The Machinery of Light

by David J. Williams

  Yet Haskell knows it’s a mere fraction of the total sum of what’s enclosed within this part of the Moon. Most of it isn’t visible—just endless kilometers of piping running through tunnels too narrow for any but the most specialized of service droids. None of which matters as long as it works. And it’s all about to be put to the test. Her car drops through the cavern’s floor, slides to a halt. The door opens.

  As the Eurasian megaships streak in from either side of the Moon, the American fleet opens up with all remaining guns. The rest of the Eurasian armada returns the favor. Both sides start taking serious damage. The Operative watches on the screens while ship after ship gets hit by DE fire—while simultaneously the KE gatlings throughout the U.S. fleet start churning metal out into vacuum at unholy rates, aiming along the vectors deemed most likely by the computers to intersect with the megaships, now rushing in upon each flank—

  “How’s it looking up there?” asks Lynx.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  What kind of a flight plan is that?” asks Jarvin.

  “It’s no flight plan,” says Spencer.

  “You mean—”

  “Yeah.”

  The AI’s spitting out preliminary computations regarding the last section of the files that Sinclair possessed and Jarvin stole and Spencer almost cracked. The fact that Haskell augmented the AI is no small factor in the breakthrough it’s managed to make. The overall parameters on the remaining section of the file coalesce on zone. Row upon row of solved equations—

  “Can we get this in English?” says Jarvin.

  “Almost there,” says the AI.

  “So are we,” says Spencer.

  A withering barrage of KE hits the megaship.

  Software uploads stream into Sarmax’s suit. Hands haul him up from his perch, drag him through a hatchway.

  A voice echoes in his head.

  “Christ, we’ve missed you,” it says.

  Almost … there,” says Lynx.

  He’d better be. And he’s got more than a few incentives to minimize the amount of time he spends near these microfission chambers. Radiation readings are going off the charts all around him as he runs zone. The Harrison keeps shuddering as it takes fire. Lynx can almost feel those battering rams in space streaking in toward him …

  The AI will have it all figured out within the next thirty seconds. But they’re now hurtling in upon the left flank of the L2 fleet—which isn’t even trying for evasive action. Instruments show the nose of their megaship has been shot off. Doesn’t matter. The rest of it is still racing forward, like an ancient war-elephant about to hurl itself upon a phalanx that’s bracing desperately to receive it. The massed guns of the L2 fleet are a wall of flaring light.

  “We’re not meant to survive this,” says Jarvin.

  “You just figured that out?”

  He’s dragged into some kind of confined space—opens his eyes to behold—

  “Indigo,” he whispers.

  “Hold on,” she replies.

  The megaships spear through the L2 fleet, choosing courses that send them slotting in between the larger ships, smashing through the lesser ones. Total carnage ensues. Clouds of debris and flame show their paths as they rocket in toward the center, shedding pieces of their hulls the whole time. The Operative watches as they converge on the Harrison’s position. He knows better than to ask what the situation is back at the stern. On the outer bridge, Maschler and Riley are starting to look like they’d rather be somewhere else.

  The computer keeps processing the last of the files as Spencer starts modularizing the cockpit, slamming all blast-doors in anticipation of imminent collision. So far the megaships coming in from both sides have avoided hitting any of the larger ships. But they’re clearly about to make an exception for the Harrison.

  “Brace yourself,” says Spencer.

  “Very funny,” says Jarvin.

  Sarmax gets it now. He’s in some kind of dropship. So is she. Along with the triad’s two other members. He recognizes them, but they mean nothing to him. They’re manning the controls, powering up the craft, getting ready to launch. She’s holding his glove in hers.

  She steps out of the elevator, into a chamber that contains a single mammoth door, reinforced and shimmering with energy. The gateway through the inner perimeter. She takes a deep breath—

  Linehan watches the megaships fill all screens, then turns around as Lynx scrambles into view, slamming hatches shut behind him.

  “Done,” says Lynx.

  “Did you hear that?” asks Linehan.

