“Assistants to your interrogation,” says Riley.
“Great,” says Haskell.
“I’m their prisoner,” says the Operative.
“Whose body am I in?”
“It’s yours now.”
“Whose body was it?”
“No one’s,” says the Operative.
She frowns. “I’m wearing my own face, aren’t I?”
The Operative can’t say anything. He just nods. He can see she’s trying not to cry. Then suddenly that face is all resolution.
“Let’s get on with this,” she says.
Master and servants,” says Linehan.
“Yes,” says Lynx.
“This is Szilard’s ship.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why you steered us here.”
“For sure. It’s his new flagship.”
“And his escape ship,” says Linehan.
Pause. Lynx’s smile cuts out.
“You’re quick,” he says slowly.
“If it all goes to shit—”
“Goes? Try going.”
“Those megaships are still coming on?” asks Linehan.
“Like juggernauts, man. Their speeds are insane—”
“He’ll send the L2 fleet out to do battle with them.”
Lynx gestures. “And be ready to fire this thing’s motors if that fleet gets shattered.”
“They’ll follow him to Mars,” says Linehan.
“They’ll have a lot to keep them busy in the meantime.”
“But eventually—”
“What makes you think he’d stop at Mars? This thing’s got some serious engines. He could go to ground in the rings of Saturn—or make a break for deep space, try to run this all the way out. At least lead them on a good chase.”
“With a fuck-sized entourage keeping him company,” says Linehan.
“And guess who gets to get in there and stop him.”
We need to take control of this ship,” says Jarvin.
“Precisely what we were thinking,” says Sarmax.
“Sure,” says Spencer, “but under what terms?”
Both men look at him. He shrugs.
“It’s a fair question,” he says. “Sarmax here is a member of Autumn Rain. And for all we know, you are, too—”
“I’m not,” says Jarvin.
“You sure about that?”
“Anyone who’s sure about anything is a fool. Same with all this member bullshit you’re on about. Like everyone in the Rain went to the same country club. So Sarmax was part of the prototype. So what? Whose side are you on now, Leo?”
“Mine,” says Sarmax.
“My kind of thinking,” says Jarvin. “You guys up for a three-way partnership?”
“For sure,” says Sarmax.
“So quick to agree.” Jarvin looks amused. “You can always take me out when we’ve hit paydirt, huh?”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“Well, it’s about time you started.” Jarvin gestures at Spencer. “Maybe he and I will take you out.”
Sarmax laughs. “Give me a break—”
“Why should I? It’s not like your track record for team-ups is the best. You and Carson and Lynx sure ballsed up the reunion, huh?”
“That was Carson,” says Spencer. “He pulled the plug—”
“Shut up,” says Sarmax.
“I could have predicted that,” says Jarvin. He turns to Sarmax: “You should have predicted that.”
“I thought he’d at least wait until we’d won before going for the big backstab.”
Jarvin laughs. “Carson’s got a knack for devising schemes so complex you can’t even figure out what his angle is.”
“How do you know so much about us?”
“He’s got the file, doesn’t he?” says Spencer.
There’s a pause.
“And the one we took from you was bullshit?” asks Sarmax.
Jarvin smiles.
“And you still have the—”
“Of course I still have the real one.”
“And we’ve got the fake one,” says Sarmax. “Fuck.”
Spencer shakes his head. “But those schematics of the Himalayan black base were real!”
“Which ought to tell you something,” says Jarvin.
“It tells me you gave us the real scoop on the Eurasian base and the fake scoop on the Rain—”
“No,” says Jarvin.
They look at him.
“I held back nothing.”
Maschler’s drawn a sidearm.
“What’s that for?” asks the Operative.
“To encourage you not to do anything stupid.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You’ve been known to around Claire.”
“Just stay calm,” says Haskell. It hadn’t occurred to the Operative to be anything else, but maybe everyone’s way ahead of him. “Let them do what they’re here for,” she adds.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Easy,” says Maschler—a smooth, reassuring cadence the Operative uses himself when he’s about to kill someone. He’s still in the doorway, about four meters from the Operative. Riley’s on the other side of Haskell, punching buttons on a console. The Operative feels his head starting to spin. He feels like he’s having a stroke. He goes down on one knee.
“Carson,” says Haskell.
He drops. He’s kissing metal. Everything’s gone black. All he can hear is Haskell now. Though he’s not even sure about that. Just a faint voice he remembers from so long ago:
“Carson,” she says softly.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“What are you seeing?”
The answer’s nothing. Except—
“You,” he says.
“Because I’m inside your head,” says Haskell.
“But I’m not in yours.”
“And that’s just fine by me.”
I don’t like this,” says Linehan.
“You don’t have to like it,” says Lynx.
“Talk about obsession. You’re fucking crazy.”
“What’s crazy is thinking we can do anything else.”
“We should be thinking about getting off this ship!”
“Got somewhere in mind?”
“Somewhere that’s a little more solid than this fleet.”
“Like the Moon?”
