“That’s what it’s always about,” says Montrose. “That’s why I need both you and Carson—”
“Did you have this kind of caper in mind all along? Or did things go off the rails with Szilard?”
“A little bit of both.”
“Because he wants to be president.”
“Because he was a little too interested in you.”
“Seems like that’s been going around—” And suddenly it’s like she’s shoved back underwater; Control’s angling her in, plowing through Szilard’s outer perimeter, keeping pace with the men on the scene—
The elevator doors open. Sullivan leads the way out; the Operative follows, the two soldiers bringing up the rear, still pushing the thing that Montrose has sent Szilard—the thing that the Operative’s supposed to have stolen. The Operative’s starting to lose track of who’s supposed to believe what. He regards that as a sure sign he’s about to get dealt out of the game for good. But as they keep moving, he can’t help but notice something.
“You guys fail to pay the rent or something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where the hell is everybody?”
“There’s a war on,” says Sullivan. “Didn’t you notice?”
“Must be getting down to the wire,” says the Operative.
Same with the overhead lighting. The Operative assumes if he asked Sullivan about that, the man would say that everything was being channeled toward the DE batteries. Which might even be true. But the effect’s a little eerie nonetheless. The lights are turning on only in the sections of the corridor they’re in, are remaining illuminated only in the five meters ahead and behind them. Everything else is darkness. The Operative snorts, trying to sound more confident than he feels.
“This is how you guys set up perimeters?”
“I’m not in charge of security,” says Sullivan.
“I’d like to meet the guy who is.”
“You’re about to.”
They turn the corner and come face to face with a mammoth blast-door.
Now what?” says Linehan.
“Now we hold tight again,” replies Lynx.
They’re still crouched in darkness. Linehan just saw some light in the distance, but now it’s gone. He thinks they’re inside the inner perimeter, but he doesn’t know for sure. He’s starting to wonder if Szilard’s really the target here. Maybe it’s someone else. Or something else. He wonders where that hot bitch of a cyborg got to, wonders whether she’s wrapped up in this somehow. He can’t wait to get something tangible in his sights. He glances at Lynx, but only sees the expression of a man who’s thinking furiously. Linehan starts doing the opposite—just gets ready to respond on reflex.
This may be the hull of the largest ship ever launched, but there’s only so much room for a way-too-fast crawler to crawl. They’re through onto the forward sections. And as they round a curve, close in upon the nose, they can see what the Hammer of the Skies is heading toward—
“We’re running out of margin,” says Sarmax.
“I get that,” says Jarvin.
Spencer can see that Sarmax isn’t kidding. The lights of L5 shimmer in the sky ahead like some kind of nebula. Their guns are firing full-on at the monster that’s roaring in toward them. Spencer looks around for some way out—
“There,” says Jarvin—but Sarmax is already on it, swerving into an indentation, swiveling the craft, hitting the brakes. They shudder to a halt.
“This won’t buy us much,” says Spencer.
“Stop complaining,” says Jarvin. “I need your help.”
“You need my help?”
“Whatever you guys are going to do, do it quick,” says Sarmax.
The inner perimeter,” says Control.
“On it,” she says—and she is, dodging left and right in a million directions with a million limbs. Szilard’s new flagship is falling prey to a whole new bag of tricks. She’s narrowing down his location, too, closing in on the place from which the SpaceCom reins are getting pulled. She can see all the false leads and dead-ends Szilard’s configured. He’s good—she has to give him that. There’s a reason he’s managed to stay alive for so long. But those defenses weren’t designed for the likes of her. She’s becoming acutely aware that Montrose and Control now know things about her that she doesn’t—that they’re operating from a larger play-book she can’t see. They’ve got the strategy. She’s been reduced to tactics. She’s peeling back the Redeemer’s security like the layers of an onion. Everything’s checking out. Running perfectly.
With one exception.
The blast-door swings back. The Operative follows Sullivan through into a room that contains several suited marines lined up in front of a second blast-door. He’s being scanned once more, along with the cart that contains Haskell’s simulacrum. He can’t blame Szilard for all the precautions. He wonders if they’ll be enough. The first blast-door closes. The second opens. Sullivan gestures at the doorway.
“It’s all you,” he says.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Through there. He’s waiting for you.”
“You guys aren’t coming with me?
“We’re not allowed to.”
“He doesn’t trust you?”
“He doesn’t trust anybody,” says Sullivan.
“Fair point,” says the Operative.
Got it,” says Lynx.
As he knew he would. Like crosshairs sliding together in his mind, it’s all coming into focus. He’s got Carson in his sights—Szilard, too. The SpaceCom defenses may as well not be there for all the trouble they’re causing him. He feels the Manilishi’s zone-presence slide in behind him, feels himself glide forward.
Spencer’s mind meshes on the zone with Jarvin’s. He sees the problem immediately. The hull door they’re parked against is only meant to be opened from the other side. It’s rigged with several more failsafes than Jarvin was counting on. And the key to those failsafes is in the—
“Cockpit,” says Jarvin.
