The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  “And this is the woman who stole the presidency.”

  “This isn’t about who’s president,” snaps Montrose. “It’s about our country.”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “Exactly. We’re losing this war.”

  “And you’re the one who had to go and start it.”

  You want me to bag Szilard,” says the Operative.

  “Think of it as your greatest hit,” says Riley.

  Lunar horizon’s dropping away from the window. The Operative exhales slowly, getting ready to move fast if he has to.

  “So what happened to the real guys?” The asks.

  “The real who?”

  “The real Riley. The real Maschler.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play stupid with—”

  “Relax,” says Riley. “They never knew what hit ’em.”

  Maschler scoffs. “And why are you asking such silly questions?”

  “Was that you back at the Elevator, or was that them?”

  “Us. They’d already been taken care of.”

  “You were riding shotgun on me that whole time.”

  “We were watching you strut your stuff,” says Maschler.

  “Did all the work for us and then some,” adds Riley.

  “Fuck,” says the Operative.

  “It’s all good,” says Maschler. “We hung around the Moon and did some odd jobs these last few days.”

  “Prepping the ground for the chief whore?”

  “Ain’t no need to get snippy,” says Riley.

  “We just haul the mail,” says Maschler.

  “Then you’d better start looking at the big picture. The East is coming to bash your skulls out.”

  “We’ve got the high ground, Carson. Those barbarians are about to get blasted back down the well.”

  “They’ve won unless you can switch the Manilishi on.”

  “Well, see, that’s all on the boss. She’ll find a way.”

  “You really think so?”

  “She’s a clever one,” says Maschler.

  “Not so clever playing with the Lizard.”

  “She had to do the dance,” says Riley.

  “She’d better know when the music stops,” says the Operative.

  “That’d be when you reach L2,” says Maschler.

  Montrose gestures at one of the screens behind her. The screen splits in two. Each half shows one of the massive Eurasian ships.

  “Take a look at those things,” she says.

  Haskell’s looking. “How big are they?” she asks.

  “Two klicks long. Tungsten armor. As well as—”

  “Pulse-detonation engines,” says Haskell. “Nuclear warheads as fuel.”

  Montrose nods. “You see what we’re up against.” She gestures at one of her staff, and the view on the screen expands to take in the larger perspective—a vast armada, rising out of the gravity well. Set against the shadow of the Earth, the ships of the East look almost like phosphorescence glimmering beneath the sea. And it’s almost like Montrose’s voice is a wave rolling in from those depths …

  “Our lower orbit position is a total shambles,” she says hollowly. “North America is shattered.”

  “And our defenses up in the geo?”

  “Won’t last long.”

  “So you’ve lost the planet.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I’m not sure I can help,” says Haskell slowly.

  Montrose gazes at her evenly. “I’ve already had the Praetorians purged. All the president’s men and then some. More than ten thousand executed in the last two hours and you’re welcome to join them.”

  “Cut the shit, Stephanie. We both know you’re not going to do that.”

  A flicker of a smile. “Want to bet?”

  “What’s the point? You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and you’re not going to pass up any opportunity to get yourself off the hook. You’re dreaming if you think I’m going to cozy up to you—”

  “But you could do it,” says Montrose, and buried deep in her voice Haskell can hear the faint stirrings of a plea. “Don’t deny it. You could hack them, Claire. You could save our lunar forces—”

  “Maybe. If the East’s ships are even hackable. Have you been trying?”

  “There’s so much interference we can’t get through.”

  “And you think I can?”

  “I don’t know what you can do, Claire. And I don’t think you do either. But we can plug you into the systems and see.”

  “With your failsafes keeping an eye on me.”

  “You won’t even notice them.”

  “Damn right I won’t notice them. I’ve been down this road before and I know where it fucking leads. That’s why I’m staying right where you’ve been keeping me. Right inside my skull. Because it sure as shit beats serving you.”

  “Goddammit,” says Montrose. “I already told you, this isn’t about me. This is about our nation’s darkest hour—”

  “Which happened decades ago when scum like you stuck a knife into the heart of America. Snuffed out what was left of the republic and sold our people down the fucking river—”

  “Don’t you dare talk about our people,” snarls Montrose. “Not when you’re willing to stand by while they’re condemned to slavery—”

  “They’re slaves already. Slaves of you, slaves of the East—what’s the fucking difference in the end?”

  “Just because they couldn’t govern themselves doesn’t mean we weren’t in the right to rule them. To save them. They’re dying, Claire.”

  “Let them die,” says Haskell. “All they wanted to do was watch war on the vid. Now war’s hit them where it hurts. Ever hear of the chickens coming home to roost?”

  “You’re talking like a traitor.”

  “Said the woman who had the president butchered. It’s all total shit, and you’re all going to be swept away when I get out of here—”

  “Enough,” says Montrose. She signals to a technician. “We’ll find the lever that moves you or we’ll break you trying.”

