But Haskell is barely listening. She’s too busy getting cranked up to new heights. She doesn’t want to go there, but she’s being rushed toward them by Control’s implacable grip. She feels herself opening out toward the universe. Other minds glimmer here and there: Carson in the shuttle that’s almost docked; another mind deeper within Szilard’s flagship. Still other minds seem to be present at L5, but they’re more opaque—as though they’re being shielded. She can guess by what. Even if she can’t see it anymore, she can still feel that monstrous presence lurking out there, practically screaming at her intuition. The heart of L5: and she wonders how Matthew Sinclair plans to deal with millions of tons of Eurasian steel—wonders, too, who’s really in control of that steel now. She feels herself surging ever higher. The parameters for the run on Szilard click in around her, incandescent matrices flaring out toward infinity. She takes the whole thing in—draws back from what’s being asked of her …
“Begin,” says Montrose.
Not bad,” says the Operative.
“That’s all you can say?” asks Maschler.
“Nothing rattles our Carson,” says Riley.
The Operative shrugs. He’s in this way too deep to waste time gawking at the sight in the windows, impressive though it may be: the Redeemer spans almost half a klick, gunnery flaring all along its length. Beyond them the Operative can see a swathe of ships, a blaze of fire—and yet all of it a mere fraction of the fleet that lies beyond.
“The ramparts of L2,” says Maschler.
“For now,” says the Operative—and takes in the aft-bay hangar toward which the shuttle’s descending. Massive doors start to swing open. Light gleams from within.
“Good luck,” says Maschler.
“Fuck you very much,” says the Operative.
You’d better give me data,” says Linehan.
“What kind?” asks Lynx.
“I was thinking the blueprint of this ship.”
Lynx looks at him. Linehan does what he can to meet the man’s stare. Which is tough because Lynx’s eyes keep shimmering. The walls of this tiny room keep getting closer to one another. Linehan’s guessing that has a lot more to do with whatever’s going on in his own head than with anything that passes for objective reality. One more reason why he’s angling to get a better view …
“Why the fuck would I want to give you that?” asks Lynx.
“We’re about to move in on Szilard, right?”
“Fuck, you’re quick.”
“And you’re fucking not,” says Linehan. “Say we get separated? What then?”
“If we get separated, we’re fucked anyway—”
“You mean I’m fucked.”
“So?”
“So why make it easy for them? C’mon, man, you know I’m a one-man wrecking ball. And if the mission’s going south, I gotta have as much data as possible so I can keep doing as much damage as possible. What’s the downside to that?”
Lynx says nothing. Linehan warms to the point.
“At the very least, I’d be creating that much more havoc for you to pull some shit. Why let them trap me in a dead-end—”
“Fine,” says Lynx, “you win.”
“Cool,” says Linehan—data starts pouring into his skull. He watches grids of elevators and passages and crawlspaces coalesce around him, watches as they keep on stacking in upon one another—along with his own position, halfway between the outer and inner perimeters that have been set up around the heart of Szilard’s defenses in the core of the Redeemer. Linehan exhales slowly.
“So where exactly is the big cheese himself?” he asks.
“Patience,” says Lynx.
Three men in one of two Eurasian megaships hurtling toward the libration point that has been an American possession for more than fifty years. They’re moving through the ship’s shafts, away from the elevators that lead to the cockpit, looking for some kind of backup plan, feeling themselves subjected to intense scrutiny. Partially because the only people moving during transit are those who have to. But also …
“I’m surprised the cockpit hasn’t issued a warrant for our arrest,” says Spencer.
“Actually,” says Jarvin, “it just did.”
“Fuck,” says Sarmax.
“What did it say?” asks Spencer.
“That we were American spies.”
“Yikes. You suppressed it?”
“On the zone, yeah. But I can’t do so for much longer. They’ll figure out what’s happening and launch a manhunt.”
“So where are we gonna hide?” asks Spencer.
