We don’t even have clearance,” says the pilot.

  “You will in a second,” says the Operative. He and Lynx are doing their damndest to make sure of that. None of this was easy to find. Sometimes the best place to hide secrets is right out in the open. Sometimes all you need to do is knock …

  “Got it,” says the pilot.

  “Told you,” says the Operative.

  A battered hangar opens to receive them.

  Three men pile into a room. The door slides shut behind them. There are no other doors visible.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Sarmax.

  Dust is everywhere. The place looks like it’s never been used. The walls are made of a strange kind of metal. Each wall has a suit-sized alcove cut in its center. Each such alcove looks as if it’s meant to be stood in.

  “Well,” says Spencer, “here we are.”

  “And no one else on this ship knows about this?” Sarmax looks skeptical.

  “If they do,” says Spencer, “they’re not talking.”

  “They don’t,” says Jarvin. “This was the trump card of the Eurasian leadership. In case their ships slipped the leash.”

  “They didn’t count on us, though.”

  “Maybe they did,” says Sarmax.

  “Let’s find out,” says Spencer.

  Picture a square turned forty-five degrees. That’s what this room’s like—it’s set at angles. There’s no floor, just vast walls slanting down along diagonals to meet in a V-shape: a metal-lined groove that runs along the bottom of the room. There’s another such groove at the highest point of the room too—and a hole in the wall that rises up to meet that groove. The elevator-gazebo has just dropped through that hole, trundling along vertical rails down to the catwalks that crisscross here and there. A pillar is at the very center of the room, running from floor to ceiling.

  “Quite a place,” says Haskell.

  “Wait till we turn it on,” says Szilard.

  They don’t waste time. Lynx switches the shuttle’s zone classification to undergoing maintenance; the Operative switches the war-sat’s maintenance schedule to ensure that they won’t be getting to the shuttle anytime soon.

  “And what about me?” asks the pilot.

  Linehan shoots him through the head. “Are we ready?” he asks.

  “I think we are,” says the Operative.

  The shuttle door opens.

  Spencer’s sending out wireless signals at point-blank range. A panel unfolds from the wall, revealing a console.

  “Aha,” says Sarmax

  “What order are we going to try this in?” says Jarvin.

  “All at once,” says Spencer.

  This is the place Sarmax hid from Carson,” says Haskell.

  “He hoped to use it again someday.”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “Would you believe he told me?”

  The elevator stops. They’ve gone as far down as they can go. One of the marines leads the way onto the catwalk; the other follows Szilard and Haskell as they move toward the intersection of catwalks at the center.

  “Actually,” says Haskell, “I would.”

  If Sarmax thought it could be used as a tool against Carson, anything’s possible. And if this place does what she suspects it’s about to—

  They move out into a deserted hangar. Equipment’s everywhere but nothing looks flyable. Or even useful, for that matter. This stuff is from a bygone era.

  “We’re off the beaten track,” says Maschler.

  “We’re going even farther,” says Lynx. “You ready, Strom?”

  “Assuming Maschler and Riley are ready to run point,” says the Operative.

  Maschler and Riley look at him. “Sure,” says Riley.

  “What route?” says Maschler.

  “We’ll tell you as we go,” says Lynx.

  How does this work?” says Sarmax.

  “You get in one of these alcoves,” says Spencer. “You first.”

  “There’s something I need to do first,” says Spencer—starts working the console. The fact that it’s totally unintuitive matters not in the slightest when he’s already hacked the instruction manual—the manual that sat at the heart of the Kremlin for all that time, the one that Jarvin almost found. But not quite—and now Spencer’s the one who’s calling the shots. He keys in the last of the sequence. There’s a low rumbling hum. The alcoves light up, shimmer with a strange energy.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” he says.

  Th
e pillar at the center of the room is a strange kind of metal Haskell can’t identify, without evidence of grooves or bolts. It looks more organic than mechanic. She’s got a funny feeling it’s made of the same substance as the rails that run along the floor and ceiling. She walks up to it.

  “Don’t touch it,” says Szilard.

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” she says.

  They head through corridors that look like they could use some maintenance. It’s mostly dark, save for their own sensors. They’re seeing no one. Maschler’s voice comes through on the group channel:

  “What are you expecting?” he asks.

  “Surprises,” says Lynx.

  The men on point get the message. They shut up. For now, at any rate. They keep on cautiously leading the way, Lynx and Carson following, Linehan walking backward, bringing up the rear. He figures that if anything was following them, it probably would have made its move by now. But he doesn’t know for sure. He watches the passageway recede, hears Riley’s voice echo in his head:

  “Lights. Up ahead.”

  Spencer walks calmly into one of the flickering alcoves.

  Jarvin does the same. Sarmax simply stands there.

  “Move,” says Jarvin.

  “Why?” says Sarmax.

  “What the hell’s your problem?”

  “You guys really think you’re going to pull this off?”

  “Got an alternative?” says Spencer.

  “Take over this ship,” replies Sarmax. “Drive it into deep space.”

  “And do what?” asks Jarvin.

  “Live in splendid isolation.”

  “Without your precious Indigo?” says Spencer.

  Sarmax stares at him.

  “She’s still alive,” adds Spencer.

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “Better hurry if you want to find out.”

  Sarmax walks into an alcove. There’s a blinding flash.

  You do not want to turn this thing on,” says Haskell.

  “It’s not a question of what I want,” says Szilard.

  Haskell can see the president isn’t wasting any time. While he’s talking, he’s operating controls via wireless—she feels a low hum pass through her suit. Far overhead, the ceiling-rail starts flickering, along with the rail below. But nothing seems to be happening to the pillar. The humming intensifies.

  “I’m begging you,” she says.

  “You think I’m walking into Sarmax’s trap?”