The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  “I’m taking Linehan with me.”

  “Be my guest,” says the Operative.

  Spencer and Jarvin are taking stock. The zone went crazy. The zone’s back to normal. But Spencer simultaneously felt something shifting in his mind, too. As brief as it was unmistakable, the implications scare him shitless. Something’s almost certainly going on downstairs. And something’s now surfacing within what’s left of the megaship’s zone. A signal being sent in the clear, because they’re the only ones left to hear it—

  We need to talk.

  She’s somewhere else now, looking out at a different room—and even as she rips circuitry from the walls to preclude anyone following, she’s checking the coordinates … no sign of zone, but she’s using what’s left of gravity to ascertain her position. She’s moved away from the Moon’s north-south axis, into the depths of the farside. The inner perimeter of the Room is right above her.

  Along with Matthew Sinclair.

  You’re shitting me,” says Linehan.

  “You wish,” says Lynx.

  Linehan’s in the door of the inner bridge. He looks about as pissed as the Operative expected. The idea of leaving the bridge during this madness clearly hadn’t even begun to occur to him. Because that would be—

  “Total fucking insanity,” says Linehan.

  “Probably worse than that,” says Lynx.

  “And yet you’re up for it?”

  “Piece of cake,” says Lynx.

  “You’re higher than a motherfucker,” says Linehan.

  “Aren’t we all,” says the Operative.

  What the fuck is that?” asks Spencer.

  “Probably a trap,” says Jarvin.

  Though it’s hard to see how. Embedded on the surface of the signal is the frequency for a zone-channel. All they have to do is tune into it to enable conversation. There’s no need to inter-mesh minds. No reason to move outside their zone-enclave. In theory, no risk. But in practice—

  “We’d have to be nuts to take that call,” says Spencer.

  “If Sinclair’s revving up the Room, what do we have to lose?”

  “The chance to see it happen.”

  “We’re just talking about a little dialogue.”

  “These days that’s the most dangerous thing.”

  Jarvin shrugs, then switches them over to the zone-frequency. A face awaits them there.

  The zone’s coming alive within her skull once more—not the American zone at all, but something that’s nonetheless the most robust microzone she’s ever seen. She marvels at all that clockwork—sensing as she does the machinery of Sinclair’s fortress crouching all around—stretching out for kilometers around her, metal burrowed through endless tunnels, intricate patterns all waiting for one thing. She moves down a passage, sees a door ahead, knows what it is even before it slides open. She’s expected all of it.

  Save the voice.

  They don’t waste time. They get moving, through the bridge’s emergency airlock and out onto the hull and—

  “Don’t look up,” says Lynx.

  But Linehan does, takes in the most demented sight he’s ever seen, far crazier than any drug-vision that’s ever assailed him: the two wings of the L2 fleet stretching away on both sides into what looks like forever, the Moon filling most of the sky beyond them. And past that rock are all too many stars—

  “The Eurasian vanguard,” breathes Linehan.

  “Let’s move,” says Lynx.

  Broadcasting from somewhere on this ship: the face is that of a woman. Spencer recognizes it from the files. He wonders if that particular file is bullshit—wonders whether this face is, too. All the more so as he knows exactly where this is going—knows what the woman’s going to say even before she says it.

  “I want to talk to Sarmax,” she says calmly.

  It’s the voice of Jason Marlowe. Or whatever’s passing for it. It’s been so long. Its feel like it’s only been a moment. This moment now: it sounds inside her head, and she’s never heard anything louder. Even though she can’t understand a single word. Because it’s some language she’s never heard. Chills shoot up her spine while the elevator car she’s stepped within rushes through the rock.

  They’re creeping along the hull of the superdreadnaught like two mountain climbers. They’ve got magnetic clamps turned up to maximum and have tethered themselves to each other for good measure. Linehan can only imagine what’s going on beneath his feet. He keeps expecting DE shots from the incoming Eurasian ships to sweep them off altogether. He doubts he’d feel a thing—his brain would be vaporized before it even processed the bad news. He tries not to look at the Moon as he and Lynx work their way around some gun-turrets. But it’s tough. It feels like that Moon’s a lodestone—like it’s pulling at him with a force way beyond mere gravity. The middle sections of the ship stretch out beyond them.

  That’s a good one,” says Spencer.

  “He’s the only one I’ll talk to,” says Indigo Velasquez.

  Or at least, a face that looks like Indigo Velasquez. Spencer knows what this face does to Sarmax. He knows the Rain isn’t above trying the same trick twice. Spencer’s doing his best to think of what he’s looking at as a thing. He meets its eyes.

  “You must think we’re stupid,” he says.

  “He’s the only one I trust.”

  “Didn’t he try to kill you?” asks Jarvin.

  “His final lesson to me.”

  “And you’re not getting near him. God only knows what voice-activation shit he’s been rigged with.”

  “Maybe we did the same to you.”

  “Try it, bitch.”

  “We’re razors,” says Jarvin. “Sarmax isn’t. And you’ve had a lot more opportunity over the years to get your hooks into him.”

  “After all,” says Spencer, “that’s why you fucked him.”

  “You’ll pay for that.”

