So the stories were true,” says Velasquez.
“Every last one,” says Sarmax.
This is just gone,” says Maschler.
“It’d be even better if someone explained it,” says Riley.
“Just keep your eyes peeled,” says the Operative.
The Room’s stretching out all around her in the panoply of false color and she can’t see any movement anywhere. But the Operative’s right: Sinclair’s still here. Where else could he be? Especially with the Room continuing to power up. Behind her, she can sense the membrane’s energy reaching the critical threshold. The voice of the Operative drifts in past her.
“No way anything’s getting through that now,” it says.
“When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,” she snaps—cuts him off. She gets what he’s driving at, though. Sinclair could have stopped her from leaving the Room. Or maybe not … maybe he hadn’t throttled up the Room’s engines enough by that point. Truth of the matter is that she no longer knows. It’s like she’s driving full tilt into black. She’s on the cusp of future now, can no longer see anything in front of her. She hasn’t felt this way since before she knew she was Manilishi. She figures it’s only fitting—that she’s come full circle. She starts to get glimpses of the inner Room gleaming in the distance.
What in fuck’s name is that?” asks Riley.
“The end of the road,” says the Operative.
“We got movement,” says Maschler.
No one fire,” she says.
No one is. They’re just looking at the two insectlike figures standing on the very surface of the sphere that’s now coming into view. Those two figures are looking up at them.
“You made it,” she says.
Wasn’t easy,” says Spencer.
But the directions the Manilishi gave him were enough to do the trick, using one of two teleport chambers with the ability to reach the Room directly. All the others were just sideshows. But all that matters now is—
“We were being followed,” he says.
“By who?”
“They were Rain. Couldn’t tell beyond that.”
“But you blew the rig behind you?”
“Yeah. There’s no way they could have—”
“Assume nothing,” she says.
“Yes ma’am.”
“This man you have with you?”
“Alek Jarvin—”
“High time I talked to him.”
You were Sinclair’s man,” she says as she scans his mind.
“I was cut off in HK when he was arrested.”
“I know.”
“He wants to make himself God Almighty.”
“He may already have,” she says. “Who was following you?”
“His final triad.”
She nods. She’s presuming it was the same one that pursued her. But why it would still be operating outside the Room makes no sense to her. The only thing that counts now is in here. Meaning she has to assume that somehow that triad got in too. Thus the dilemma: it’s imperative to destroy your teleportation devices behind you, yet you can never be totally sure you’ve done it. The fact that Sinclair still has servants is one more reason why she’s sought to acquire her own—one more reason why she’s not going in alone. The metal to which Spencer and Jarvin have affixed their armor starts to slide aside. The inner Room’s opening once again, in accordance with her zone-instructions. She gives more orders, watches as everyone starts to scramble from the elevator cars.
Seb Linehan,” says Spencer.
Linehan looks at him with eyes that seem to have gone hollow. “Spencer,” he whispers slowly.
“Good to see you again, man.”
“I’m not the man you remember,” says Linehan.
“Let’s move,” says the Operative.
The inner Room’s as she left it. Except for the fact that there’s no longer any presence looming here. She stares through the maze of ramps and girders at the innermost sphere of all. She can detect nothing within. But there’s only one way to be sure. The ceiling of the inner Room slides shut above them as they close in on the hub that sits astride the very center.
You’ve got to listen to me,” says the Operative.
“I know what I’m doing,” she says.
“He’s in here somewhere.”
“I realize that.”
“He could be one of us.”
But she just nods. That’s one scenario she’s playing—that when she first showed up maybe Control had been assigned to hold down the place with deceptions and that Sinclair has only arrived in this Room just now, disguised as somebody else. In which case he undoubtedly thinks he’s got her where he wants her. She welcomes any such thinking. She’s in the final stages of a duel she’s been fighting all her life. Even if she’s only just waking up to that fact. The doors to the core of Room slide open.
Oh Jesus Christ,” says Lynx.
Better than any drug he’s ever ridden: glow pours out at him as though the thing in the depths of Moon is really a captured sun. But as his visors adjust, he can see that’s merely a function of the lights and mirrors he’s descending through. Vast pipes run down the walls, shimmering as though through heat. Screens everywhere show views throughout the Earth-Moon system: the Eurasian legions consolidating their hold, the first power in history to achieve total domination of humanity. But now those screens are starting to blur with static—
“We’re getting cut off,” says Haskell.
Anondescript interface on just one more piece of piping: the controls at the very hub of the Room are exposed for all to see. She expected as much—expected, too, to see the pod that hangs above them, the door that hangs open, the form-fitted couch that she’s sure is contoured for her exactly. But what she hadn’t expected to see are the three canisters hanging around it—three more pods sprouting out, almost as though they’re the legs of a tripod. Each pod’s doors are partially open, giving them the look of metal flowers. She turns to Carson.
“You know I have to do this,” she says.
Just you? What about—”
“Just defend my flesh.”