“Roger that,” says Spencer—but their minds are already racing along the wires on the other side of what was built to be the escape hatch for the ship’s pilots. Directed energy blasts over their position as the L5 gunners start up a new barrage. Another ten meters forward, and they’d be melted. If the megaship changes up its angle, that’s going to happen anyway. But Spencer’s giving scarcely a thought to that dilemma. He’s just running secondary razor to Jarvin’s primary, twisting in on the underbelly of the cockpit, accessing the evacuation sequences without making them realize they’re being run, telling them to initiate escape procedures—
“Got it,” says Jarvin.
The hatch opens—
It’s like something just swung shut within her mind, as unmistakable as it is strange. Everything else is checking out. The overall pattern remains intact. But there’s one slight problem. It’s within the margin of error—except for the fact that she doesn’t make errors. Nor has Control seemed to notice it. She keeps an eye on the anomaly while she keeps on tightening the noose around Szilard’s position—watching on the cameras as Carson walks down a corridor, pushing a cart that contains a woman who looks a little too familiar—
And it’s all the Operative can do to not look at her face. He knows that if he’s fucked, this woman’s doubly so. Even if it’s not Haskell, he’s falling for her anyway. He’s guessing that’s the point. He wonders what happened to the man he used to be, the man who never gave a fuck about anyone, the man for whom Haskell was just one more assignment. But that was back when he thought he was going to outlast them all. Now that he’s wised up it’s way too late. The corridor bends left, then right, becomes a ramp that steepens to the point where the Operative’s having to hit the brakes on the cart. Some kind of room is just ahead. It doesn’t seem to be small. The woman’s eyes open.
“Hello again,” she says.
Like a flock of birds alighting: Lynx feels something descend out of the zone and into his
mind. It’s Haskell—not just on the zone, but full-on telepathy. He thought it couldn’t happen, but here she is anyway, and he hasn’t the foggiest idea how. And right now it doesn’t matter, as she syncs with him on both zone and mind. The final map of the inner enclave of Jharek Szilard clicks into his head. He fires his suit-jets.
“You sure about this?” asks Linehan, as he does the same.
“Prime your weapons,” snarls Lynx.
They’re scrambling out of the crawler and into the shaft as fast as they can. Radiation’s still pouring over them all the same. Their suits are getting soaked. Their flesh is okay so far—they’ve got more immediate problems to contend with.
“Close this goddamn hatch,” snarls Sarmax.
“We’re working on it,” says Spencer.
They’re having to do some serious multitasking. Spencer and Jarvin are damping the sensors along the shaft while they simultaneously check out the approaches to the cockpit and—
“Get rid of it,” snarls Jarvin. Spencer’s already on it, hacking the controls of the crawler they’ve just left, releasing the brakes. The crawler slides past the opening, tumbles off into space. Hopefully it’ll just be written off as one more piece of metal knocked loose from the surface, annihilated in the bomb-blasts that keep flaring beyond the rear-shielding. It’s out of their hands now. The hatch swings shut. The cockpit schematics expand in Spencer’s head.
“About time,” says Jarvin.
She arrives at the core of the Redeemer’s inner enclave. She’s got all their numbers now. Except for that anomaly, which keeps on sprouting new tendrils, keeps on growing, encompassing her while she continues on with the mission. Nothing tangible seems to be affected. She’s still running smooth. She wonders if this is something that Control is doing to gain a more complete mastery of her—the formula through which Montrose unlocks her still further. Maybe she isn’t supposed to have noticed it. Maybe the fact that she has will give her some margin. But suddenly it’s as if she’s being drawn on a string, hauled across vacuum—
Here we are,” says the woman who wears the face of Claire Haskell.
The Operative looks around. The room is as large as it is empty. All it contains is a dais in the center. The walls are cut through three levels, a walkway circling the room halfway up. Several marines stand along that walkway. Several more ring the entrance in a semicircle. They wear the insignia of Szilard’s bodyguard. Their guns are trained on the Operative and the conveyor. He raises his hands.
“I’m unarmed,” he says.
But none of the marines say anything. And as the Operative stares at them, he realizes why.
“They’re dead,” says a voice.
Still rotting too, from the looks of the faces inside the visors. But apparently their armor’s working just fine. The suits immediately in front of the Operative step aside, gesture at him to move forward. A man’s appeared on the dais, though he’s flickering ever so slightly. A holograph.
“Admiral Szilard,” says the Operative.
“Forgive me that it’s not in the flesh,” says Szilard.
We’ve got him,” says Lynx.
“So where the fuck is he?” says Linehan.
In one of about twenty rooms, according to the readouts—a complex on which Lynx and Linehan are now closing. Lynx’s mind centers on the chamber where Carson is, traces back along the signal that’s being projected to that room: the signal that shows the holograph of Szilard—the signal that’s being sent from one of those twenty chambers—now narrowing down to fifteen … ten …
“You are so mine,” says Lynx.
The cockpit of Hammer of the Skies isn’t small. It’s divided into two areas—Chinese and Russian—each of which sweeps back from a central section where two captains monitor events. Pilots and navigators and gunnery specialists man consoles. Soldiers line the walls. There are only two ways in. One’s the elevators. The other’s the escape shaft in which three men are crouching.
“So what now?” says Spencer.
