The Machinery Of Light Part 32

"I get that," says the Operative. He shoves his guns up against Sorenson's face. "Too bad this G.o.dd.a.m.n hunk of metal where you and that blowup-b.i.t.c.h of yours have been holed up contains not a single portal of any use whatsoever."

"G.o.d help me it's true," says Sorenson. He's cowering like he knows he's about to get it any moment- "And you don't even know the details of the f.u.c.king recipe to cook up some Rain," says Lynx. "So what the f.u.c.k have you been growing here?" "So what the f.u.c.k have you been growing here?"

"My best effort," snaps Sorenson.

"And you were going to activate them when?" when?"

"I figured to use them as a bargaining chip instead."

"You've signed your own death warrant, old man."

"That happened long ago."

"You may yet avoid it," says the Operative.

Sorenson looks at him. "What do you want me to do?"

"Wake them up, of course."

Visors can be deceptive. Sometimes the screens that they project can face the other way. These three show Han Chinese faces. But on the inside it's a different story ...

"Special agent Zhou Tang," says the man who's not. "Here to interrogate the prisoner, at the express instruction of the Praesidium."

IDs flow up and down the ladders of command. The word comes back. A sentry signals. The door opens-to reveal a second barricade. More sentries step forward.

You can't be serious," says Sorenson.

"I never joke," says the Operative.

He and Lynx have already gotten busy siphoning off all the data-the schematics on this particular batch of would-be superwarriors; the records Sorenson's kept of his long stealth burn through the glacial layers of the s.p.a.ceCom bureaucracy; the tantalizing fragments from all the years before that. He s.n.a.t.c.hes at files with timestamps from the 2080s. Data fills him up till he feels like he could burst. He looks at Sorenson.

"So fire it up," he says.

Sorenson starts warming up the brain-farm.

She's coming in on Shackleton like a bomb now, and she still can't break through to the larger zone beyond. It's just not happening. She almost wonders if she's been damaged irreparably by everything that's gone down. But her mind feels anything but damaged. It feels like it's burning out in all directions. She's bringing new insight to the situation at hand. She's now almost certain that machine was a teleporter-and only that. None of her readouts show a trace of tachyons. Meaning that figure wasn't wasn't from the future. Whoever it was is from the present. Maybe even from somewhere else on the Moon. But within the zone itself, Haskell's still confined to this tunnel, blocked off at both ends-and even that perspective's shrinking as someone pulls the plug on the maglev. She wonders why they didn't do it earlier-maybe they figured there's no point, because now she's switching to rockets-she barrels forward toward her destination- from the future. Whoever it was is from the present. Maybe even from somewhere else on the Moon. But within the zone itself, Haskell's still confined to this tunnel, blocked off at both ends-and even that perspective's shrinking as someone pulls the plug on the maglev. She wonders why they didn't do it earlier-maybe they figured there's no point, because now she's switching to rockets-she barrels forward toward her destination- Cryo-machines hum. Life-support systems chirp.

Flesh is waking up.

"How much longer?" says the Operative.

"Only a couple more minutes," says Sorenson.

"And how soon will they be ready for combat?"

"Within the hour."

"Might need to cut some corners," says the Operative.

The guards of the second perimeter put them through the paces. Codes, backup codes, failsafes, voice recognition ... but Spencer is sufficiently high up in the Eurasian zone that he's got all the answers. Or at least he's able to make like he does-he still can't penetrate the Praesidium itself, but he can fool it into thinking he's carrying out the orders. The second set of doors slide away-reveal the third and last dead ahead.

She's heading into the outskirts of Shackleton, and she still can't reach the zone. She can only a.s.sume that's because there's no direct link to it from this tunnel she's in-a tunnel that's suddenly starting to widen, joining up with other tunnels. Sarmax's infrastructure is giving way to the infrastructure of the whole city. It spreads out before her.

Almost there," says Lynx.

The Operative says nothing. He's lost in the faces of the waking sleepers. They look so familiar. There's one woman in particular that he feels like he's seen before. Probably because the face isn't dissimilar to Claire's. He can only imagine where she is now. He wonders just how good this batch will be. Not quite up to the stuff of the originals, but maybe that's just as well. He watches the seconds slide by, gets ready to start giving orders.

