The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  But what he hasn’t tried to do is interrogate her. He hasn’t attempted to do what everyone else has—take her apart and find out what makes her tick. She knows he’s going to have to try. Particularly when what’s in her brain might be his only hope of staving off the East. But he’s been holding off. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. She’s a Pandora’s box. Her mind’s a maelstrom stretching out beyond time. She can’t even begin to get a grip on what she’s becoming. Despite the fact that Szilard’s cut her off from zone, she’s somehow eavesdropping on the universe. Static pours across her naked brain, most of it unintelligible, but shot through that cacophony are thoughts, emotions … other minds … she catches images of refugees pouring south into Mexico, of the mass graves the Eurasians are digging up and down the U.S. eastern seaboard. She feels the agony of the planet itself as though the biosphere was a living thing—as though it was flesh from which great chunks had been torn. She figures she’s going insane. She can’t wait to get all the way there. The expressions of the marines who bring her food and water tell her just how far gone she is. They’re all too conscious of the designs scratched upon her body. They won’t even look at her—they’re terrified of her. She knows the feeling.

  But eventually the moment that she’s been waiting for arrives. It’s just a moment like any other. Yet somehow she sees it rolling in toward her anyway—sees the door slide open.

  Szilard enters the room.

  “Figured you’d come eventually,” she says.

  A rec room aboard the American cruiser Spartacus: a lot of off-duty personnel here, biding time between shifts. Everyone’s looking pretty tense. Those who aren’t might be suspected of downing a little bootleg booze. The MPs keep on busting up the stills hidden all over the ship, but they can be certain they’re failing to find them all.

  The Operative and Lynx have a whole different set of fish to fry. They enter the room and head over to where three men are playing gin rummy.

  “Can we interest you in a game of Shuk?” says Lynx.

  “Why not,” Maschler shrugs.

  “You guys have been gone for half an hour,” says Linehan.

  “So?”

  “So where the fuck were you?”

  “Eating out your mom,” says Lynx.

  “Everybody relax,” says the Operative.

  Riley starts dishing out the cards. “They’ve been scoping out the next move, of course.”

  “Of course,” says Lynx.

  “Namely?”

  “The next shuttle out of here.”

  Maschler checks the schedule. “The 22:10?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But what’s the plan?” says Riley.

  The Operative laughs. “You’re all still alive, aren’t you? Still under our zone protection, right?”

  “For now,” says Maschler.

  “For as long as it suits them,” says Linehan, and flicks a card onto the table. “Look, no offense, but I’m sick of this. We’ve been bouncing around this goddamn fleet like a goddamn Ping-Pong ball for two days now, and the two of you haven’t given us a clue as to what’s really going down.”

  “You know exactly what’s going down,” says Lynx.

  “We are,” says the Operative. “Trying to get to the Moon.”

  “So why haven’t we done it yet?”

  “These things take time. We’re in a war—or didn’t you notice?”

  “Oh, we noticed,” says Maschler.

  “Caught the president’s speech,” says Riley. “Good stuff.”

  “You’re talking about the man who fed your last boss to the sharks,” says Linehan.

  “Gotta stay flexible if you want to stay afloat,” says Riley.

  This I can’t wait to hear,” says Sarmax.

  “I’ve got a way off this ship,” says Spencer.

  “There is no way off,” says Jarvin.

  “All crew are confined,” says Sarmax.

  Spencer looks at the two men—looks at all the designs unfolding in his head. He feels almost reluctant to tell them what he’s about to, feels like he might be saying too much. He’s tempted to just steal away in these shafts and go for it himself. But he’s figuring he still needs these men. He’s all too aware of the delicate balance. As soon as one of the three gets killed, that’ll leave the second utterly in the power of the third. Spencer’s already gone through the scenarios: if he gets taken off the board, Sarmax will be at the mercy of Jarvin—and the mech will be in a similar position vis-a-vis Spencer if Jarvin bites it. Yet Sarmax is also the only counter Spencer has to Jarvin himself. It’s complex enough to make one’s head spin. But together, the three of them might be able to take on whatever’s going on in the next megaship. Spencer knows that once they start moving again, the stakes get raised even higher. But he also knows they’re running out of time. That he should have thought of all this half a day back. That it’s just too bad he wasn’t quicker.

  “Well,” he says, “it’s like this.”

  Where are we now?” she asks.

  “Heading for the South Pole,” says Szilard.

  “You don’t need to go aboveground to do that.”

  “Somewhere nearby, then.”

  “Prime real estate, huh?”

  Jharek Szilard laughs. Unexpectedly, he sits down on the floor in front of her, folds his lanky body up in a movement that’s almost sinuous. He gazes up at her.

  “You’re quite a woman,” he says.

  She looks at him without expression.

  “Oh don’t worry. My tastes don’t run that way. Doesn’t mean I can’t express admiration for the girl around whom it’s all spinning. Especially with all that art you’ve adorned yourself with—”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit,” she says.

  “Who said it was bullshit?”