“In the cockpit,” says Jarvin.
Haskell takes it all in. She feels like a skier at the top of a vast hill—only one direction to go, and ready to maneuver as fast as possible. She feels everything closing in around her—feels reality collapsing in upon a single point. She observes Control moving in behind her—can see Montrose somewhere beyond that. Coordinates mesh as she moves toward the L2 fleet. The Redeemer clicks in around her, a vast cage of lights—
The Operative climbs back down to the cargo bay—moves through to the adjunct bay beyond that. The sarcophagus is closed, though all vital signs still check out, indicating the flesh within is functioning just fine. The Operative braces himself, feels the ship shudder as it docks, followed by a muffled clanking as the locks slide into place. The floor beneath him starts to sink. He holds himself steady, then keys the intercom to the cockpit.
“What about a suit?” he asks.
“What about it?” asks Maschler. There’s the noise of laughter.
“I knew we were forgetting something,” says Riley. “Now where did we put that battlesuit that Carson was gonna wear?”
“Gotta be around here somewhere,” says Maschler—the Operative turns off the intercom—realizing he should have known better than to ask. It’s not like Szilard would let him aboard in anything other than a normal uniform anyway. He’s going to walk in with neither weapons nor armor. He’ll die that much more quickly. That’s the plan. He’s gets it now—finally sees he’s not even the triggerman. He wonders who is.
Lynx closes his eyes. Carson’s shuttle has docked. The hangar’s airlock has sealed. The doors of the shuttle are opening, meaning the doors of this tiny room are about to as well. Lynx can’t wait to get busy punking Carson one last time. He can’t wait to use Linehan as the cannon fodder that he was born to be—can’t wait to feed Szilard his own entrails. This time it’s going to work, especially now that InfoCom is on board. And he doesn’t mind taking out the trash for Montrose either. He’s going to screw her over too, once he gets back to the Moon and back into the real game. It’s all going down any moment now. He looks at Linehan.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
They’ve made their way into one of the ship’s storage areas: a multileveled warehouse of equipment of every type. No human presence is visible. There are cameras, but Spencer’s guessing that Jarvin’s jamming them. If not, they’re about to have bigger problems anyway …
“How the fuck do we get to the cockpit from here?” says Spencer.
“We need some hardware,” says Jarvin—and reaches out to hold on as the room suddenly shudders—
“We’re taking fire,” says Sarmax. “Ship’s getting it hard.”
“So what?” says Jarvin. “We’re going to crush L5 to rubble.”
“You still think we can take control of this ship?”
“I don’t think it,” says Jarvin. “I know.” He moves toward one piece of hardware in particular. A vehicle. Sarmax and Spencer stare at it.
“You’re shitting me,” says Spencer.
“Wish I was,” says Jarvin.
She’s running sleek and perfect now, maneuvering through the data-grids of the Redeemer, her mind doubling back upon itself as she bypasses security codes and failsafes. She takes in the specs, marvels at the way it’s been rigged for dual purposes: a fully equipped colony ship modified with all the capabilities of a Class A dreadnaught, rigged
with DE and KE batteries capable of striking targets in the low Earth orbits. The ship contains several companies of SpaceCom marines—as well as ten thousand colonists. She checks that one again, confirms it. They’ve been in hibernation for months now. She’s guessing there has to be more to that story. She sets her mind on the problem even as she triangulates on Szilard’s location—even as she keeps on searching for some way out of the lock that Control’s got on her.
The shuttle’s cargo hatch swings open. Light pours in. As do suited SpaceCom marines. They shove the Operative against the wall and search him while others climb up toward the cockpit. Another moves to the cargo, begins scanning it.
“Easy,” says the Operative. “The admiral wouldn’t want that damaged.”
“Shut the fuck up,” says a sergeant, activating the controls on the sarcophagus. Wheels extend along the floor. The faceplate slides back. The woman inside is still out cold. The Operative’s glad to see that. It’s going to make this a little easier. The SpaceCom marines step away from him, and he turns around to face them.
