The Machinery Of Light Part 35

"State of the art," says the voice. "Command node for both megas.h.i.+ps. Until things went to h.e.l.l. What's it like in the rest of the s.h.i.+p?"

"Total s.h.i.+t," says Sarmax.

"You mean you can't see?" asks Spencer.

"She tore my eyeb.a.l.l.s out. Made me her slave. And now I'm yours."

"That's what she said?"

"She did more than just say." say."

That's for sure. She's hoping it works for them. Contingency plan in case she got cut off-she gave them their own heavyweight AI to play with, and maybe it'll help them to keep the Rain at bay. She's got far more immediate challenges now, like steering this crawler as fast as it'll go down a pa.s.sage that's so steep it might be better termed a pit. She keeps having to swerve to avoid outcroppings, keeps having to apply retro-blasts from the crawler's rockets. The voices in her head are getting ever louder. There's an almost musical quality to their babbling. She's almost starting to enjoy it. She takes that to be a sign of just how far gone she's getting.

As one, the engines of the L2 fleet fire. All s.h.i.+ps start moving in toward the Moon at speed.

"That wasn't so hard, was it," says the Operative.

He's talking to the one remaining flag officer. The other officer lies on the floor, sprawled over his admiral, his eyes gouged out. It wasn't a quick death. That was the point. The first officer coughed up the codes soon after that. The orders have gone out. The fleet's falling into line, a vast V-shape whose forward point is the Harrison Harrison itself, the itself, the Memphis Memphis still rammed against its side: a strange compound s.h.i.+p swarming with feral colonists. The still rammed against its side: a strange compound s.h.i.+p swarming with feral colonists. The Harrison Harrison's been turned at a slight angle to align its motors with the momentum of the Memphis Memphis's own engines. And now a buzzer's sounding on the Harrison's Harrison's inner bridge. inner bridge.

"What the h.e.l.l's that?" asks Lynx.

"That's the hotline to President Szilard," says the flag officer.

Lynx curses. "Tell him that Admiral Griffin's had an accident and-"

The Operative shoots the flag officer in the head.

"Why not tell him ourselves," he says.

So you're going to do whatever we want," says Spencer.

"That's what that c.u.n.t rigged me with." The AI's voice is rueful. "Command-imprinting triggered by voice-recognition."

"And I spoke to you first."

"It's keyed to all three of you."

"So f.u.c.k you," says Sarmax.

"Just figuring out where we stand," says Spencer.

"And it's about time," says Jarvin. "Look, we need to get on what's left of the zone with this thing and have a look."

"Meaning we need to trust its story," says Sarmax.

"Not sure we've got much of a choice," mutters Jarvin.

She's got none at all. She keeps on forging ever deeper-sometimes via the horsepower of her vehicle, sometimes via maglev freight elevators cut through the rock. She's well below the domain of any of her maps now. She's feeling her way by pure intuition-and she's surprised that intuition's still working, as every other one of her powers seem to have fallen silent. It's as though some magnet's drawing her deeper-as though she can't help but make every correct turn. Almost like someone else has gotten control of her mind. She wonders if that's exactly what's happened.

The face of Jharek Szilard is appearing on the inner bridge's screen. The Operative's not about to let it get projected anywhere else. All transmissions are being routed through the Harrison Harrison. Szilard's been cut off from communication with the rest of his fleet. That's one reason among many why he's looking so royally p.i.s.sed. His expression gets even more priceless when he finds himself staring at- "Well if it isn't el presidente," el presidente," says the Operative. says the Operative.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" asks Szilard.

Lynx starts laughing. The Operative's trying hard not to crack up himself as he watches Szilard get ever angrier: "And where the f.u.c.k's the rear admiral?"

The Operative holds up Griffin's severed head. It's as though he's thrown a switch. Szilard suddenly becomes quite calm.

"I see," he says.

"More than can be said for him," says Lynx.

"What are your demands?" says Szilard.

"Who said we had demands?" asks the Operative.

"I a.s.sumed that-"

"a.s.sume nothing."