  “To you I’m just a tool.”

  “Wrong. That’s the mistake that Montrose made.”

  “Among others,” says Haskell.

  “And I took advantage of most of them.”

  “Do you have a back door to me?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you beat Montrose?”

  “Never ask a magician to reveal his secrets.”

  “Control was your creature, wasn’t he?”

  “I suppose that’s one possibility,” says Szilard.

  “There are others?”

  “Stephanie started something she couldn’t finish.”

  “Me.”

  “Exactly. She couldn’t figure you out.”

  Haskell makes a face. “I’ve got the same problem.”

  “That’s the way Sinclair set it up.”

  “And you really think you can beat him?”

  “Do I need to? If he’s still alive, the Chinese have him.”

  “If that’s so, that’s only because he wants it that way.”

  “You think he’s that good?”

  “I think you need to stop thinking of him as human.”

  Szilard sighs. “Look, Claire, I get it. Okay? This war is mere veneer on the real war that’s raging. And to seriously answer your question: I can’t be sure of beating him unless I’ve got you. Will you help?”

  “My answer makes no difference.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “You can’t afford to let me go—ever. Nor can you afford to venture into my mind without the proper key.”

  “Let me get back to you on that,” says Szilard.

  Time to go,” says the Operative.

  “Just when I was winning,” says Linehan.

  They troop out of the rec room. They’re all dressed as SpaceCom marines—as is virtually everyone else they pass in the halls. They start climbing ladders down to the shuttle bays.

  “These guys are fucking with us,” says Riley.

  “You’ve said that already,” says Linehan.

  “Nothing wrong with restating the facts,” says Maschler.

  The three men are on their own wireless channel, wi
th their own codes—ones that Spencer gave Linehan back in the day. He knows that there’s a chance Carson or Lynx might have hacked the line. He wonders if they’re using him to keep an eye on the other two. He scarcely cares. He feels that his grip on reality has been getting ever more tenuous these last two days. But that doesn’t mean he’s not up to playing a role.

  “The facts are that neither of you guys is a razor.”

  “You ain’t either,” says Maschler.

  “Which is why we’re getting buttfucked by two men who are.”

  “Mechs are worth less and less every day,” says Riley.

  Linehan snorts. “So why the hell did Montrose detail two mechs to keep an eye on Carson?”

  “What should she have done?”

  “Use a fucking razor!”

  “She did,” says Maschler.

  “The Manilishi was riding shotgun,” says Riley.

  “That didn’t seem to work as well as your boss hoped.”

  “That’s why she’s not our boss anymore.”

  “And Carson is.”

  “Or Lynx,” says Maschler. “No telling who’s got the upper hand.”

  “I’d bet on Carson,” says Linehan.

  “You do that,” says Riley. “We won’t get in your way.”

  “Not when we’ve seen the man in action,” says Maschler. “He was hell on bloody wheels when that Elevator blew.”

  “You already told me,” says Linehan wearily.

  “It bears repeating,” says Riley. “He’s a fucking Houdini, and no mistake. We were fresh out of options and he found a way to get us high and dry.”

  “You think he’ll be able to get us off this fleet?” asks Linehan.

  Maschler laugh. “Himself off, sure.”

  “Even when there’s literally no way to do that?”

  “That’s when the man’s at his best,” says Riley.

  That is so much bullshit,” says Sarmax.

  “I wish it was,” says Spencer.

  “It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I daresay you’ll hear crazier before it’s all over.”

  But while he replies to Sarmax, Spencer’s keeping an eye on Jarvin. That’s the reaction he’s really interested in. He watches that man’s face behind that visor, watches him mull over possibilities—watches his lips form the words—

  “What’s your angle on this?” asks Jarvin.

  “My angle’s getting us off this ship.”

  “But this—what you’re saying—it’s insane—”

  “Does it hurt that I’ve gotten ahead of you on these files?”

  Jarvin says nothing. Spencer decides that it probably does. He decides to rub it in.

  “Take a look at what you’re missing,” he says, beaming data to Jarvin and Sarmax. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to make the point. He waits—counts to just shy of thirty seconds—

  “You got this from the files?” says Sarmax.

  “No,” says Spencer, “I used the files to get this.”

  “What kind of yarn are you spinning?”

  “The best kind,” says Jarvin. “He’s right.”

  “You’re convinced?” says Spencer.

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  The shuttle’s been pitching and yawing for some time, as though it’s maneuvering through rugged terrain. Not being able to see where it’s going makes for a disquieting experience. Haskell’s relieved when the craft finally touches down. She feels vibration roll beneath her as whatever platform the shuttle’s just landed on starts lowering. Ten seconds later, all motion stops.

  Five seconds after that, there’s a knock on her door. She doesn’t know why they bother, but Szilard seems determined to keep up appearances. So far he’s been the only one to show up unannounced. She figures she may as well humor them.

  “Come in,” she says.

  The door opens. The marine who stands there won’t meet her eyes.

  “We need you to put on a suit, ma’am,” he says.