“I’m here to—”
“We know why you’re here,” says the sergeant.
The Operative hopes that’s not the case. He hopes that Maschler and Riley are holding their own in the cockpit. A SpaceCom lieutenant strides into the cargo bay. He’s not wearing a suit—just a smile that looks all too fake.
“Strom Carson,” he says. He holds out a hand, shakes the Operative’s. “My name’s Sullivan. Szilard’s chief of public relations.”
“Public relations?” asks the Operative.
“Why not?”
“Who the hell’s the public?”
Sullivan shrugs, gestures at the cargo. “You’ll be pleased to know everything checks out.”
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I’m ready when you are,” says the Operative.
The door opens. Lynx and Linehan head on out, finding themselves in a maze of passages. They head along them, turning left, right, left again. They climb up stairs.
“Notice something?” asks Lynx.
Linehan’s noticing all sorts of things, but most of them are doing a magic-lantern act in his head. He’s feeling like these corridors are merely part of some labyrinth within his own mind. Maybe Szilard shoved him into a virtual reality construct and all this is merely the SpaceCom admiral toying with him. He scans the corridor they’ve just turned into.
“This place is empty,” he says.
Lynx chuckles. “It looks that way on the screens too.”
The vehicle’s a standard minicrawler, optimized for low-gravity assault by virtue of its magnetic treads. It’s about four meters long. Jarvin is releasing the deadbolts that hold it in place.
“Get in,” he says.
But Spencer and Sarmax are already doing so. It’s a tight fit. It gets even more so when Jarvin joins them. He seals the craft, gestures at Sarmax.
“You’d better drive,” he says.
“Why?”
“You’re the better driver.”
“Sure,” says Sarmax, “but where?”
“We were talking about the cockpit,” says Jarvin as part of the wall slides back.
There’s no way out of this. She’s checked that six billion times in the last second. The fact that she hasn’t given up yet is more a matter of sheer stubborness than any rational consideration. Control’s grip is ironclad. He’s covering all the angles, using her like a battering ram now, propelling her forward in spite of herself. She’s almost cracked the Redeemer’s inner enclave. She’d better finish the job quick, before Carson reaches his destination. She knows she’s in denial that he’s about to die, even though she feels that he may as well have bitten it all those years ago—that the man she thought was telling her all his secrets was actually holding out on her, maybe even on himself. He’s become ensnared in the web of his own schemes, and he’s going under. But she’s got a feeling he’s going to go down fighting, and she’s going to have to watch it. Live with it, too, though she doubts she’ll have to do so for much longer. Deep in the Redeemer’s zone, she watches on one camera in particular, one hangar bay among so many—
The Operative emerges from the shuttle, takes in the moon-and-eagle banners of SpaceCom emblazoned on the hangar walls. Marines are everywhere. Two of them trundle the faux Haskell down the ramp behind him. Her face remains exposed behind plastic. The Operative stares at it as it passes him.
“Everything okay?” asks Szilard’s public relations officer.
The Operative turns back to him. “Of course.”
“Then follow me.” The faux Haskell is pushed along behind the Operative and Sullivan, through the hangar bays, and deeper into the Redeemer. At every intersection, the Operative catches glimpses of marines blocking off all other access to the route that he’s being led upon. They reach an elevator bank containing several lifts. One of those doors slides open.
“After you,” says Sullivan.
Hurry the fuck up,” says Lynx. Linehan’s doing his best, but it’s tough when Lynx keeps changing the route. They’ve doubled back once already. Now they’re doing it again.
“Can’t you get this straight?” asks Linehan.
“They’re taking another way in,” says Lynx. “Now open this fucking door.” He gestures at the blast-door they’ve stopped at, but Linehan’s already on it. A flamer protrudes from his shoulder, swivels, starts up. Linehan glances over at Lynx.
“You’ve got the zone behind this door covered, right?”