  “Believe it,” replies the Operative—

  —as he fires the antimatter drive up. The Harrison suddenly lurches forward. Hammer of the Skies just misses the flagship, shoots behind it, smashes another dreadnaught dead amidships—the combined burning mass torpedoes like a meteor past the incoming Righteous Fire-Dragon—

  —reaching out toward that door beyond which lies everything that matters—

  Holy fuck!” yells Spencer.

  “Here we go,” mutters Jarvin.

  “Here’s the kicker,” says the AI.

  Sarmax looks into the eyes of the woman he remembers all too well.

  “You came back,” he says.

  “I never left,” she replies.

  —touches it—

  Jesus Christ!” yells Linehan.

  —and the Operative kills the antimatter, hits all retros—slowing the ship just enough to take it off the direct path of the Righteous Fire-Dragon. But it’s going to be close—

  Too close.

  “Hold on!” yells Spencer.

  “You guys need to hear this,” says the AI.

  “Fucking download it!” screams Jarvin.

  The Righteous Fire-Dragon swipes the Harrison just aft of where the Memphis is still lodged in the flagship’s side.

  The dropship is still attached to the wall of the hangar.

  It’s being buffeted worse than any atmosphere.

  Sarmax feels Velasquez’s hack-sequences continue to course through him, repairing his armor where they can, tending to the software in his mind—

  —She’s putting all that’s going on overhead out of her mind—begins running the sequence to hack the door that leads through the inner perimeter. It’s not just a hack on zone either. It’s also her mind: her psionic abilities surge against the defenses—

  The Harrison’s been sliced almost in two. Lynx and Linehan are clinging to the walls via magnetic clamps while the rear section of the flagship surges out of control. Wall starts to rip away ahead of them. Colonists stream out behind them like water playing from a fire hose.

  What’s left of Righteous Fire-Dragon charges on into the thick of the American fleet, smashing ships while getting smashed itself. The Operative’s screaming at Maschler and Riley to get inside the inner bridge. They’re leaping to comply as the Moon seesaws crazily in the window—

  —It’s a demolition derby in the middle of the L2 fleet, and the megaships are coming apart under repeated impacts. Spencer and Jarvin are thrown back and forth as their ship plows on past the fleet, arcing back toward the Moon, the outer layers starting to shred—

  At least I saw you again,” says Sarmax.

  “We’re not dead yet,” says Velasquez.

  The walls of the hangar start to tear away.

  The sequences she’s running keep on building, as does the psychic backwash. Factors keep on dwindling toward zero, canceling out all infinities. Untold reverberations wash through her, but she anticipates each one, slides her mind at the precise angle to avoid insanity—

  We are so fucked,” mutters Linehan.

  “At least go out in style,” snaps Lynx. He’s trying to hack the motor directly. What’s left of the combined mass of the Memphis and the Harrison is falling away. The farside of the Moon’s coming in toward them.

  Maschler joins the Operative on the inner bridge.

  The outer bridge personnel are panicking. Riley pulls himself in
to the inner bridge, slams the door behind him.

  “Now what?” he yells.

  “Hold the fuck on,” says the Operative.

  It’s all they can do. They’re being shaken ever harder as the Righteous Fire-Dragon barrels its way through the far flank of the L2 fleet, ships scattering on both sides like schools of fish before a shark. Moon’s rushing in toward them.

  The dropship detaches in one fluid motion, firing motors and falling away from the disintegrating hangar and out of the megaship. Hull starts to streak past them.

  The ceiling is disintegrating. Along with the floor.

  They’re back against the bulwark of the motor itself now, holding on with those magnetic clamps. And suddenly that engine is firing again. Linehan feels his whole life flash before him. Lynx is laughing like crazy as he feeds commands into the motors and they rocket past what’s left of the Harrison, catapulting straight in toward the Moon.

  The outer bridge personnel are hurling themselves against the door to the inner bridge, trying to somehow find a way in. It’s not like they have a plan. They’re just intent on killing the ones who have killed them. But the three men inside pay no attention—instead, they’re watching the Harrison’s wayward antimatter drive streak past them, two suited figures clinging to it.