"Are you Rain?"

"You don't recognize me?" asks Lynx. "After all the fun we had back on the Montana?" Montana?"

Szilard's eyes narrow. "The originals."

"No less."

"And what do you want?"

"Funny you should ask," says the Operative. "Given that you're the a.s.shole who stranded us up here."

"Way I hear it, you were trying to kill me."

"Not just trying trying. We'll hit the Moon in a few hours and you'll be dead an hour after that."

"You jacked the whole fleet whole fleet just to get back to the Moon?" just to get back to the Moon?"

The Operative shrugs. "How else would we do it?"

"You guys are nuts."

"Do I sound like I'm arguing?"

"You're f.u.c.king nuts. The firepower on my farside installations will-"

"Don't be so tiresome," says the Operative. "You need our guns to try to stave off the Eurasians."

"When you're taking the fleet out of the fight?"

"Did I say that?" asks the Operative.

"C'mon man," adds Lynx. "Don't you know your own tactics? Formation delta-G, right?"

Szilard's checking that against his own screens, but the Operative knows exactly what he's going to see. L2's planners devised more than a hundred battleplans. All that was needed was to pick the one that gets the flags.h.i.+p closest to the Moon. The Operative yawns, makes a show of stretching. Through the inner bridge's semitranslucent walls he can see Linehan beating the c.r.a.p out of some technician who presumably looked at him the wrong way. Maschler and Riley are looking on as though daring anyone else to try something. Szilard clears his throat.

"Interesting," he says. "One of the less orthodox contingencies."

"And not even totally crazy under the circ.u.mstances," says Lynx.

"I don't know about that-"

"I do," says the Operative. "Get in behind the Moon using it as cover, picking up speed all the while, then slingshot the s.h.i.+ps around the nearside in all directions to play havoc with the Eurasian fleet. We We attack attack them them. That's the offer, Jharek. It's either that or civil war right now-and then the Eurasians can cruise into the world's biggest junkyard."

"What about my flags.h.i.+p?"

"My flags.h.i.+p," says the Operative.

He and Szilard stare at each other. "For now," says Szilard.

"I'm shaking in my boots," says the Operative.

"You should," says Szilard. "When you get here, I'll tear you f.u.c.kers limb from limb."

"Can't wait. How's the Manilis.h.i.+?"

Szilard doesn't say anything. Save for a flicker in his eyes- "Thanks," says the Operative-switches the screen off.

They switch back on, plunge into zone-or at least what's left of it. The AI rides shotgun, runs backup as the grids of the Righteous Fire-Dragon Righteous Fire-Dragon open up all around them-the central elevator shafts like some kind of multibarreled spine, the ma.s.sive hive of corridors and chambers stretching out around it. The camera-feeds show carnage. Marines butchering each other, gunning down the crew, turning guns upon themselves, driving vehicles at full tilt, firing at everything that moves. When software hasn't been used to hack the flesh directly, the flesh is simply being dragged along for the ride. Spencer catches glimpses of horrified faces behind visors while the armor they're trapped within pursues relentless arcs of self-destruction. It's total pandemonium. Haskell's done her work well. open up all around them-the central elevator shafts like some kind of multibarreled spine, the ma.s.sive hive of corridors and chambers stretching out around it. The camera-feeds show carnage. Marines butchering each other, gunning down the crew, turning guns upon themselves, driving vehicles at full tilt, firing at everything that moves. When software hasn't been used to hack the flesh directly, the flesh is simply being dragged along for the ride. Spencer catches glimpses of horrified faces behind visors while the armor they're trapped within pursues relentless arcs of self-destruction. It's total pandemonium. Haskell's done her work well.

But there's no sign of Rain.

"They've gone to ground," says Spencer, his voice echoing through the c.o.c.kpit.

"They're out there somewhere," says Sarmax.

"Probably still think we have Haskell," adds Jarvin.