He nods. Perhaps she’s scanned him to her satisfaction. Perhaps his betraying her is merely one scenario among many. He knows that he’s no longer capable of lifting a hand against her knowingly. But he also knows he wouldn’t be the first in whom compulsions arose from out of the depths of past. He watches for a moment as Haskell climbs out of her armor, her strangely inked skin visible on all the places her clothes don’t cover. She climbs into the machine at the Room’s center. He turns, starts giving the orders for a perimeter to be established.
She pulls herself into the pod while the rest scramble to take up their positions. All but one. Haskell isn’t surprised to see who. Velasquez looks at her—
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks.
“Throwing the last switch.”
“He wants you to do that, Claire.”
“How the fuck else am I going to draw him out?”
Velasquez takes the meaning. “None of my triad—”
“Keep a close eye on them all the same,” snaps Haskell.
The canopy closes around her.
What the hell’s going on?” asks Linehan.
“Shut up and get ready to fight,” says the Operative. He wasn’t expecting things to get so complicated tactically. Especially because now he sees that everybody’s starting to get it. Everybody knows everybody else is suspect. Just like everybody’s always been …
“Let’s hope it’s that simple,” says Lynx on the one-on-one—
—though he’s not surprised when Carson refuses to respond to him. He gets it—the less said the better. He watches the contours of the Room all around him—watches Carson give orders as everyone takes up positions, spreading out along a quarter-klick radius around the Room’s hub. Lynx doubts that whatever happens next is going to be pleasant. Especially because he’s heard enough about this Room to know that there’s
a lot more to it than meets the eye. That no normal blueprint could possibly encompass all the spaces it contains. He watches as the machinery throttles up all around him.
She’s doing the same. It’s all swirling in toward her now and it’s all she can do to keep up with it. Her DNA sequences and brainwaves are interfacing directly with the Room now. The machinery is revving up along its final sequence, approaching the point of no return. Her mind flashes out through the minds of all those around her; she sees even deeper within, still doesn’t see what she’s looking for as she scans every meter of the Room, searching for the pockets and folds of the Room that are beyond all normal scans. She watches the external membrane blaze into critical mass as the energy from those dying outside keeps on pouring into it, keeps on dripping down toward her, surging her awareness to ever greater heights as she suddenly realizes the nature of Sinclair’s servants—
The Operative’s already on it. He’s whirling to confront them as they open fire. Everyone starts shooting. Riley and Maschler are getting knocked back by fire from every direction. They’re giving as good as they get—focusing on Velasquez and her triad, taking one of that team out as shots rock the core of the Room. The Operative finds himself wondering for a moment about the redundancy of the machinery around him—and then he and Linehan are catapulting into Maschler, knocking his already-damaged suit against the wall, smashing through the visor, watching blood spill down the man’s face.
Maschler’s eyes are still open, though. “Manilishi busted you,” says the Operative.
Maschler winces—looks over to where Riley’s dead body is getting dragged out of his suit. “Whatever happened to asking questions first?” he mutters.
“You happened,” says the Operative. “Where’s Sinclair?”
“Think I know that?”
The Operative reaches out with a fist, starts applying pressure to Maschler’s skull. “What do you know?” he asks.
And even as Carson asks the question, she knows what Maschler’s going to say. Something funny about the consciousness she’s revving through right now—taking the retrocausality that defines her to the next level, effect preceding cause … fucked if she knows how that’s happening, but right now she’s got a couple of answers she hadn’t bargained on. Maschler and Riley weren’t just everyman pilots—weren’t just InfoCom agents either. They were Sinclair’s henchmen all along. And they showed their hand because—
“She’s got a nuke,” mutters Maschler as his eyes close.
The Operative realizes immediately who he’s talking about, Haskell’s mental command redundant as he whirls to confront—
“What are you doing?” says Sarmax.
“Begging your woman not to do it,” says the Operative.
Indigo Velasquez looks at them both. Her remaining Rain commando has his guns out. Lynx has drawn as well. Spencer, Jarvin, and Linehan have positioned themselves between the stand-off and Haskell. Velasquez looks around—laughs.
“So I brought in a bomb,” she says. “So what?”
“So what the fuck did you do that for?” demands Sarmax.
“Because this place is accursed,” she says. “We need to—”
“Defuse that bomb,” snarls the Operative. “Indigo, we’re going to win through yet. You don’t need to—”
“I do,” she says—looks at him with a strange expression—
And Haskell recognizes its meaning all too well. Indigo’s already made up her mind—already decided that humanity’s better off without this Room. And Haskell’s not even sure she can disagree. Even if America’s been lost, even if the Chinese are going to rule mankind for ten thousand years, even if all is pain and suffering from here on in, it might still be better than living on the sufferance of those within this chamber. Especially if that domination passed to Matthew Sinclair. But Haskell’s seen enough to wonder if Sinclair’s actually counting on that nuke being detonated. Maybe that’s the energy that’ll propel her through the real barriers she’s here to break. Even though those barriers seem to be coming down anyway. The membrane that surrounds the Room has gone white-hot. Her mind’s not far behind—
Either she hits the brakes or I hit this,” says Velasquez, holding up a fist-sized device.