The codes are running. The sentries who guard the last door are waiting for the results. Spencer feels like he's reached the threshold. Sarmax's suit-monitors show his pulse accelerating to dangerous levels. Spencer wonders whether he's going to give them all away. It's just a few more meters to the man who tried to turn this whole game inside out-the man who may yet be running the whole thing. He feels that power's within his grasp. He lets the zone-bubble he's created slide in around them. The doors open- Like slalom on acid: Haskell starts weaving her way into the tunnel-network around Shackleton. She's dodging past other trains, stations, freight. Sirens are sounding. Klaxons are howling. Apparently the garrison is finally waking up. But she's still detecting no zone presence.

And suddenly she gets it: they've switched it off altogether. Contingency planning-faced with the likes of her, they've gone to communicating purely by a.n.a.log line and loudspeaker. But mobilizing under those kind of conditions is anything but easy. She's eating up the klicks, rising through levels, closing on the heart of the city. Even as she feels something closing in on her ...

We're going to need to get them some weapons," says Lynx.

"They're the weapons," says the Operative. the weapons," says the Operative.

And equipping them will be the least of his problems. This war-sat contains enough s.h.i.t to blow up a small asteroid anyway. Redundancy has its advantages. Same with these twenty men and women. They'll be the firepower needed to initiate the next phase-the ticket back to the Moon. Sorenson's files are going to be helpful, too. The Operative glances at the scientist and wonders if there might actually be some use in keeping him alive. The eyelids of some of the sleepers are starting to flicker.

A repurposed storage chamber: the walls look like they've been seriously reinforced. The center is dominated by a squat structure that stretches almost to the ceiling. repurposed storage chamber: the walls look like they've been seriously reinforced. The center is dominated by a squat structure that stretches almost to the ceiling.

"Huh," says Spencer.

It's a box-a room all its own. It's been custom built for a single purpose. A single door's visible, along with a window next to it. The three men move forward as the hatches through which they've entered slide shut behind them.

She rockets through the bas.e.m.e.nts of Shackleton. All the maglev is out, as is the rest of the electricity. It's all a scorched-earth strategy to slow her down. The s.p.a.ceCom garrison is taking up positions. She can't see see it, but she can it, but she can sense sense it-and the fact that nearly all of their defense sequences were prepped to deal with attacks from without makes it difficult to scramble to meet an incursion from within. Particularly since all Haskell's really concerned about is getting out herself. She swerves back onto a set of pa.s.senger rails. Raw contingency hits her like a wave. A face starts boiling up inside her mind. it-and the fact that nearly all of their defense sequences were prepped to deal with attacks from without makes it difficult to scramble to meet an incursion from within. Particularly since all Haskell's really concerned about is getting out herself. She swerves back onto a set of pa.s.senger rails. Raw contingency hits her like a wave. A face starts boiling up inside her mind.

The Operative wills himself to remain calm. The last thing he wants is to sit here and wait while these things wake up. Particularly when everything around him is coming to a head. The Eurasians might start their final attack at any moment. The endgame could kick off anytime. The eyes of the sleeper nearest to him open.

Spencer looks in the window. Sitting cross-legged against the wall opposite them is Matthew Sinclair. Unsuited, his eyes closed. Four people are chained adjacent to him. They wear Praetorian colors. Three are very clearly dead. Blood's dripping from their ears and noses.

The fifth looks fine. Her face isn't one that Spencer recognizes. But it seems like Sarmax does. He's obviously struggling to control himself.

"Steady," says Spencer.

Sinclair's eyes open.

She's transfixed-can't turn away. The old man's surging into her head like some tide she can't withstand. She's not sure why she ever wanted to. Her mind collapses in upon itself like some kind of sinkhole, yet the deeper it goes the more acute her insight gets. Tunnel blasts past her while she maneuvers through the Com forces with near-perfect precision. They're still hoping to trap her and take her alive-and she's only got a few more seconds before they realize that's just not going to be possible. But anything can happen in those seconds. Particularly inside the endless reaches of her head. The jaws of Sinclair open to receive her.