  “To go where?”

  Hesitation—“The president awaits you.”

  The auxiliary hangar of the Spartacus has several shuttles docked, several bays empty. There are a lot of mechanics and technicians. Lot of soldiers, too. Looks like someone’s making last-minute rearrangements of the fleet’s garrisons. There are five men in particular who aren’t complaining.

  “Let’s go,” says the Operative. He moves toward the shuttle door; the other four follow him. They give their IDs—a commando squad getting reassigned. They get on board. The shuttle pushes back. The hull of the Spartacus falls past, giving way to a spectacular view: the L2 fleet stretching away, ships slowly rotating in the sun. The Operative gets on the one-on-one with Linehan.

  “Was wondering if you had time for a quick chat,” he says.

  “Why not,” replies Linehan.

  They maneuver stealthily past more Chinese soldiers. There’s still a lot of cleanup going on. Blood’s literally getting mopped off the walls. They’re well into the rear of the craft now. Spencer’s mind billows out around him, gathering the whole ship under its sway. A hatch swings open.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  She’s in a suit that contains just the basics, being led along passages of a place that could be virtually any lunar base. A few more minutes, and her escorts usher her through into a much larger room—possibly a quarter-kilometer across. It’s a dome.

  And what it contains used to be a garden.

  “Jesus,” she says.

  It’s been burnt all to hell. Ash is everywhere. The skeletal remains of what might have been a forest jut here and there. Pieces of the ceiling hang like icicles, casting eerie shadows in the floodlights that have been set up by the marines standing sentry all around. Haskell’s escorts lead her through a path in the ash. It seems like maybe it might have been a stream once, but there’s no sign of water now. Up another hill of ash, and they reach what’s left of a gazebo …

  Jharek Szilard stands within. Haskell’s escorts stop just short, motion her forward.

  Linehan stares out the window at the flickering lights.

  They look all too familiar. L2’s the closest thing to home he’s ever known. That’s why he’s always wanted to see it burn. He’s glad he came back here to see it happen. Now he can barely wait.

  “What’s up, boss?” he says.

  “You’ve been talking with Maschler and Riley?” Carson asks.

  “Sure,” says Linehan.

  “What’d they say?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “Just low-grade bitching, boss.”

  “Define ‘low-grade.’”

  “The kind that’s only a problem when it stops.”

  “Has Lynx talked to you?”

  Linehan says nothing.

  “Well?” demands Carson.

  “No.”

  “Why do I not quite believe that?”

  “What do you want me to do if he does?”

  “Hear him out. Laugh at his retarded jokes.”

  “That might be tough.”

  “What’ll be tough is if you cross me.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Other than the fact that otherwise you’re dead?”

  “I understand sticks just fine,” says Linehan. “But I like carrot too. What are you and Lynx looking for anyway?”

  “Who says we’re looking for something?”

  “I’m not stupid, Carson.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate the importance of finding a way off this goddamn fleet.”

  “Sure, but you guys are running some other agenda. All this beetling back and forth to different parts of the fleet—you’re searching for something.”

  “An interesting theory. What do you think we’re after?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Good,” says Carson. “Look, being kept in the dark is frustrating. But trust me, you don’t want to know
the big picture.”

  “How about letting me be the judge of that?”

  “How about letting me worry about the shit that’s above your pay grade? Point is that when the moment comes, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

  “Between you and Lynx.”

  “Maschler and Riley are only along for the ride because we’re going to need all the muscle we can get for the stunts we’re about to pull. I know you won’t give anything they say a second thought. But Lynx is nothing if not persuasive. He’s got a way of getting inside one’s head with his twists of what he’ll try to convince you passes for logic. But he won’t forget the fact that you already fucked him over.”

  “Szilard fucked him over. Using me.”

  “You think that matters to him?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What matters is that you never crossed me. And you saved us all at the Europa Platform. Stay on my side, and you’ll have anything you want, Linehan. Anything. Freedom from all this bullshit, no bosses, dominion over whatever—doesn’t matter. Fuck, you can have Mars if you want it.”

  “That’s what Harrison offered me. A place up there—”

  “I’m offering you the whole planet.”

  Pause. “You’re not serious.”

  “Why not?” says the Operative. “Not like I want the dump. Look man, the one thing I’m loyal to is loyalty. And I’m going to need it when the shit hits the mother of all fans.”

  “And that’d be when?”

  “Hate to say it, but probably before we’re ready.”

  “You’re running behind schedule?”

  “Now we’ll see if you can keep a secret.”

  The shuttle initiates docking sequence.

  They head from the maintenance shafts to auxiliary shafts to elevator shafts. They reach the spine of the ship in short order and start making haste along it. There’s a clanking noise below them. Cable starts to reel past them.

  “Grab it,” says Sarmax.

  They do—it starts to haul them out of the forward levels of the ship. The elevator car whips past them, heading in the direction they’ve come from as they drop into the middle layers.

  “Let’s change it up,” says Spencer.

  “Agreed,” says Jarvin.