  “About time you dropped the mask.”

  Claire,” says Marlowe.

  He’s speaking English now. Her past smolders through her. She knows there’s only one way to settle this. Only one way to respond.

  “This isn’t you,” she says.

  “So why do you use the second person?”

  “What I’m talking to is not Jason.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “You’re Matthew Sinclair.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then you’re his tool. Even if you wear Marlowe’s flesh, you’re still—”

  “You’re walking into a trap,” he replies.

  Pause. “I know.”

  “So if I’m Sinclair, why am I telling you that?”

  “Because Sinclair’s trying to make me think you’re alive,” she says. “To fuck with my head the only way he can.”

  “But you do that so well all by yourself,” says the voice.

  They’re maneuvering through a wilderness of turrets and panels. Energies of every wavelength crackle past them as guns discharge at the closing Eurasian fleet. The Moon’s moving visibly closer with every moment as the American fleet keeps accelerating. But the Harrison’s going to need all the margin it can get. Whether the antimatter drive’s been taken apart by crazed colonists is anyone’s guess. And if the rest of the motors are threatened, then they’ve got even bigger problems. The two men move through onto the rear portions of the ship. The stern looms before them, the stars beyond that shimmering in the ship’s exhaust.

  Our personal feelings no longer matter,” says the woman.

  “And that’s why you so desperately need to talk to Sarmax?”

  “This has gone out of control,” she says. “Sinclair’s on the verge of winning everything.”

  “I thought your triad was loyal to him,” says Jarvin.

  “No longer.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He’ll consume us all.”

  Jarvin laughs. “You just figured that out, huh?”

  “We need to join forces.”

  “Oh
sure,” says Spencer.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You really think we can work together?”

  “We’ve got to.”

  “Wrong,” says Spencer, turning off the channel.

  Somehow she finds the strength to switch him off.

  Because there’s no way that voice can help her. If there really is a Marlowe clone inside the Room’s outer perimeter, then it belongs to Sinclair utterly. By definition. Though in truth she doubts whatever’s out there has anything to do with Marlowe in the first place. It’s just a voice that’s all too adept at mimicry. She steels herself, tells herself her time with Jason is past.

  Unless she can somehow fuck with that past. She’s wondering if that might be possible. She’s thinking it’s the worst kind of temptation. The elevator streaks in toward the heart of everything.

  A flash—one among many, but this one’s way too close.

  One of the neighboring ships suddenly comes apart like a cheap toy as Eurasian long-range artillery strikes home, spilling unearthly shadows along the hull of the Harrison. Linehan feels even more exposed than he already is. He keeps expecting debris to start raining down around him, yet he keeps on following Lynx, who seems to know exactly where he’s going. The hull’s curve is sharpening. The engines are dead ahead.

  Sarmax abruptly stirs and pulls himself out of the corner, then starts moving against the craft’s acceleration toward the cockpit door. The eyes of Jarvin and Spencer track him from the wall screens.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” asks Jarvin.

  “Out,” says Sarmax.

  They’re on the rear of the ship, clamped to a wall sloping down toward the inferno of the motors. Linehan feels like he’s looking at the very edge of existence—like it’s all surrounded by some bubble, and he’s finally reached it. The Moon’s no longer visible. But a hatch is—

  “Blow it,” says Lynx.

  Spencer stays where he is—in the zone, locking down the cockpit, keeping an eye on all the entryways. Jarvin’s dropped back out—back into his body. He moves after Sarmax, who barely glances at him.

  “Don’t try to stop me,” he says.

  “From doing what?” asks Jarvin.

  “Like you need to ask.”

  Can’t you hack it?” asks Linehan.

  “Systems are fucked,” says Lynx.

  “Sometimes the old-fashioned way’s best,” says Linehan. He opens up with his lasers and starts carving through the hatch.

  Sarmax stops at the cockpit door, turns to face Jarvin.

  “You really don’t want to fight me,” he says.

  Spencer’s doing his best to hack the mech’s zone-connections. He figures Sarmax has managed to switch them off again, but it turns out they’re still on. Yet he can’t break through. Apparently there’s a new factor in the mix.

  “She’s inside you,” he says slowly.

  “Finally,” says Sarmax.

  “You’ve gone insane,” says Jarvin.

  “Fine.”

  “You go out there and they’ll kill you.”

  “You’re the one who’ll die if you don’t open that door.”

  Spencer stares at the man. Being trapped in a confined space with an off-the-leash mech wasn’t exactly what he was planning. He can see only one way out of this.

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” says Jarvin. “We can—”

  “No we can’t,” says Spencer.

  The cockpit door slides open.

  Linehan tears aside what’s left of the hatch. They slide into the shaft that’s revealed, glad to put the exterior behind them. But as to what’s in here with them—

  “Get ready to start killing,” says Lynx.

  “They’re already dead,” mutters Linehan.

  The door shuts behind Sarmax. Spencer watches on the camera-feeds as the mech makes his way down the shaft toward the exterior door, stepping around the charges and mines liberally strewn along its length. Jarvin cuts back on the zone.

  “Let’s take him out,” he says.

  “Are you nuts?” says Spencer.

