The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  “Shit,” says Jarvin.

  The screens go crazy.

  I’m not even Montrose’s biggest problem,” says Szilard. “Sinclair is—”

  “—about to get two megaships up his ass,” says the Operative.

  “Or else Sarmax is going to hand the Eurasian fleet over to him,” says Haskell.

  “Give me a break,” says the SpaceCom admiral. “Sarmax is out of the picture by now—”

  “As opposed to you,” says the Operative. “Machinery to register mental emissions? Tracing Haskell’s telepathic signature? Not bad. And yet—”

  “Not enough to get in on any conversations,” says Szilard.

  “Though that might change if you got your hands on the rest of Sinclair’s files,” says the Operative.

  “Are you trying to make a deal?”

  “He might if he actually had those files,” says Haskell.

  “I hate it when people play stupid,” says Szilard.

  Data blurs in Lynx’s mind. He’s bringing all his zone-prowess to bear, triangulating across the decks of the Redeemer. But the static that’s engulfed Szilard’s signal seems to be intensifying. It occurs to Lynx that maybe he’s the one who’s getting punked—that maybe the SpaceCom marines are closing in on his position even now. He wonders if he should just have Linehan charge on in. He scans back over the Redeemer one last time.

  Fuck,” says Jarvin.

  “What?” asks Sarmax.

  “EMP,” snarls Spencer.

  “L5’s guns must have nailed the cockpit,” says Jarvin.

  Meaning they’ve all got the same problem. The ship’s circuitry just went haywire. Backup comps are coming on, but the hack that Jarvin was running on the cockpit has been lost. The three men crouch in that access-shaft while a backup zone flickers on and Spencer and Jarvin try to get things back on track. Only to find that—

  “No gunnery breakthroughs on the forward armor,” says Spencer.

  “What?” says Sarmax.

  “That EMP,” says Jarvin. “It came from inside the ship.”

  Not sure I follow,” says the Operative. “I don’t have—”

  “You don’t need Sinclair’s files,” says Szilard. “You fucking wrote half of them anyway.”

  “Or you were there while the recorders took dictation,” says Haskell.

  “If you want to know what’s driving the retrocausality, you can forget it,” says the Operative. “I don’t know, and the only way to find out is—”

  “To take me apart,” says Haskell. “Which Montrose is doing her best to do.”

  “Even as you use that amplifier of yours to ransack the Redeemer’s systems,” says Szilard. “Turning me inside out, eh?”

  “I already finished,” says Haskell. “Your ship’s mine. And you’re—”

  “Full of surprises,” says Szilard.

  A massive explosion rocks the ship.

  What the hell was that?” yells Linehan.

  “All part of the plan,” says Lynx.

  Though he’s a lot less confident than he sounds. Nothing was supposed to happen until they reached Szilard. The plan may just have gone belly-up. Or maybe he never understood the plan in the first place. He hopes he’s not getting sold down the river again. He hears something else—close at hand—gunfire—

  “Someone’s lighting this place up,” says Linehan.

  Inside the ship?” says Sarmax.

  “Definitely,” says Spencer.

  “Maybe a malfunction,” says Jarvin. “Or maybe—”

  “We got combat ten decks down,” says Spencer.

  Kill him,” says Szilard—but the Operative’s already moving, leaping at one of the bodyguards, vaulting over its shoulder and landing on its back while Haskell hacks the bodyguard’s armor, handing control off to the Operative—who grasps it with his neural software on wireless, starts riddling the other bodyguards even as they start getting their own shots off. Projectiles are flying everywhere. Szilard’s image has disappeared. An explosion tears away part of the ceiling—

  —a long with part of the wall. Lynx and Linehan blast through from different directions, add their guns to that of Carson, catching Szilard’s bodyguards in a crossfire. Linehan dodges a micromissile, smashes into one of the remaining bodyguards, rips its helmet off with jet-enhanced fists—rips off the head as well, screaming obscenities all the while. Haskell starts screaming too.

  “What the fuck’s up with her?” yells Lynx.