The Operative can't take his eyes off that woman-the one who resembles Claire. It isn't her, of course. It's not even a clone. But he can barely look away. It's like watching someone being born. He feels the eyes of the others upon him now-feels himself caught up in a vortex of his own making. He wonders what happened to the old Carson-the one who never made mistakes, who always forced others to pay for theirs. He wonders what his motives for all this really are. The woman's mouth is forming soundless words.

Spencer's trying to keep his mind focused. The eyes of Sinclair are like pits into which he's tumbling. He's fighting to pull himself away. He's conscious of almost nothing else.

Except for Sarmax.

"Easy," Spencer says again.

"s.h.i.t," says Jarvin-but Sarmax is already igniting his las-knife, slashing through the seals on the cell door.

The s.p.a.ceCom forces are giving up on trying to capture her. They're opening fire-but she's firing first, unleashing a rack of torpedoes, then calibrating her own route to steer in amidst the blasts detonating throughout the labyrinth of Shackleton. And Sinclair's riding her mind as she rides the tunnels-she shoots out through one of the larger caves-gets a quick glimpse of buildings all around-and then she's back into the narrower pa.s.sages as she closes in on the far side of the city. The very edge-she's roaring in toward it as Sinclair forges in toward the center of her awareness. He seems to be looking for something. She's terrified he's about to find it. She pivots within herself- Carson," whispers the woman.

The Operative isn't surprised. It's as though he's been here before. It's as though all this is memory in reverse. He tries to speak-succeeds- I'm here," he says.

The roar of autofire suddenly fills the room.

As Sarmax practically rips the door from its hinges, Spencer realizes that the man has shut down the zone-conduits for his armor.

"Stop him," yells Jarvin.

But Sarmax is already firing.

She's wrestling with the old man for what's left of her sanity-all the while racing out of the transport-tunnels and into corridors intended for personnel, rushing in through the last streets of the city toward the city-wall. She's almost there. The s.p.a.ceCom forces are falling back before her, waiting for her to slow down-waiting for her to turn. It doesn't seem to occur to them that she's not going to. She fires her last rack of torpedoes.

Lead's flying everywhere, along with thousands of flechette rounds. It's all light stuff. It's all bouncing off Lynx and the Operative as they whirl to face the shooter who's standing in the doorway. Sorenson hits the deck, but the sleepers are getting diced. Flesh sprays the walls.

Sarmax opens up with his suit's flamer, spraying liquid fire over all those within the room. Flame engulfs the chamber, surging back over him like some fiery tide.

Explosions half blind her, but Haskell's firing the craft's afterburners anyway, crashing through the s.p.a.ceCom barricades, blasting through the hole in the city-wall that her torpedoes just carved, shredding through the face of Matthew Sinclair as she shoots out into open s.p.a.ce- Linehan ceases firing. Smoke's everywhere.

"f.u.c.k you both," both," he says. he says.

"You're dead," says the Operative.

"And you're f.u.c.king crazy!" yells Linehan. "Where the yells Linehan. "Where the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k do you get off on waking up minions who will try to turn you into do you get off on waking up minions who will try to turn you into f.u.c.king meat? f.u.c.king meat? You want to bring more You want to bring more Rain Rain into the mix? You have f.u.c.king into the mix? You have f.u.c.king lost it lost it, man, and you can-"

"He's right," says Lynx.

It's inferno. It's all Spencer can do to sever the smoke alarms and shut down the fire detection system-but he lets the sprinklers go into action, hurling water everywhere. Smoke belches in gouts from the cell-chamber. Jarvin grabs Sarmax-who seizes him in turn. But before either can strike the first blow- "We've got bigger problems," says Spencer.