  “What a way to go,” says Riley.

  “We’re going the same way,” says the Operative as he finishes the sequence he’s been keying. Explosions suddenly detonate throughout the outer bridge.

  We’ve lost the engines,” says Spencer.

  Jarvin nods. He brings up the trajectory and looks at the dotted line that shows the extrapolation—an arc continuing around the lunar surface, impacting on the nearside at—

  “Hmmm,” he says.

  They’re getting the hell out of the way of the nukes. The megaship falls away in the distance. The ships of the L2 fleet pour by overhead. The dropship’s plunging toward the lunar surface.

  And suddenly they’re upon her. The guardians of the Room. Not just silicon either. She can feel the texture of their minds; they’re almost like her, living flesh linked to silicon to create something greater. She pictures living brains trapped within walls, pictures them linked together, swarming in upon her head—

  Two men like insects on the edge of eternity, clinging to machinery that’s roaring full tilt toward the ground. The L2 fleet blasts above them, formation after formation surging around toward the nearside to face the main weight of the Eurasian fleet. But the American deployment is less than flawless—gaps are everywhere in the ranks, testament to the damage the megaships wrought.

  “They’re fucked,” says Lynx.

  “And we’re not?”

  The Moon rushes ever closer.

  Admiral’s privilege,” says the Operative.

  He’s not kidding. The inner bridge of the Harrison doubles as an escape ship. Riley and Maschler can only watch as he takes that ship through a series of evasive maneuvers. The L2 fleet tumbles away above them. The Moon falls in toward them. Riley laughs.

  “No one’s going to be fooled by this,” he says.

  “Szilard will fucking nail us,” mutters Maschler.

  “I think he’s got other shit to worry about,” says the Operative, gesturing at the explosions dotting the approaching lunar surface.

  The last cameras are getting taken out. But as they go, they show clear evidence that the lunar garrisons are in very deep trouble. A couple of domes on the boundary between farside and nearside just blew—outposts that are clearly under coordinated attack by the Eurasian commandos that the megaships have scattered like countless spores across the Moon. But those ships are paying the ultimate price for the havoc they’ve wreaked. Hammer of the Skies is disappearing from sight, disintegrating across the horizon, shredding into the mother of all meteor showers. And before they went offline, the engines of the Righteous Fire-Dragon got one last set of instructions.

  “Projected impact on Copernicus,” says Jarvin.

  Spencer whistles. “The lunar capital?”

  “For a couple more minutes.”

  The dropship careens downward. The ship’s stealthy, but that alone won’t be enough. Sarmax can only imagine what hacks this Rain triad is running on the American zone. He’s starting to think they might actually make it to the surface. He looks at Velasquez.

  “Why’d you save me?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  She shoves her head deeper into the Room’s defenses, smashing ever further into those minds, each one a prick of sentience she’s snuffing out. She can’t help but wonder whether these brains were the real Rain originals—the things that never left the vats, that instead were assigned the mission of defending Sinclair’s ultimate stronghold. But she’s turning the flank on those defenses. She’s almost there. She feels it all twisting in around her.

  They’re still pointed straight down, aiming at the very center of the farside. Ground-to-space lasers streak past them. Lynx throttles up the engine even further, opens up a comlink with what’s left of the Congreve defense grid, and starts running a particularly insidious hack.

  They’re getting low now, maneuvering within ten thousand meters of the surface. Mountain ranges loom ahead of them, straddling the near and farsides.

  “Where the fuck are we going?” says Riley.

  “Familiar ground,” says the Operative.

  They’re arcing down across the nearside, the domes of Copernicus approaching all too rapidly—and Spencer can only imagine the alarms that are going off within them. Not that anyone’s going to have time to react.

  “Time to go,” says Spencer.

  “Agreed,” says Jarvin.

  The truth is we need you,” says Velasquez.

  “Because of Sinclair,” replies Sarmax.

