The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  It’s unmistakable. A new factor’s entered the equation. Something’s bringing long-range fire to bear upon the L2 fleet above them. And from the look of the emissions now lacerating the vacuum, those shots are coming all the way from—

  “Earth,” says Haskell.

  The shit going on overhead is invisible to the naked eye. But no one uses those anymore anyway—it’s all enhanced vision and extended wavelengths now. The sky is almost caked with fire. Shots slam against L2’s dreadnaughts even as they return the favor.

  “The East is bouncing DE off our nearside mirrors,” says Haskell.

  “Of course,” says Carson. She’s propped up next to him in the cockpit. He’s injected her with something that makes it tough to feel her flesh. Everything’s gone all fuzzy. But her mind’s working on overdrive all the same.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  Lynx isn’t one to miss an opportunity—his mind shoulders the pilots aside, seizes key software nodes in the cockpit, and sets the controls to send the corvette skimming past the nearest dreadnaught and straight at the converted colony ship that’s just beyond it. Both those ships have other shit to worry about right now—like the fact that they’re being shelled from the other side of the Earth-Moon system. Disorder hits the L2 fleet as it struggles to react to the new threat. The corvette plunges in toward the colony ship, which fills the screens as the pilots struggle desperately to regain control. Lynx hasn’t the slightest intention of letting them do so.

  Clearing ten thousand meters,” says Spencer.

  “Roger that,” says Sarmax.

  The coast of Asia is passing beneath them. The vid-feeds show the chaos that’s gripped the Chinese cities across the last hour. The American attack has punctured the Eastern def-grids in multiple places and left the population centers helpless.

  “They’re still intact,” breathes Spencer.

  “Exactly,” says Sarmax.

  The logic’s plain enough. Why wipe out cities when you can tip them into anarchy instead? The electric grids are gone. The zone’s fucked. Spencer and Sarmax gaze on pure pandemonium in the streets of New Shanghai and all its brethren. The occasional DE blast from the American satellites overhead has only added to the madness.

  “Not gonna distract the East that much,” says Spencer.

  “But every little bit helps.”

  Meaning that every military resource the Coalition had in its megacities has been totally preoccupied. Meaning there’s been that much more that the East’s command structure has had to worry about. But now the tide is turning. The fleet that’s just over a minute into its ascent is spreading out around all sides of the Hammer, all ships careful not to stray within the fiery clouds of the behemoth’s exhaust. Yet Spencer can see that he hasn’t been thinking big enough all the same …

  “Fuck,” he says.

  “Hello,” says Sarmax.

  Off to the north: Hammer of the Skies has a twin. With its own fleet spread out around it. Combined, the carpet of Eurasian ships extends for several hundred klicks in all directions. An armada the likes of which the world has never seen—and Spencer can only imagine what it must look like from the American positions in low-orbit.

  Blotting out the fucking planet,” she mutters.

  “I see it,” he says.

  The camera-feeds they’re hacking into go out. Haskell can’t tell whether they got destroyed or whether she’s just lost zone-contact with what’s going on closer to the Earth. There’s enough shit going down that the answer could be both. Though the lunar portion of it still seems to be holding up. Congreve sprawls on the horizon, drifting ever closer. It looks almost serene from up here.

  Haskell’s mind is anything but. She turns toward Carson—is surprised to find she can move her neck far enough to do so. He glances at her while he works the craft’s controls.

  “Don’t say it,” he says.

  “How do you know what I’m about to say?”

  “Because you never could fool me.”

  “You’re saying you can read minds too?”

  “I’m saying we have a connection.”

  She almost smiles at that, shakes her head.

  “Why did you join with Sinclair?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “He’s going to eat you alive.”

  “He’ll choke if he tries that.”

  The corvette veers and yaws, partially the result of the struggle for control within its systems, but also a function of the evasive maneuvers that Lynx is putting it through. But the colony ship is almost on them; Lynx reaches out, commandeering that ship’s emergency docking procedures. Hangar doors open on the colony ship as the corvette streaks into the outer hangars—plowing through into the inner hangars—

  They’re way out over ocean now, gaining height on a trajectory that will cross the coast of North America within the minute. Spencer feels himself shaken ever harder as the Hammer accelerates, spitting out incrementally larger bombs that send it streaking over the eastern Pacific. Directed energy is striking the hull from every direction, though it doesn’t stand much chance of getting through several layers of tungsten hull.

  “They can’t touch this,” says Sarmax.

  Not by a long shot. Spencer can see that the Hammer’s twin is keeping pace, a hundred klicks north and slightly higher. He zeroes in on it while Sarmax watches over his virtual shoulder.

  “We got a name on that thing?”

  “Righteous Fire-Dragon,” says Spencer.

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “I’m guessing it sounds better in Chinese.”

  “Wonder if it’s exclusively theirs.”

  “Probably divvied up the same as this one.”

  “Doesn’t matter as long as they get to beat up on the Yanks.”