  “We’re nuts if we let him out of here.”

  “The man’s a world-class mech. We can’t hack him. You really want to get in the ring with him?”

  Jarvin says nothing.

  “Besides,” adds Spencer, “even if we nailed him, he’d still take out half the fucking defenses while he was going down and then the Rain would be right up our asses.”

  “So what the hell are you suggesting we do?”

  Spenser shrugs. “Write him off.”

  They roar out of the shaft and through an airlock, coming into the infested areas, letting shots streak out ahead of them. The colonists look almost happy to see them. Linehan figures they have reason to be, since he and Lynx are the only targets left. They’re approaching the engines—

  “Antipersonnel weapons only,” says Lynx.

  “That’ll make it that much tougher.”

  “You know you love it.”

  The far door to the cockpit access-shaft opens. Sarmax heads through, pulling himself along the walls as acceleration hauls against him. Lights flicker here and there, but it’s mostly dark. Quiet, too. Bodies are strewn about. Looks like the crew has finished killing one another off.

  Or maybe the Rain has done it for them. Sarmax really doesn’t care. All that matters is that she’s back. That she appeared in his head and told him what to do if he wanted to see her again. His latent mental abilities have finally coalesced.

  Or else he’s gone nuts. Or he’s been had. Because he sees no signs of her now. His mind’s empty. So are these corridors. He keeps on making his way through them.

  They come through into the engine area, spraying flechette rounds in clouds around them. The colonists who have broken through to this area are trapped. It’s over quickly. Lynx and Linehan fire shots down the corridor through which they’ve come. They’re slamming the doors shut.

  “Now what?” says Linehan.

  “Now get on that fucking motor,” says Lynx.

  The doors are shut once more. The defenses are back up.

  It’s just the two of them now. Their bodies are in opposite corners of the room, their minds creeping amidst zone fragments, flitting from sensor to sensor, tracking Sarmax as he makes his way deeper into the depths of the structure. Until—

  “What the fuck?” says Spencer.

  “He just vanished,” says Jarvin.

  “Into the jaws of Rain.”

  Total silence save for the feedback in his own helmet. He’s no longer on the zone. There’s nothing for him there. Nothing in his mind now either. No sign of Indigo. At all. A nasty suspicion’s forming in his head. He’s the one who almost killed her back in the day. If she really is alive, then maybe he won’t be staying that way for too long. Maybe that’s the way it should be. He primes his weapons, gets ready for what he’s been waiting for all along.

  Linehan opens more hatches and starts running wires into the microfission chambers while Lynx establishes a link back to the bridge. The Operative’s face appears on a screen.

  “What’s the situation?”

  “We’re here,” says Lynx. “It’s going to take awhile.”

  “What’s going on?” asks the Operative.

  “The comps are fucked. We have to program the thing by hand.”

  “But it’s working?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Okay,” says the Operative. “Keep me posted and—fuck!”

  “What your problem?” asks Lynx.

  “This,” says the Operative—beams over data—

  “Fuck me,” says Lynx.

  And it’s all they can do to hang on. The megaships just changed gears yet again—heavier racks of nukes start slotting through them as they move to a whole new level of speed. If this goes on for much longer, all the humans aboard will be crushed by the G-forces. They’re starting to feel pretty squashed now. Spencer and Jarvin are pressed back in their r
espective corners. But at least they’re braced for it.

  Sarmax gets knocked sprawling. He grabs at a doorway, misses—tumbles down a corridor that’s become a shaft—he’s firing his suit-jets, but not in time—walls come rushing up to meet him—

  There’s a lurch as the Harrison throttles up still further and the L2 fleet reaches its uppermost speed. Any extra margin is a function of what Lynx can achieve with the AM drive. He’s running through the circuitry now—

  “No pressure,” says Linehan.

  “Fuck you,” mutters Lynx.

  “Take a look at this,” says the Operative on the com.

  But Lynx can spare only a glance at the data that the Operative’s forwarding onto the screen. The vanguards of the Eurasian fleet are kniving in along two distinct vectors—releasing their tethers, slinging scores of troopships toward the Moon. Looks like the two megaships themselves are going to converge on a point behind it. More specifically—

  “They’re coming for us,” says the Operative.

  “I get that,” says Lynx. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “No,” says the Operative, “they’re coming for us.”

  We’re heading straight for them,” says Jarvin.

  The AI confirms it. The override back at the motors has got them on a collision course with the U.S. fleet, not to mention the other megaship. And now the AI starts to reel off more numbers …

  “Holy mother of God,” says Jarvin.

  Waking up isn’t easy. Especially when it involves becoming aware of so much pain. Sarmax opens his eyes to find a metal surface pressed up against his visor. He’s pressed up against the rest of that metal, shoved against the edge of a doorway that acceleration has turned into the entrance of a rather deep pit. He’s trying to move. He can’t. His armor’s primary gyros are fucked. His secondaries aren’t reporting for duty. That’s when someone presses their helmet up against his.

  Lights gleam along the walls: the elevator car’s moving along grooves cut into the side of a vast cavern. Machinery’s everywhere, crusting along the walls and ceiling like some out-of-control growth.