  “Because otherwise we’re nothing but his prey.”

  She’s in the home stretch now. Though she keeps wondering why Sinclair is making this so hard for her.

  Especially when he needs her to finish what he’s set in motion. Maybe this is her final test. Maybe he’s trying to draw off some of her strength. If that’s the case, it’s not working. She’s only growing stronger. She moves onto the final sequence—

  Let’s do this,” says Lynx. The two men detach themselves—fire judicious thrusts from their motors as the antimatter drive drops away. Lynx has convinced Congreve’s defenses that this fragment of the Harrison is about to try an emergency landing in the adjacent Korolev Crater. The two men plunge downward in their armor and watch the engine beneath them dwindle to a speck while Congreve’s dome grows larger by the second.

  Mountains are streaking in toward them. The Operative’s working the controls, banking the escape craft beneath the highest peaks, letting it drop down toward the valleys. Maschler does a doubletake.

  “Wait a second,” he says. “This is—”

  “Shut up and hold on,” says the Operative.

  Spencer and Jarvin crawl through a narrow shaft that’s nearly identical to the one they had used to enter the cockpit on the Hammer of the Skies. Spencer was tempted to rig the Eurasian AI with hi-ex, but he realizes that would stretch the word superfluous to whole new levels. He’s got the files that machine downloaded in the back of his head. He’s got no time to bother with them right now. They reach the last hatch, shove it aside, fling themselves out into the abyss.

  How much do you know?” asks Sarmax.

  “Enough,” she replies. “He’s been using us—”

  “When did you figure it out?”

  “After we realized we weren’t guarding Sinclair.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Some point before the war started, I guess. Now he’s at the Room, I don’t see how the hell we can stop him in time.”

  He stares at her. “We can fucking try,” he says.

  Terrain starts to appear in the windows of the dropship.

  Ciphers so next-level that only a brain like Haskell’s can hope to pen
etrate them. She’s tearing through them on overdrive—making them think that she’s the one who’s created them. Who’s now reversing them. She’s through. The locks click through her mind—

  A million shades of black and grey, a million lights flaring all around—and the soundtrack to all of it is silence as Linehan takes in the sight. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He suddenly feels that all the fighting and shooting and killing that’s going on around him isn’t really happening—that existence has dwindled to this tiny space inside his helmet even as he looks at all those stars. It seems like there’s a pattern all around, like somehow it’s all meant to happen. He and Lynx are freefalling, tumbling downward, that engine-that’s-now-a-bomb a distant firefly far below. Any moment now Congreve’s defenses are going to come to their senses. But a few moments more and it’s going to be too late—

  They swoop over one mountain, veer in toward another. A giant sinkhole stretches out before them, carved straight through adjacent hills and valleys. It doesn’t look natural. More like—

  “Someone had some fun with blasting powder,” says Riley.

  “Couple of nukes,” says the Operative.

  “Autumn Rain?”

  “Several days back.”

  “And you were there, huh?”

  “Hey,” says Maschler, “that looks like another ship.”

  Judicious bursts of their suit-thrusters as they exit—and the Righteous Fire-Dragon is rushing past, dropping beneath them as they gain height. It seems to have given up spitting nukes. It won’t matter—it’s still going to turn Copernicus into a big pancake. The sky above Spencer’s head is alive with lights, the vanguards of the American fleet clearly visible as they vector out from behind the Moon to do battle with the onrushing Eurasian fleet. Spencer can see quite clearly that the Yanks haven’t a fucking prayer. The ships of the East make the sky immediately above the nearside look like the center of the galaxy. The Righteous Fire-Dragon is dwindling below them as it moves into the last stage of its final plunge—

  They’ve seen us,” says the pilot.

  Velasquez just nods. The ship rocks from side to side as its pilots keep the trajectory unpredictable, letting the craft drop lower all the while. Moon’s filling the window now. It looks as if they’re maneuvering amidst a mountain range. But Sarmax’s vantage point prevents him from seeing the whole picture.