  “Speaking of—”

  Sarmax nods. The coast of California sweeps toward them.

  Two people in a room that comprises their whole ship. There’s so much history between them it threatens to swamp the here and now. But that just seems to amuse Carson. Which pisses off Haskell even more. Especially when they’re talking about the one man who no one’s seen for far too long.

  “Sinclair had me train you for a reason,” says Carson.

  “Did he arrange for you to fuck me too?”

  “Who’s to say I can’t have ideas of my own?”

  “Don’t start that again,” she snaps. “I was in love with Jason.”

  “Only because you could no longer have me.”

  Haskell turns to look back out the window. Congreve’s filling most of it now. Most of the dome’s dark. But lights blink throughout the spaceport that sits atop it. She turns back toward Carson.

  “If I wanted you, it was only because I was rigged that way.”

  “But what about now?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “For me, it was the only thing that did.”

  “You are such a fucking liar.”

  He looks at her for a moment like she’s never seen him look. “That’d make all this a lot easier.”

  “You’re even more cold-blooded than Sinclair.”

  “Not so cold as to not see that we’re two of a kind.”

  “You and Sinclair?”

  “You and me.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Already did.”

  “What?”

  “I trained you for ten years. Watched you grow up. C’mon, Claire. How could I not have fallen for you just a little along the way?”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Fine. It’s bullshit.”

  “You murdered Andrew Harrison.”

  “I’ve murdered a lot of people.”

  She raises an eyebrow. He laughs, but it’s not really laughter. “And I had to make it look like I was being played by Montrose. Had to say what she needed to hear.”

  “You were about to deliver me into her hands.”

  “I was going to break you out later.�
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  “That is so much shit.”

  “Is it? How can I afford to let anyone else possess—”

  “Exactly. That word.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “You’ve fucking injected me with a paralyzing—”

  “It’s worn off.”

  “What?”

  “Try it.”

  And she does. She’s moving. In the zone as well: the shackles are starting to fall from her mind. She runs sequences as Carson brings the craft down toward a landing.

  “I could crush you now,” she says.

  “I’m betting you won’t.”

  Or has he rigged her to preclude that? Is this all part of his latest game? She starts checking over her systems as the craft touches down—which is when the InfoCom special-ops team that has been staking out this area of the spaceport switches on its lights. Blinding glare pervades the cockpit. The ping of sonic targeting echoes through the ship.

  “Fuck,” says Carson. “They’re—”

  “Off the zone,” she snarls. “You planned this.”

  “I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “Then let’s get the fuck out of—”

  “We’ve got to make it look like you’re still my captive,” says the Operative—and switches Haskell’s zone-restraints back on.

  She stares at him. “You sick little fuck—”

  “Sorry, Claire,” says Carson—hits another switch; Haskell convulses—just as the door to the pod gets yanked open by a man wearing a colonel’s uniform. Carson stands up, pulling at Haskell.

  “I need you to take us to Montrose,” he says.

  “You’re no longer giving orders,” says the colonel.

  Now that’s what I call a landing,” says Linehan.

  “Shut up,” says Lynx.

  But neither man’s pressing the point. They’ve already put what’s left of the corvette behind them. They’re both feeling lucky to be alive. Though Linehan has his doubts about how much longer that’s going to last. Because surely any moment this whole ship will …

  “He can’t,” says Lynx.

  “What?”

  “This ship. Szilard can’t blow it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s one of the largest in his fleet.”

  “You’re talking about the man who nuked his own flagship,” says Linehan.

  “Back when he was winning the fucking war.”

  Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon synchronize their assaults. Doors open all along their hulls; both ships start laying down a carpet of bombs as they rise through the heart of the defenses above the American homeland, their accompanying fleets following them in swarms that stretch halfway back across the Pacific.

  “Surprised they’d lead with explosives,” says Spencer.

  “They’re just softening the joint up.”

  And then some. Most of the bombs are getting nailed by ground-based DE. But those that remain are detonating—

  “Holy fuck,” says Spencer.

  “Xasers,” mutters Sarmax.

  The ultimate directed-energy weapon: warheads that channel the X rays of their nuclear explosions into a lethal rain of invisible fire that’s wreaking utter havoc on the def-grids. The ships coming in behind start flinging down hails of nukes. The American cities are going dark.

  “Fuck me,” says Spencer.

  “Those lights won’t be coming on again,” says Sarmax.

  The fleets accelerate toward orbit.

  PART II

  APOGEE

  The Operative’s about as furious as he’s ever been. He’s being hustled through the Congreve spaceport, and his escorts are making sure nobody’s getting near him. They’re refusing to tell him where he’s going. Montrose won’t take his calls. The president has clearly decided that there’s no compelling reason to have him anywhere near her HQ. He wonders if he’s being hauled away to execution. He’s looking for the moment to try something along the way.

  But they enter another hangar before he can act. A shuttle sits in the center, prepping for launch. He’s hustled in toward it. The pilots are standing on a ramp, conferring with mechanics. The Operative thinks there’s something familiar about those pilots, but it’s not until one of them turns toward him that he knows for sure.