“Now we take over,” says Jarvin.
She’s getting slotted into cranial matter that’s not her own but that’s all too familiar nonetheless. Her mind’s turning in upon itself, wandering through the meat of someone else’s brain while she wrestles with some kind of pattern that’s threatening to overwhelm her. She’s trying to hold steady, but it’s no use. Everything’s collapsing in upon her, and it’s all she can do to keep from getting buried. But in the cacophony that’s sounding all around her she’s starting to get glimpses of what she’s been missing. She opens her eyes—
So this is the Manilishi,” says Szilard.
The Operative can see why people call this man the Lizard behind his back. He’s as tall as he is thin. His tongue keeps on flickering out in a disquieting manner. There’s a scar down the right side of his face that looks fresh. The woman in the cart clears her throat, coughs—
“I’ve come to make you an offer,” she says.
“Are you really in a position to do that?” replies Szilard.
“Do you want to be president or not?”
“Maybe you should let me speak to the man who stole you.”
“Maybe you should both shut up,” says the Operative.
They look at him—her face staring up from her cart, his face blinking as though he’s just been slapped. He knows he’d better talk fast. He can think of only one thing to say.
“There’s a plot against you.”
“Just one?” says Szilard.
“Instigated by Montrose.”
“Oh,” says Szilard, in a tone that says is that all.
“This man’s lying,” says the woman.
“Who cares what you think?” says the Operative.
“Sounds like you two need to get your story straight,” says Szilard.
The Operative laughs. “I’m the one who stole her.”
“My fucking heart, you mean.”
He glances at her. He suddenly realizes she really is Haskell now. That’s when he hears her voice inside his head too.
“You’re doing great,” it says.
“What’s the nature of this plot?” asks Szilard.
“What happened to your bodyguards?” asks Haskell.
“Only people I can trust are those who are already dead.”
“And either you or Montrose are about to join them,” says the Operative.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” says Szilard.
“The president’s one step ahead of you,” says Haskell.
“What do you mean?”
“The only way to get inside your perimeter. Hand you something you have to have.”
“That cuts both ways,” says the admiral.
The Operative nods. He examines that image, examines the lifeless visors of the bodyguards—gets ready to move fast. Szilard laughs.
“You think I don’t know what this is all about? That I don’t know who you are?”
“He’s Strom Carson,” says Haskell. “We know you know it.”
“The leader of the original Rain triad,” says Szilard.
“Leader’s not exactly how I’d put it,” says the Operative.
“So how the hell does Montrose think you’re going to nail me?”
“She doesn’t,” says the Operative.
“You sure?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a captive.”
“But whose captive?” adds Haskell.
“Ah yes.” Szilard’s tongue flashes out again. Another holograph materializes in midair beside him: a camera-view of the interior hangar, looking out along the line of sight of a KE gatling, aimed down on the shuttle that the Operative rode to L2.
“Jon Maschler and Nik Riley,” says Jharek Szilard. “I get it. Really, I do. The idea was to make me think they’d stolen the Manilishi.”
“A story only a fool would buy,” says the Operative.
“Right,” says Szilard. “Because if they really stole the most valuable object in the
fucking solar system, why the hell would they bring it to me?”
“Because they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Haskell.
“Of course they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Szilard. “Treacherous ones, too.”
“Doesn’t mean they can’t be useful,” says Haskell.
Szilard shrugs. “How else was I to get my hands on the original Rain operative?”
“And the Manilishi,” says the Operative.
“Stop patronizing me,” says Szilard, “I know damn well—even if she’s speaking through it—that’s not the Manilishi.”
“But it was intended to be,” says the Operative.
“More bullshit,” says Szilard. “Lies within lies. Montrose wanted me to believe she’d created a duplicate Manilishi.”
“She almost did,” says the Operative.
“And if she had, she could have switched it on at your very doorstep,” says Haskell. “Checkmated you at point-blank range.”
“Too bad she failed,” says Szilard.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Haskell.
“But I do,” says Szilard. “Montrose almost ran off the rails completely. In creating a link between you and your would-be doppleganger, she opened the door to Sinclair.”
“You saw that?” asks Haskell.
“Don’t count me out of the game yet,” says Szilard.
Lynx frowns. “Shit,” he mutters.
“What’s up?” says Linehan. Lynx doesn’t even look at him.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
“You can’t admit something’s wrong?”
“I’ll admit to anything if you’ll shut the fuck up.”
Run the fucking sequences,” says Sarmax.
Jarvin’s already doing just that. And it’s all Spencer can do to keep up with him; his mind’s getting swept up in Jarvin’s, up along the wires that lead into the cockpit, into the main consoles that contain the executive software for the ship. There are two such consoles. One’s Chinese. One’s Russian. Jarvin’s going for both of them simultaneously, and Spencer’s running backup. He’s starting to get a sense of just how good a razor Alek Jarvin is—how easily that man’s been running rings around him. Now that they’re within the main cockpit firewall, Jarvin’s taking those databases apart—running a blizzard of sequences while Spencer triple-checks them, processes the patterns, scans the implications. The codes necessary to take control of the entire ship are coming into focus. Until—
The Machinery of Light Page 15