“I will by the time you get there,” says Lynx.
Holy shit,” says Spencer.
“Shut up,” says Sarmax. He hits the gas and starts piloting the crawler into the Hammer’s hull. It’s a real maze. There are several layers of armor. Even Jarvin’s hacking at the failsafes can’t open all the doors at once. Each one opens to admit them, then slides shut behind the crawler in succession as the craft moves on through. Finally bolts extrude, and the largest door of all slides back—
“Ah fuck,” says Spencer.
“Hold on,” says Sarmax.
Closing,” she says.
“Good,” says Montrose.
Strange conversation: Haskell feels like some kind of underwater creature that’s protruded an eye-stalk above the surface. Her mind swings in behind Lynx while she locks in on Carson, Control increasing the pressure as Montrose sits in her command chair and presides over it all. Haskell can see that face so clearly now—gritted teeth, aquiline nose, resolute eyes. She feels that under different circumstances, she might have even liked this woman. But given how it’s all turned out—
“You’re not going to pull this off,” she says.
“No,” says Montrose, “you’re going to do it for me.”
The Operative spares scarcely a glance at Sullivan and the two marines in the elevator with him. It’s a tight fit, to say the least. Particularly with the contraption that’s taking up most of the room.
“So how did you get your hands on her?” asks Sullivan.
“Long story,” says the Operative.
The elevator stops going down, starts going sideways. It’s all relative anyway. The ship’s got several sections, some of them rotating, others in zero-G. The Operative maximizes the magnetism of his boots, braces himself in a corner, and leans back. Looks at Sullivan.
“So what do you do every day?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you were his PR man.”
“Sure.”
“So what do you do?”
“Manage his image.”
The Operative snorts. “He keeps a pretty low profile.”
“That’s the idea,” says Sullivan.
Linehan’s flamer cuts out. The blast-door’s still intact, but it’s sporting a hole wide enough to crawl through.
“After you,” says Lynx.
“Figures,” says Linehan, but he scrambles through anyway, triple-scans the corr
idor on the other side. It’s empty. It’s becoming increasingly apparent to him how this is working. Szilard’s cleared as large an area as possible inside his perimeters. Anything moving within them is a problem by definition. Though that logic falters if you lose your view and don’t know it. Linehan assumes that Lynx has that one covered. He wonders when Lynx will decide he no longer needs a mech—resolves to be one step ahead of that moment.
It’s like being on the surface of some demented comet. Space is all around them, sheets of stars wallpapering the sky. Energy is surging past: the DE fusillade that’s aimed at the ship, the bombs that comprise the ship’s own fuel. Spencer catches a glimpse of the Moon amidst a glimmering blackness. He can’t help but notice that they’ve emerged on the side of the ship that’s facing away from Earth. He’s guessing that’s quite deliberate, intended to reduce the likelihood that this little outing will be seen by Eastern eyes. Anything American might hesitate before shooting at them. Because there’s no good reason why the Eurasians would be going walkabout on the wrong side of the thickest armor ever created. That armor’s received so many hits now that it’s like a pockmarked landscape. Sarmax keeps maneuvering the vehicle in and around craters that raw energy’s scooped from the surface. Spencer can only imagine what contortions Jarvin’s going through to keep the ship’s sensors from picking up the vehicle that’s sliding over them. His helmet keeps on adjusting as gunnery flares right next to them. His brain’s too gone to think of anything save a single question.
“So how the fuck do we get back inside?” asks Sarmax.
“I’m working on it,” says Jarvin.
And after we take out Szilard?” asks Haskell.
“Win the war,” says Montrose.
“How?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Haskell shrugs. She gets it. The president’s a practical politician. The next problem isn’t nearly as important as the one right now. So Montrose is applying the same strategy to Szilard that she applied to the Eurasians.
“Get your blow in first,” says Haskell. “That’s what it’s all about?”
The Machinery of Light Page 14