  Haskell’s coming to her senses. They don’t amount to much. Her head hurts. She’s on her back, restrained, in another train moving down another track. The only difference is that the heavily armed soldiers standing along the walls are American. An InfoCom colonel stands next to her.

  “Awake at last,” he says. “Just in time to see the president—”

  “—go fuck herself?”

  “She’ll want you to be more articulate than that.”

  “She can want all she likes.”

  “I’d be careful about pissing her off.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “She’s in a pretty bad mood right now.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You don’t need to imagine anything. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  She stares up at him. “What’s your part in all this anyway?”

  “I’m a loyal servant of the president.”

  “That’s a role that’s going out of fashion.”

  He shrugs, turns away.

  Carson,” says Riley.

  “Been too long,” says Maschler.

  “Indeed,” says the Operative. He’s trying not to look surprised. Trying to make it look like he knew this was going to happen—like he knew he was going to run smack into the men who ferried him off Earth all those days ago when that Elevator blew and set this all in motion. “You guys been staying out of trouble?”

  “We’ve been staying off Earth,” says Maschler.

  “And that’s fine by us,” adds Riley.

  They look at one another.

  “How soon do we leave?” asks the Operative.

  “That’d be now,” says one of the soldiers.

  The train’s slowing to a halt. Doors hiss open. Haskell’s guards steer her gurney onto a platform, through more doors and into an elevator. She feels her stomach lurch as she drops at speed through the shaft. She’s estimating she’s now a couple of klicks beneath the level of the train, which was nowhere near the surface to begin with.

  The doors open. Haskell’s pushed out, down another corridor, up a ramp to a massive pair of blast doors. More InfoCom soldiers stand in front of them. Haskell’s escorts halt.

  “Now what?” she says.

  “Now we leave you,” says the colonel.

  “You mean you don’t make the cut?”

  “I follow orders,” he says in a tone that says maybe it’s time you started doing the same. But Haskell says nothing. The colonel gestures to his soldiers and leads them back down the corridor while the blast-door guards scan Haskell. They wear the uniforms of Montrose’s bodyguards.

  “Can’t be too careful,” she says.

  They ignore her, standing back as the doors swing open. Haskell watches as the space behind them becomes visible—

  “Huh,” she says.

  She’s looking down five more meters of corridor, at an even larger set of blast-doors. The bodyguards push her toward them, stop. As soon as the outer doors behind them close, the soldiers go to town, stripping Haskell down to her skin. Their eyes go wide as they see how that skin’s been marred—covered with half-healed scars of endless intricacy.

  “Who did this?” asks one of them.

  “That’d be me,” she says.

  Back when she was trying to map out the vectors of Autumn Rain’s zone attacks. Now she’s got it all figured out. Though maybe it’s too late anyway. The soldiers get busy lacing her with IVs, transferring her to another gurney and rigging her in yet another suit of specialized armor. They position the suit so that now she’s upright.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  The inner doors slide open.

  Congreve’s dropping away. The eng
ines of the shuttle continue to throttle up. The Operative shakes his head.

  “You’re InfoCom agents,” he says.

  “Imagine that,” says Riley.

  “Reporting directly to Montrose?”

  Maschler laughs. “And all the time the man thought we were slumming it.”

  “Because you do it so well,” says the Operative.

  “Easy now,” says Riley. “It’s all just business, right?”

  “Going to tell me where we’re going?” asks the Operative.

  “L2.”

  The Operative furrows his brow. “SpaceCom territory.”

  “Sure,” says Riley.

  “And if I try anything?”

  “Try anything you like,” says Maschler. He smiles—arches one of those bushy eyebrows. “If this ship deviates in its course, it gets taken out.”

  “Thought you might say that.”

  “So you may as well make yourself comfortable,” says Riley.

  The Operative’s got a little too much on his mind for that. He knows that Montrose is moving him as far away from the action as possible. L2’s the last place he wants to be right now. That is, other than in a ship that might blow to hell at any moment …

  “Relax,” says Maschler. “If she were gonna do you, she would have just done it back at Congreve.”

  “Besides,” says Riley, “you’re too important.”

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “You’ve got a new mission.”

  “Which is?”

  They don’t take their eyes off him, but both men are laughing in a way that makes it clear they’re both sharing the same joke. And now the Operative gets it too.

  The American command center is a series of rooms that open into one another. Screens line the walls. Equipment’s everywhere. Haskell’s guards wheel her forward, maneuvering her down narrow aisles lined with consoles and seated technicians. No one pays her any attention. Apparently they’ve got other things on their mind. The atmosphere’s thick with tension. Haskell’s feeling the same way herself. She’s wheeled up a ramp and onto a raised area that presides over the lower levels beneath. More bodyguards eye her. Stephanie Montrose turns from a conversation she’s having with a member of her staff and regards Haskell with cold curiosity.

  “So this is the famous Manilishi,” she says.