  “Good luck with that,” mutters Haskell.

  The screens within her flare with unearthly light.

  And then it’s as though she’s falling down some long dark tunnel, as though she’s been falling all her life and then some, as though she’s never going to be doing anything else, as though she never ever wanted to. Static surrounds her, assails her, beats against her. But up ahead a light’s growing. She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t want to. She’s praying to God that she won’t reach it. She’s cursing God for doing this to her—even though she knows she’s the only one worth cursing. The light’s growing all around her, shredding all the darkness. Thermal bloom blossoms toward the brightness of the sun.

  But then static resolves into laughter that doesn’t even sound unkind. She feels a presence close at hand. Even though she still can’t see a thing.

  “Show yourself,” she demands.

  “That would be tough,” says a voice.

  It’s not a voice she’s heard before. It sounds like it’s right next to her. Sounds like it’s amused. She’s anything but.

  “Goddammit,” she says. “Tell me who you are.”

  “What would be a better question,” says the voice.

  “Shit,” she mutters. “You’re—”

  “A creature of many names.”

  “Name one.”

  “We’ll start with Control.”

  Moonscape keeps on falling away. Horizon curves past it. Lights keep on flaring out in space. The Operative stretches. He’s doing his best to look more relaxed than he feels.

  “So are you man enough to nail him?” asks Riley.

  “A loaded question,” says the Operative.

  “You’re the best assassin we’ve got,” says Maschler.

  “So what if I am?” says the Operative.

  “So the boss can’t relax wit
h you prowling around the Moon.”

  “I’ve been loyal to—”

  “Yourself,” says Riley. “So cut the shit.”

  “Though it’s not like we can blame you for playing your own angles,” says Maschler. “Who would have thought a supercomputer would come in such a tasty little package? You could practically wrap a bow on her and—”

  “Careful,” says the Operative.

  “Easy, Carson.” Riley grins. “It’s just us guys now.”

  “And we’ve got some time to kill,” says Maschler.

  “Interesting choice of words,” says the Operative.

  I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Claire.”

  Haskell can well believe it. She’s heard about Control: the machine that’s Stephanie Montrose’s prime razor—and that had more than a little to do with the machinations that brought down Andrew Harrison. Because Control’s specialty is intrigue.

  And interrogation.

  “I wish I could say the same,” she says.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Control’s voice is smooth. “You’ve got every reason to hold your head high.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve followed your career for a long time. Who would have thought you would execute it with such aplomb?”

  “I’m not into rhetorical questions.”

  “You’ll miss them when I get to the real ones.”

  She nods. She’s thinking fast. Control has her in a zone-lock. If there are any ways out of here, he’s got a hold on them. But she’s not ready to have him turn her inside out. She’s not going to go down without a fight—

  “I expect you to,” says Control.

  “To what?”

  “Fight.”

  “You can read my mind?”

  “I’m inside it already, aren’t I?”

  “But not all of it.”

  “That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

  “So what if I don’t resist?”

  “Then I’ll have you all the quicker. This isn’t about resistance, Claire. This is about the puzzle that’s your mind. Which my lady Montrose has charged me with unlocking.”

  “You’re not the first to try.”

  “I’ll settle for being the last. Shall we begin?”

  “I thought we already had.”

  Laughter rises up to swamp her.

  The shuttle’s risen past the outermost of the Congreve traffic zones. Maschler’s working the controls. The ship lurches as more engines fire. Suddenly the Moon’s moving away at speed.

  “Express haul,” says the Operative.

  “It’s still going to take a few hours,” says Riley.

  “So let’s cut to the chase,” says Maschler. “Montrose knew what you were up to from the start.”

  “Did she really.”

  “For sure.”

  “How?”

  “Fuck’s sake man, you were too good to be true. Praetorian traitor willing to turn over the keys to Harrison’s back door and bag the Manilishi while he was at it?”

  “It was true.”

  “But not the whole story.”

  “Is it ever?”

  “Look at him,” says Riley. “Like the cat that ate the canary. I think he still thinks he can beat us.”

  “Is that true?” asks Maschler. “You still believe that, Carson?”

  “I think you guys are getting ahead of yourselves.”

  “You’re the one who’s done that. By thinking that the fact that you’re Autumn Rain makes you invincible.”

  “I’m not exactly Autumn Rain—”

  “You’re not exactly anything,” says Riley.

  “Neither fish nor fowl,” says Maschler. “How does it feel to be a prototype, Carson?”

  “Never had much to compare it to,” says the Operative.

  We’ll start with some control questions.”

  “That’s fitting,” says Haskell.

  Control ignores the barb. “With whom am I talking?”

  “Claire Hask—” but as she says the words, pain boils up from within her, engulfs her in agony. She knows she should be screaming, but she can’t. She can’t even move her jaw. Can’t close her eyes either—all she can do is stare transfixed at the featureless light shimmering around her as fire sears across her nerves.

  And subsides.