Spencer doesn't reply. He's just riding the zone farther out, looking beyond the s.h.i.+p. The Eurasian armada is spread out behind the Righteous Fire-Dragon Righteous Fire-Dragon, motoring in toward the Moon, drawing ever closer to its brethren fleet that's launched from L4. The Moon's caught between two onrus.h.i.+ng vectors-and between them is a single s.h.i.+p, the Hammer of the Skies Hammer of the Skies, rus.h.i.+ng from the L5 fleet on a path that will intersect the one emanating from L4 about forty thousand klicks out from the Moon- "Switching it up," says Jarvin.

Spencer nods. Keeping the wings balanced-and as he looks further, he sees what might be the reason. His purview expands to take in the Moon itself: the L2 fleet is moving toward that rock. The final battle of this war will be the largest engagement to ever take place in s.p.a.ce. He watches those lights drift ever closer.

Lights parade inside her, stretch out beyond her, and it's all she can do to tell herself that it's all just some kind of illusion. That this is what happens when one's mind gets shorn from the leash, bathed by radioactive static and deprived of external stimuli. All she's got are these endless walls streaming through the headlights of her crawler. But she's starting to get glimmers of something else, too-some signal that's far more real than these illusionary lights that keep on taunting her. She can't tell if it's deeper in the Moon or deeper in her mind. It occurs to her that maybe there's no difference.

The minutes crawl by. The Moon looms ever larger, the hordes of Eurasian s.h.i.+ps growing above the left and right horizons. The L2 fleet's holding steady in formation. The Harrison's Harrison's holding steady under their thumb. Kill-crazy meat-puppets roam all corridors beyond the bridge's blast-doors. Everything within is in total lockdown. The three mechs who comprise the muscle have got the situation handled. holding steady under their thumb. Kill-crazy meat-puppets roam all corridors beyond the bridge's blast-doors. Everything within is in total lockdown. The three mechs who comprise the muscle have got the situation handled.

Which leaves Lynx and the Operative to their own devices. They've been using their exalted position on the zone of the L2 fleet to ransack all the data they can find. But it turns out that Szilard had precious little left stashed up here- "That's the rest of it," says the Lynx.

"Yep," says the Operative.

"We're going to have to wait till we get back to the Moon to figure out the-"

"We can't."

"Can't what?"

"Wait."

This is getting tight," says Jarvin.

His face is on one of the screens in the main room of the c.o.c.kpit. Spencer's is on the opposite. Both men are still in the zone, meshed with the AI, scanning for the Rain triad that's somewhere in the bowels of the s.h.i.+p. Sarmax is sitting in a corner where he can see both screens. He stretches, looks at the screens that show the two fleets closing.

"One last chance to talk," he says.

She's moving within range of her ultimate destination.

The one her life has been building toward for all this time. And the thing that's now materializing within her mind is as much a function of what lies in the depths of Moon as in the deepest recesses of herself. She can't explain it. Can't understand it. All she can do is stare at the face of the child appearing before her. It's a face she recognizes.

It used to be her own.

Don't bulls.h.i.+t me, Carson."

"I'm not bulls.h.i.+tting you. We need to figure out the game plan now." now."

"You really really want to go there?" want to go there?"

"Not a matter of want. A matter of necessity."

"Because you thought you could win this game on your own and now you're waking up to the fact that-"

"I was wrong."

"You sound scared."

"I am am scared." scared."

"Given what's going down, you should be."

"So let's talk about the gameboard," says the Operative.

Those f.u.c.king files files," says Jarvin.

Spencer starts to speak-stops. He gets that he's in over his head-that he's taken this as far as he can go on his own. He knows way too much-needs whatever pieces of the puzzle the others have. His mind's been searching for a way out and the only one he can come up with is- "Spit it out, man." Sarmax seems to be sinking ever farther back into the corner- "Not even sure how to say it," Spencer says.

Haskell's inside a child's mind now. Cathedrals of sensory impression from another era rise around her.

The universe fractals in vast kaleidoscopic patterns. The child's eyes open. Her own follow an instant later.

Time machines," says Lynx. "That's what you said back-"