“We should never have left that fucking rock.”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda—who the fuck cares? We are where we are. This place is in lockdown. Szilard knows we’re aboard, right? So now it’s set up like the Montana was. Nothing’s getting off.”
“Not even him?”
“Why would he want to leave?” asks Lynx.
“He knows rogue agents got aboard.”
“So?”
“So why the hell hasn’t he bailed? Rig a shuttle and scram?”
Lynx laughs. “Sums up why you’re taking orders and I’m giving them. Christ almighty, Linehan. This is a big ship. It’s not like Szilard’s in the next room. He’s camped out somewhere in the rear of this bitch, inside two heavily guarded perimeters, and you’d have him just shit in his pants and run for a shuttle?”
“So he can set up shop somewhere safe—”
“Safe? He knows damn well we’d be aboard that shuttle waiting for him.”
Linehan shakes his head. He looks around at all the sleepers—looks back at Lynx and the wires sprouting from his head.
“Two perimeters, huh.”
“You know you want it.”
So you didn’t crack the files,” says Spencer.
Jarvin looks at him strangely—as though he’s just seeing him for the first time. He adjusts his major’s insignia idly.
“Not the core of it,” he says.
“All those goddamn languages,” says Spencer.
Jarvin nods. “Sinclair’s created a code that may be impossible to crack. Ironic, no? You’ve got what may be the master file on Autumn Rain right in front of your
fucking eyes, and you’re still none the wiser.”
“But I know they’re records of the experiments,” says Spencer.
“Yeah? What else?”
“That’s as far as I’ve got—”
“Spencer,” says Sarmax, “shut up—”
“Interesting,” says Jarvin, and he sounds like he means it. “I got deeper than you. And here I was hoping it’d be the other way around. That you could help me.”
“Like we’d do that,” says Sarmax.
“Then you can hardly blame me for not returning the favor.”
“What else is in that goddamn book?” asks Sarmax. “Dammit, we need to know—”
“Nothing,” says Jarvin. “For now. How about we table the rest of it until we’ve taken over the cockpit?”
“You’re the boss,” says Spencer.
“For now,” says Sarmax.
“Nothing’s forever,” says Jarvin.
What the hell’s going on?” says the Operative—and says nothing. His lips aren’t moving. He can’t even feel them. Nor can he feel anything else. He’s out cold on the floor, aware only of Haskell’s voice sounding in his head, a sound far more intimate than the wireless-enabled one-on-one:
“He’s adjusting the controls on my console,” she says.
She sends him the image, too: static, grainy. She’s still flat on her back. Riley’s got his gun trained on the prone figure of the Operative. Maschler’s working the controls again.
The image cuts out. The Operative’s back in black.
“What the hell’s he doing?” asks the Operative.
“Allowing us to do what we’re doing, I’m guessing.”
Which is something he’s never done before, even though he’s lived with its latency all his life. Even after so recently realizing his true nature—when Sinclair restored his memories, reminding him that all his life he’s had intimations of Lynx and Sarmax’s mental patterns; all that time catching glimpses of those other minds—and all of it was nothing compared to what he’s seeing now: Haskell’s burning in his brain. He can’t help but draw back in pure astonishment.
“You’re beautiful,” he mutters.
“Shut the hell up,” she says.
“I mean it.”
“Said the boy who cried wolf and kept on crying. They’re operating on my fucking mind again, and you’re the one who started it.”
“I—wanted to have you for myself.”
“You never will.”
“I get that now.”
“Then you also get that you’re not getting out of this one.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I don’t believe this,” she snarls. “You’re out cold on that floor—Riley just prodded your face with his fucking boot—and you’re still convinced you’re walking out of here.”
“Because they need me,” says the Operative.
“For one last service,” she replies.
And then he’s history,” says Maschler. “He’ll walk into Szilard’s ship while you fly shotgun via your amplifier.”
“My what?” asks Haskell.
“Your body,” says Riley, gesturing at her.
“You mean my new one.”
“Yours all along,” says Maschler. “It’s got your DNA.”
“Who grew it?”
“Montrose,” says Riley.
“How did she get my specifications?”
“She got into Sinclair’s files way back.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“We’re the lords of information. Why act so surprised?”
“Because you’re fucking crazy,” says Haskell. “You’ve only got whatever Sinclair wanted you to—”
“More theories,” says Maschler.
“Said the man whose boss tried to build another Manilishi.”
“Relax,” says Riley. “All we have is you.”
“Why I said tried.”
So how are we gonna do this?” says Linehan
“We’re already halfway there, man.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Them,” says Lynx—waves a languid hand at the sleepers all around.
“I’m not following.”
“That’s ’cause you’re not listening. These guys thought they’d gotten the long ticket, but now they’re our ticket to the real show.”
“How’s that?”
“Their life-support systems are run by this ship’s mainframe.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” says Lynx. He fingers a wire almost lovingly. “From where I sidestep into the security databases.”
“Nice one,” says Linehan.