  “Wrong answer,” says Control.

  “Fucking bastard,” she says.

  “What I am is incidental. What matters is what you are.”

  “I’m Claire Hask—”

  More pain. Control’s voice seeps slowly through:

  “We might agree to call you Claire for the sake of convenience. But what you really are is Manilishi.”

  She says nothing.

  “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s right.”

  “And what is Manilishi?”

  “Isn’t that the big question—”

  “I’m not asking for the full answer,” snaps Control. “You don’t know. I realize that. That makes two of us. Just tell me what you do know.”

  “I’m a biocomputer able to perform hacks faster than the speed of light.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Control says nothing.

  “I don’t know,” she repeats. “I’ve tried—”

  “So what would you guess?”

  “I’d guess retrocausality.”

  “I’d say we can do more than guess.”

  “Signals from the future,” she mutters.

  “Could there be another explanation?”

  “It’s not much of a fucking explanation.”

  “Then perhaps we should think of it as a start.”

  So let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” says Riley. “You and Sarmax and Lynx were the first out of the gate, but—”

  “What is this, true confessions?”

  “Call it what you like,” says Maschler.

  “You’re beaming everything I say back to Montrose.”

  “So what if we are?”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  Maschler laughs. “I think you overestimate the smoothness of your tongue.”

  “Not to mention our ability to get her on the line,” adds Riley.

  “She’s too busy losing the final war, huh?”

  “Take it like a man,” says Maschler. “Can’t talk to the judge after she’s handed down the verdict, can you?”

  “She’s under no illusions,” says Riley. “She took your measure, Carson. Overmighty subject plotting for the day when—”

  “I’m not sure I’d agree with the word subject.”

  “And therein lies the problem,” says Maschler. “No one who became the Rain ever did.”

  “Only three people ever became the Rain,” says the Operative.

  Riley shrugs. “An imprecise term,” he says. “But I think we’re on the same page. The danger of creating the ultimate hit team, eh? Three were modified and the rest were born to it—engineered from the very start—but all of them shared the same lust to dominate all else. And all of them went through a similar process. One that—”

  “Linked minds,” says the Operative.

  “And how much do you know about the actual process?” asks Riley.

  The Operative laughs. “Only one man knows what counts.”

  It starts with Matthew Sinclair,” says Haskell.

  “Of course it does,” replies Control.

  “He set it all in motion.”

  “But what was all of it?”

  She hesitates. “That’s a control question?”

  “I daresay we’re starting to move beyond them.”

  She shrugs. The light around her seems to be shifting as though it’s water—like waves rising and receding, but it’s still as opaque as ever. She glances down at her hands and wonders what’s happened to her real body—wonders if she’s being operated on
in a far more comprehensive fashion than Carson attempted. Perhaps her flesh has already been disposed of. Perhaps it was never that critical anyway. Maybe Montrose and her AI jackal have managed to figure out the part of her that really matters. Or maybe—

  “Sinclair said something to me once.”

  “You sure it was him?”

  She ignores this. “He told me that every cell of me computes.”

  “Are you asking if we’ve carved you up yet?”

  “I guess so,” she says.

  “We’re keeping our options open.”

  “Great.”

  “Though perhaps your options are foreclosed, no? With information from the future tossed into the mix, who knows what the ramifications upon the present are?”

  “It’s all tactical,” she says. “Short-range. I’ve got maybe a second or so advantage when I’m running hacks and that’s—”

  “Still more than enough to allow you to lacerate any normal razor. And yet you protest too much, Claire. Your intuition extends out farther than your hacks, doesn’t it? Glimpses, visions, premonitions—call them what you will. What’s the mechanism in your mind that drives it? What’s the conceptual paradigm behind it? Advanced Wheeler-Feynman waves? Sarfatti’s back-action?”

  “If I knew that, then I’d—”

  “Nor can we just look at you in isolation,” says Control, ignoring her. “We have to strive for an integrated framework, no? So take it from the top: Sinclair experiments with something that involves, among other things, retrocausality and telepathy. We don’t know the extent to which the processes that underpin these phenomena are related, but you seem to be the primary focus for the former. As to the latter: he takes the three best Praetorian operatives and flatlines them—we don’t know for how long or under what conditions—and then zaps them into life again. Only now they’ve got some kind of connection, albeit not a particularly refined one. They can only coordinate in the crudest of fashions—”

  “It’s still mind reading,” she says.

  “Of course it is. Even if Carson and Lynx and Sarmax can do little more than sense one anothers’ presence, it’s still mindreading. And yet still nothing compared to what the second batch could do. The core of Autumn Rain. Thirty men and women who were bred in the same vat and who came into the world fully linked. Except for—”

  “Me and Marlowe.”

  “And now Marlowe’s no longer a factor.”

  “Not that he ever really was,” she says ruefully.

  “Indeed. He was merely the device via which you were bound to your brethren. Whereas you were the key to the whole situation.”