  “It’s not her,” says Carson.

  Not anymore. She’s falling away from all of them—tumbling back from L2 as though she’s being hauled back toward the Moon on a tether. Space and time reel before her, reveal that her mind’s back in that tank again. She’s struggling to get her bearings.

  Apparently everybody else is too.

  “What the hell’s wrong?” asks Montrose.

  “We’re still processing,” says Control. For the first time, Haskell hears emotion grip that voice—or more precisely, tension. Same with Montrose:

  “Hurry it up,” she snaps.

  “The Manilishi’s back online,” says Control. Haskell feels everything stabilize around her—a kind of equilibrium. It’ll have to do.

  “Can you hear me, Claire?” asks Montrose.

  “I can,” says Haskell. She takes in the confusion that’s starting to grip the war-room. The battle-management computers are still functioning, but not much else is. There’s something wrong. Some kind of—

  Anomaly.

  “Fuck,” says Haskell.

  “We’re under attack,” says Control.

  Fighting underway outside the cockpit,” says Jarvin. Spencer wonders whether that’s too fine a distinction. The cameras show that chaos is breaking loose throughout the Hammer of the Skies. Explosions are going off. Firefights are everywhere. It’s total pandemonium. And it looks like commandos are trying to force their way up the elevator to reach the cockpit—

  “Americans,” says Sarmax. “Must be.”

  “Not a chance,” says Spencer.

  He knows there’s no way—not in the numbers that are now wreaking havoc aboard this ship. This involves the ship’s soldiers and crew. And the only Americans aboard are in this shaft.

  As far as they know.

  “It’s Autumn Rain,” says Jarvin.

  “Shit,” says Sarmax.

  The last of the lifeless bodyguards collapses against the wall, shredded, busy being deceased again. The woman who’s neither dead nor living keeps on screaming.

  “You’ve lost,” she howls. “You’ve fucking lost and your souls are forfeit and Satan’s going to fuck you in the ass—”

  “Shut up,” yells Lynx—and puts a bullet through her head, sends chunks of brain flying. The Operative whirls on him.

  “Goddamn you—”

  “You’ve got bigger problems,” says Lynx.

  The Operative can see he’s not kidding. Lynx’s powered armor looks virtually undamaged. The Operative’s got fuck-all. He stares as his erstwhile razor’s guns line him up.

  “You were saying?” asks Lynx.

  “We need to work together,” says the Operative.

  “Feel like I’ve heard that one before.”

  “He’s right,” says Linehan. “We need to join—”

  “I’m making the decisions,” says Lynx.

  “Sure you are,” says the Operative, “but where the fuck’s Szilard?”

  “I’m asking the questions!” yells Lynx.

  “You’ve lost him, haven’t you?”

  They hear more gunfire in the distance.

  We’ve got shooting outside the bunker,” says Control.

  “What the hell?” mutters Montrose.

  The bunker’s emergency blast-doors slide shut. Montrose’s bodyguards take up positions around her, help her into her suit. Haskell notices the command bunker’s been systematically cut off from the zone. She has no idea how that’s happening. She wonders what she’s missing.

  �
��You,” screams a voice.

  It’s Montrose. She’s in her armor now. She strides over to Haskell and starts shaking her.

  “What the hell are you seeing?” she demands.

  “Why don’t you release my fucking bindings and let me fucking find out!”

  Montrose shakes her all the harder. “Don’t think you can fucking trick me that easy!”

  “Fuck you and your paranoia!” yells Haskell. “I lost the fix on Szilard. I got booted from my amplifier. I—get your fucking hands off me!”

  Montrose slaps her across the face—hard enough to turn Haskell’s head, nearly hard enough to snap her neck. Her bodyguards move in as though they’re about to restrain their boss.

  “We can still salvage this,” says Control.

  One of the blast-doors suddenly bursts inward.