And it doesn't get any bigger than this. Shackleton is on the slopes of the South Pole basin-one of the largest impact craters in the solar system, more than ten klicks deep, a ma.s.sive complex of sloping walls and cliffs and darkness. Haskell cuts the afterburners, damps the rockets, and lets the craft arc down like it's a particle of light drawn into some black hole. She sees mountains towering above her-catches a glimpse of Malapert's fiery peak presiding over all of it. But that view is nothing compared to the zone. Now that she's gotten past sublunar Shackleton's shut-down networks, she's got access to wireless; it pours over her like a million waterfalls, giving her the leverage she needs to sweep away the last fragments of Sinclair as she plunges in toward nadir.

The Operative takes it all in-the shredded bodies, the acrid smoke, Sorenson huddled weeping in a corner.

Linehan pulls off his helmet.

"I'll make it easy for you," he sneers.

"Put that back on," says Lynx-and on the one-on-one to Carson: "This is the part where you get a grip."

"He killed them."

"He did us a favor."

"You really believe that."

"Who knows what compulsions those things were saddled with?"

"By Sorenson? He's nothing-"

"By Sinclair."

That wasn't her," says Spencer. "Wasn't him-"

"That's why I killed them," says Sarmax.

"That's why you're crazy."

"Not at all," says Sarmax. "That was one of Sinclair's amplifiers- amplifiers-"

"We need to get out of here," Jarvin says.

She's picking up speed now-just missing a rocky overhang-tumbling past walls of cliffs while her mind ascends through the lunar satellites and out into the American zone, paralyzing all weaponry that's aimed at her. She's like a thousand-eyed insect now, seeing everything, in every direction-the lunar defenses ready for anything, the L2 fleet standing by behind the Moon, the vast Eurasian armadas gathered at L4 and L5. She feels at one with all of it; adjusting her rockets, she drops in toward the very center of the South Pole's maw.

You don't know that for sure," says the Operative.

"That's the point," says Lynx. "The man just delivered us from temptation-"

"And how the f.u.c.k are we getting off this G.o.dd.a.m.n fleet now? Without that firepower-"

"By making do with what we have."

"Meaning we have to let the motherf.u.c.ker live." live."

Lynx nods. "But if you got to have an outlet-"

"Thanks," says the Operative-smashes an armored first through Sorenson's skull.

Full triad," confirms Spencer. "Closing."

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" says Sarmax.

"This was a Rain trap," says Jarvin, tossing a shape-charge against the entryway hatch.

A whole world plunges past her. Mining installations sprout off from cliffs like limpet growths; bulldozers parked on the edge of nothing; ramps that lead down to nowhere. She's dropping below the level of the sun, dropping into darkness, though the contours of the crater echo loud and clear within her head-she sees the view from the satellites overhead, triangulates along a grid as she keeps on falling ... whole world plunges past her. Mining installations sprout off from cliffs like limpet growths; bulldozers parked on the edge of nothing; ramps that lead down to nowhere. She's dropping below the level of the sun, dropping into darkness, though the contours of the crater echo loud and clear within her head-she sees the view from the satellites overhead, triangulates along a grid as she keeps on falling ...

What's left of Sorenson's head slides down the wall, the rest of his body crumpling with it. The Operative looks at Linehan.

"Should have been you," you," he says. he says.

"So work on your aim."

The Operative opens his mouth to reply-and closes it again as sirens begin wailing at full volume.

The hatch disappears in a sheet of flame-the three men charge through, firing while the microbombs they'd planted back at the second and first doors detonate. Sentries go flying. Those who aren't are facing the wrong way anyway-the three men gun them down as they roar through, desperate to get out of the cul-de-sac and gain some maneuvering room in the face of an onrushing Rain triad.

"Almost there," says Spencer.

The engines of the Eurasian fleet ignite.

Like a myriad of fireflies: Haskell takes in the sprawling cl.u.s.ters of heat-signatures out at L5 and L4, as the Eurasian guns start laying down the mother of all bombardments. Suddenly DE is blanketing vacuum-intensifying even further as the American forces return fire. There's so much energy out there that Haskell's losing her wireless links with the U.S. zone. It's like her fingers are getting pried away from some edge. But right now it doesn't matter. She fires her vehicle's retrorockets, powers into the caves within.