“She can’t hear you anymore,” says the Operative. “Indigo,” says Sarmax, “don’t do this.”
“I have to,” says Velasquez. “All of you—you all might be Sinclair’s slaves. He’s played us all and I don’t even know what to call his fucking game—”
“Save that it involves playing you even now,” says the Operative.
“You really believe that?” asks Sarmax.
The Operative shrugs. His mind is racing with no way out. By the time he fires, Velasquez can detonate. She probably has a dead-man switch anyway. She probably has it all taken care of. She’s made her decision. Sarmax will have to make his. The Operative gets ready to move quicker than he ever has before. He braces himself—
—just as the three pods around Haskell glow; a suited figure steps from within one, firing as it emerges, catching Velasquez and the Rain commando in a hail of hi-ex rounds, blasting them both into the walls. The nuke tumbles down, bounces off Haskell’s faceplate—doesn’t go off. If it even was a nuke—the Operative’s already rocketing in toward Velasquez. Sarmax scrambles past him—throws himself onto Velasquez—
“Goddamn you,” says Sarmax.
“Everyone stay where you are,” says a voice.
She’s the only one who’s still moving—dropping away at right angles to all reality, her last glimpse of the Room is of those three figures who have just emerged onto the scene—their visors opaque, but there’s something all too familiar about them—then her mind punctures through all barricades, leaving only blankness in its wake—
She’s done it,” says the voice.
The Operative stares at the figure that seems to be the leader of these three—the other two taking up positions. One of them strides over to where Velasquez is laying—to where Sarmax is bending over her. The visor of that suit goes transparent.
Revealing the face of Jason Marlowe.
Bullshit,” says Lynx.
“Hardly,” says Marlowe.
“A clone,” says Carson.
The triad’s apparent leader raises his fist. “Spoken like a true Praetorian. Seen some files, convinced he knows the answer. But some answers are way beyond anyone’s guessing.”
“You can’t die,” mutters Sarmax. “You just can’t—”
“She didn’t have to,” says the third figure.
“Sinclair?” asks Carson.
The figure turns, smashes him across the head with a single blow. It must be on zone as well—because Carson’s armor is seizing up, sparks chasing themselves across it. His helmet’s come off. The figure looks down at him.
“The name’s Morat,” he says.
What the fuck is going on?” says Linehan. He’s trying to target his guns on these three, but he can’t seem to pull the trigger. Something seems to be fucking with his armor. Something he can’t fight. He no longer feels Haskell’s presence in his mind. He hears Jarvin muttering to him about not calling attention to himself. But apparently it’s too late. The lead figure is turning toward him.
“Linehan,” it says.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Friend of your old pal Spencer’s.”
Spencer’s staring. “Wait a second—”
No need for it,” says the figure.
“You’re not—you can’t be—”
“All this time, and that’s all you can say?”
“You’re Control.”
“Of course.”
Fuck,” mutters the Operative, pulling himself off the floor, taking in the scene. Control, Morat, Marlowe—a triad if ever there was one. Though none of it makes any sense. Unless—
“So where the fuck’s Sinclair?” he mutters.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” says Control.
&n
bsp; Everyone out of your armor,” says Morat.
“Not until you tell me what the fuck’s going on,” says Linehan.
“We’re giving the orders,” says Marlowe.
And Linehan’s armor’s starting to shut down. Control apparently has the high ground on zone. And Haskell seems to have withdrawn from the picture, enclosed expressionless within that pod as the machinery goes nova. Linehan blows seals, starts taking off his armor. Everyone else is doing the same.
“What about Indigo?” asks Sarmax. Tears streak his face. Linehan never could understand how any man could shed them. But now he gets it. He realizes he’s crying himself—tears for all those he killed, all those whose lives he took, all those dying outside right now …
“Who cares?” says Marlowe.
“It’s the rest of you that matter,” says Morat.
You guys are rebel angels,” says the Operative.
“Aren’t we all?” says Control.
“Sinclair charged you with running shit behind the scenes.”
“And all the while I was simply getting in behind him.”
The Operative nods. He can’t help but admire how state of the art Control’s suit is. He wonders at the software packed within—wonders whether Control was ensconsed within it this whole time. He thinks about all that this Room contains—struggles to contain himself. He looks at Haskell through that pod’s window, feels his heart overflowing. Everyone’s stripped down to vests and pants now. Everyone looks strange. The three who still remain in armor look even more so. Especially because at least one of those suits encases no flesh whatsoever.
And now we’re down to bedrock,” says Control. “Either one of you is Matthew Sinclair or else the man’s in hiding somewhere in the folds of Room. And here’s how we’re going to find out—”
“The ‘folds of Room’?” asks Lynx.
Morat laughs. “Don’t play stupid with us, Stefan. We all know this thing’s a fucking tesseract.”
“And it’s about to be so much more,” says Control.
“Except you guys miscalculated,” says Carson.
“Why did you betray him?” mumbles Velasquez.
“Why did you?” Control moves over to where Velasquez is laying, Sarmax trying desperately to shield her—
The Machinery of Light Page 31