“Szilard will find it less enthralling,” says Lynx.
So how are we going to hit that cockpit?” asks Sarmax. Jarvin looks at him. “How were you guys figuring on doing it?”
Sarmax looks at Spencer. “How were we figuring?”
“Fucked if I know. There’s no way in.”
Jarvin laughs. “That’s why you had to come to me.”
“All right, asshole,” says Sarmax. “How are we getting in?”
“By staying in plain sight.”
They’re going to have you just walk in there,” she says.
“I realize that,” he replies.
But what he hadn’t realized was the path that InfoCom devised to thread the SpaceCom needle. He only got it just now. He’s going to walk in there, all right. But he’s not going to be alone.
“I’m coming with you,” says Haskell.
“One last time,” he replies.
It’s all he can hope for, really. He’s still out like a light, and her voice is the only contact he’s got with anything outside the island of his own mind. But that voice keeps on wavering in clarity, like a radio signal shifting across frequencies. The Operative thinks of Maschler tuning the dials, thinks of the creature called Control messing with Haskell’s brain.
“They’re killing all their birds with one stone,” he says.
“A page from your playbook,” she replies.
Not that the Operative needs to be informed of that. Uncovering something’s true capabilities means you have to push that thing to its limits. Which presumably is precisely what Stephanie Montrose is doing right now. Her servants are going to turn the Manilishi inside out while Haskell’s mind rides shotgun on the run on Szilard.
“Along with this body,” says Haskell.
Exactly,” says Maschler.
He’s looking down at her the way a doctor might look on a particularly problematic patient. The furrows on his brow are making his eyebrows do strange things.
“You’re Carson’s ticket onto the Redeemer,” he adds. “Szilard’s new flagship.”
“A step down from the Montana.”
“Or a step up,” says Maschler. “The Redeemer’s one of the Class V colony ships.”
She mulls that over.
“One of the fully loaded colony ships,” adds Riley.
“Damn,” she says.
“Szilard’s the man with the plan,” says Maschler.
Riley snorts. “He could be Noah to his own little ark if he had to.”
“Except he’s not going to,” she says.
“He won’t need to,” says Maschler. “Our best estimate is that the combined strength of lunar gunnery and the L2 fleet will take down those Eurasian megaships.”
Riley coughs. “After which we’ll just have to see how much we have left to deal with the rest of the Eastern forces coming up the gravity well behind them.”
“None of which is Szilard’s problem,” says Maschler.
“Given that he’ll be dead by then,” says Riley.
Haskell looks puzzled. “So what’s the story that Montrose has fed Szilard to get him to open up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Carson shows up on a flight from Congreve carrying the Manilishi, along with a little note from Montrose that she’s managed to clone the most powerful weapon ever built and
here it is and go knock yourself out?”
Maschler laughs. “Not quite.”
Lynx pulls the wires away from his head in a single stroke. “Let’s go,” he says, gesturing at the panel he’s slid from the wall.
“That looks like a tight fit,” says Linehan.
“Less so for me,” says Lynx, disappearing through the hole. Linehan pulls his way in after him—finds himself in a narrow space that seems to parallel the walls of the room they’ve just left. He follows Lynx, pushing through wires like they’re undergrowth in a jungle.
“The support systems around the sleepers,” says Lynx. “Try not to damage anything. We’re trying to keep a low profile.”
Linehan’s hoping that Lynx has got any alarms covered. The razor’s small enough to sidle through the narrow space. The mech’s a different story. Wires are getting torn. Circuitry’s getting shredded.
“Tell me we’re getting somewhere,” he mutters.
“I am,” says Lynx. “But you’d better pick up the pace.”
But that’s tough when wires are all Linehan can see. He shoves through them, thinking back to some scene in some book some girl told him about a long time ago. Some children were wandering in a closet and came out into some other land. Linehan can relate. He feels like he’s stepped into some other world himself these last few days. Seasoned wet-ops specialist, seen-and-done-it-all, wham-bam-thanks-man Linehan, the legend of the SpaceCom hard corps—and then suddenly he got launched against the Rain and propelled into a brand-new life. Linehan gets that lives like that don’t last. Ayahuasca’s afterglow reinforces the point, confirms it. Existence is moving toward some climax he won’t survive. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to. And now he’s emerging from the wires …
“Holy fuck,” he says.
“It gets even better,” says Lynx.
The special liaison of the Praesidium has left his quarters and is proceeding toward the cockpit of the Hammer of the Skies. He didn’t have a bodyguard when he got on, but he’s got two of them now. Zone is showing they were aboard already. Working undercover, all with the highest possible clearance: Jarvin, Spencer, and Sarmax have gone up three levels of ladders, taken an elevator up another ten floors. Now they’re approaching the elevator banks that are one of only two routes leading to the cockpit. A mixture of Chinese and Russian soldiers cluster around those banks. They’re obviously on high alert. They seem to be as busy watching one another as those who approach.
The Machinery of Light ar-3 Page 12