  L5’s outer perimeter is breached. The American flanks are turned. The megaships swoop past L5, curve back in toward the libration point. It’s going to be over within minutes. Data on the collapsing defenses keeps on flashing across the screens of the cockpit, and the crew keeps on holding course—

  Even as they try to deal with more immediate problems. The automated guns that protect the shafts that lead to the cockpit are getting taken out. On the camera feeds, Spencer catches glimpses of power-suited infantry through a blizzard of static. The two captains are doing their utmost to raise the rest of the ship. They’re not succeeding. That’s when one of them draws a pistol and shoots the other through the head.

  “Goddamn,” says Spencer.

  “Should have guessed,” mutters Jarvin.

  Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just pull this fucking trigger,” says Lynx.

  “That’s your reason right there,” says the Operative, gesturing in the direction of the gunfire.

  “You already backstabbed me once!”

  “For a chance to win it all, you’d have done the same.”

  “And look where it got you,” says Lynx. “Standing here with my guns aimed at your head—”

  “And nothing in yours,” snarls the Operative. “The Manilishi’s approaching activation. Sinclair’s still at L5. He may have a full triad with him. He may have more. And meanwhile your scam to nail Szilard has gone so far off the rails you can’t even see the fucking tracks—”

  Another blast shakes the room. Much closer now. Linehan looks at Lynx—

  “Shit or get off the pot,” he says.

  “Let’s get the man a suit,” says Lynx.

  Power-suited infantry are storming into the InfoCom command bunker, firing at everything in sight.

  Explosions start ripping apart consoles. Smoke’s everywhere. It’s pandemonium.

  “Get the president out of here!” screams Control.

  But the bodyguards are already moving. One of them releases the restraints on Haskell, slides a helmet on her, seals her suit, and pulls her from her berth. Her neck hurts like hell. She flops over the shoulder of the bodyguard while he starts scrambling after the others—vaulting over more consoles toward the emergency exit that’s opening in the wall. She gets a glimpse of oncoming shock troops—sees the insignia on their suits.

  “SpaceCom,” she says.

  “I noticed,” mutters the bodyguard.

  Along with everybody else. Virtually all of the bunker staff are suitless. They’re trying to surrender. They’re being given no quarter. It’s a total massacre. Montrose’s bodyguards charge into the escape passage. Haskell can see the consoles that house Control getting shredded.

  The elite of the Chinese Fifth Commando kick down the elevator door and start shooting. Blood and bodies fly.

  It looks to be totally out of control.

  Though really it’s quite targeted.

  “So much for the Russians,” says Spencer.

  “Bet you this is going on across the fleet,” says Sarmax.

  “Try throughout the Coalition,” says Jarvin.

  Certainly throughout this ship. The view’s becoming a lot clearer as the Chinese zone dissolves its Russian counterpart. The EMP surge from earlier was just an opening salvo. Camera-feeds show suited Russian soldiers getting zapped in their armor, suitless technicians getting exposed to vacuum as airlocks open.

  “So much for the great partnership,” says Sarmax.

  “Had to end sometime,” says Spencer.

  And no better time than now. With the East on the brink of winning the war, China’s chosen to get its blow in first. It’s obviously been planned that way. Across the vast fleet in Earth orbit, Russian soldiers and pilots are being purged en masse. A bombardment of the Russian homeland is in progress.

  “How’s your Mandarin?” says Sarmax.

  They’re moving out of Szilard’s audience chamber at speed. The Operative is wearing one of the less-damaged suits of the bodyguard. The smell of rotting flesh assails his nostrils. He considers himself fortunate that his own isn’t going the same way. He meshes his zone-capabilities with Lynx and they start devising strategies while their suits kill everything that moves.

  “Why the hell aren’t we heading for the hangars?” yells Linehan.

  “Shut up and keep shooting,” yells Lynx.

  The Operative nods. They’ve got enough to do without Linehan demanding to be kept in the loop. Every ship in the Redeemer’s hangar is forfeit. The shuttle the Operative rode in on was the first to get blasted. So now they’re closing in on a very different objective. The Operative’s not surprised that the combat they’re hearing nearby is tracking in the same direction.

  “They’re not stupid,” says Lynx.

  “We’ll take them all the same,” replies the Operative.

  Back out in vacuum: the bunker escape hatch slams shut behind Montrose and her escorts. Haskell’s got a feeling it’ll be opening again soon enough. She’s still slung over the bodyguard’s shoulder—still watching the flames of the suit-thrusters of the man as he holds formation with the rest of them. She has no idea what Montrose intends to do next. She wonders if Montrose knows either. The walls of the passage widen as they come out into a larger chamber—a subrail station. The bodyguards hustle Montrose into the first car of the train that sits in the center of the grooved floor. The bodyguard holding Haskell straps her into one of the seats. For a moment she’s face to face with Montrose.

  “You really fucked this up,” says Haskell.

  “It’s not over yet,” says Montrose.

  The train slides out of the station.

  The screens show L5’s inner perimeter crumbling. Hammer of the Skies moves in toward its quarry. The Russians in the cockpit who’ve surrendered are being summarily executed. Vacuum-pumps have been turned on to drain the blood from the zero-G. Chinese soldiers are mopping up.

  “They’ll be coming down here next,” says Spencer.

  “Not if we convince their bosses they already did,” replies Jarvin.

  The garrison of the Redeemer is trying to defend against the incursions now cutting through it, but it’s tough going. All the more so as the attacks are along angles that the original defenders didn’t anticipate—straight out of the off-limits high-security area along its axis. Alarms are sounding throughout the ship. Reserves are scrambling into their suits, all too many of which are getting hacked.

  “They’re fucking reeling,” says Lynx.

  “It may not matter,” says the Operative.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” says Linehan.

  “Szilard might blow this ship at any moment.”

  “Why the hell would he do that if he’s on it?”

  “Don’t you love it when you answer your own question?”

  “This whole thing was a trick?”

  Neither Lynx nor the Operative bothers to reply. Of course the whole thing was a trick. It’s the only possibility that makes sense now. But as to what the Lizard’s game is … they’re still working on it. And right now they’ve got more tactical concerns. Marines block the way ahead—Lynx fucks their suits while the Operative
springs open the triple-locked doors behind them. The three men blast on through. The Operative looks around at the room they’ve just reached.

  “Made it,” he says.

  “Not so fast,” says a voice.

  The train abruptly slows, slides to a halt.

  “What the hell’s going on?” demands Montrose.

  “Not sure,” says a bodyguard.

  “Then get out there and find out!” snarls Montrose.

  But the bodyguards are already opening the doors of the train, heading out into the tunnel. Lasers and explosions start flaring. One of the bodyguards gets blasted back into the car. The SpaceCom marine who just shot him leaps in, followed by several others.

  “President Montrose,” says one.

  “You’re under arrest,” says another.

  Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon pour fire onto the L5 fortress at point-blank range. They’ve suppressed enough of the defensive fire to start deploying troops: clouds of power-suits billowing across the gigantic central station and its attendant war-sats.

  “Impressive,” says Sarmax.

  Neither Spencer nor Jarvin reply. They’re too busy trying to keep up with the shifting Eastern zone within this megaship. The Chinese zone continues to consolidate, taking control. But as it does, Jarvin’s mind slides in behind it, Spencer riding shotgun in a maneuver as quick as it is elegant—

  “Got it,” says Jarvin.

  The last of L5’s guns cease firing.

  The room is almost empty. It contains only a single console—and a door, through which Maschler and Riley have just entered, their guns still smoking.

  “Figured I’d find you guys here,” says the Operative.

  “You always were quick,” says Riley.

  “A little too much so,” says Maschler.

  “And guess who’s holding your zone-leashes?” says Lynx.

  “You’re kidding,” says Riley.

  “Try us and see,” says the Operative.

  Though he knows they’re figuring it out for themselves. He and Lynx snipped their link back to Montrose all too easily. Whatever shit’s hitting the fan back at the president’s HQ made that move even easier. Meaning that the two men who held his reins the whole way up just got co-opted. And they’re going to find it very difficult to do anything that Lynx and Carson don’t want them to.