The Machinery Of Light Part 4

"s.h.i.t," he says.

They're near the bottom of the elevator-shaft complex that runs up the spine. Below them's only about fifty meters, but above them he can see what must be at least half a klick of shaft before it's lost in darkness. Other shafts are dimly visible through gaps in the interior walls.

"Our new bolthole," says Sarmax. Spencer nods-and suddenly his mind reels as the ship's zone comes to life- "d.a.m.n," he says.

Data pours across him, and he's poring over it. And processing the implications- "What?" says Sarmax. "What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?"

"The external doors," says Spencer.

All along the vast metal hull of this thing they're in, all in one fell swoop in his mind- "Yeah?"

"They just opened."

The tunnel up ahead is blocked by Eurasian commandos. She starts to hit the brakes, but it's too late: they're already firing a torrent of electromagnetic pulse straight at her. Her armor's flaring out around her, crashing against the rails, skittering to a stop as she kicks and screams inside her sh.e.l.l. The Eurasians blast down the tunnel toward her. She wonders how the h.e.l.l she's going to get out of this-wonders for a moment if she should self-destruct. She ponders that for a moment too long- Because now they reach her. Mongolian faces stare into her own. They pick her up, hustle her down the tunnel while more tremors shudder through the rock around them.

The Operative signals his team, gets them moving in new directions. They're charging into a new set of tunnels, well beyond Congreve's outskirts, dating from the end of the last century. The Operative can feel a whole sector of Congreve scrambling into action behind him. But he's not waiting-just streaking forward into the areas where the sentinels have stopped reporting.

And all the while he's thinking furiously. About what the f.u.c.k Eurasians Eurasians are doing in the most important American base on the entire farside. a.s.suming they even are doing in the most important American base on the entire farside. a.s.suming they even are are Eurasians. a.s.suming that Montrose isn't f.u.c.king with him. He's been expecting her to try-just not this early. So he has to a.s.sume he's dealing with the East-has to a.s.sume, too, that if they've managed to get in, it's due to either treason or a first-rate infiltration squad. Or both- Eurasians. a.s.suming that Montrose isn't f.u.c.king with him. He's been expecting her to try-just not this early. So he has to a.s.sume he's dealing with the East-has to a.s.sume, too, that if they've managed to get in, it's due to either treason or a first-rate infiltration squad. Or both- "Contact," says a voice.

It's one of the mechs on point. Data floods the Operative's skull as he coordinates the a.s.sault on the enemy that's blocking the corridors up ahead. It's basically an exercise in firepower: Montrose is feeding him reserves as fast as she can-and as fast as he can get them, they're being fed into the fray that's raging up ahead. Walls are getting torn up by hi-ex; suits spray one another at point-blank range. The Operative is giving up trying to keep his original force intact. He's just using it as the centerpiece of a club to break through the resistance as quickly as possible. He's succeeding-rocketing into the heart of the combat now, firing with all his suit's guns, getting in hand-to-hand with a Eurasian commando, dispatching him and gunning down the ones behind him.

Even though he knows he's lost. This Eurasian raid is clearly over. What he's facing is a rearguard, charged with buying the main force time while it retreats along tunnels that must have been dug awhile back. Tunnels that apparently link up with the U.S. deep-grid lines, hollowed out in preparation for this day. Meaning that presumably there are many others. The Operative's guessing this particular operation's based out of Tsiolkovskiy crater, the closest Eurasian farside territory to Congreve. Though he can't believe that place is still holding out.

Unless ...

Even as he breaks through what's left of the rearguard and hits his jets, the Operative's working the hotline with Montrose's HQ, accessing and downloading the latest data for this section of the farside front. Turns out Tsiolkovskiy's the only place the East's got that's still intact on this side of rock. And there's no sign of Eurasian forces attacking Congreve from any other direction. Meaning what could have been the war-winning move under other circ.u.mstances is just a last desperate gamble.

Which is precisely what the Operative's dreading. He knows all about rearguards-knows, too, all about the word expendable expendable. He's flooring his motors now, hoping to get past what he knows d.a.m.n well is about to happen. He can practically feel the blasts start to rip the tunnel apart. It seems his whole life is going up in smoke before him ...

But he's still breathing. Still moving-streaking out of the older tunnels and into newer ones. And as those all-too-recently hewn walls blur past him he starts to see something else. Something that's inside him-surfacing right inside his f.u.c.king head, coming out of nowhere. It's Haskell herself. Sounding as though she would rather say anything besides what she's saying now: Help me.

The Eurasian charges start to detonate around him.

This place could go up any moment," says Lynx.

Linehan stares at him. "And Szilard really isn't here?"

"He left the Montana Montana ten minutes ago." ten minutes ago."

"Going where?"

"Great question."

"And why the h.e.l.l would he blow up his own flagship in the middle of the ultimate smackdown?"

"Because we're kicking Eurasian a.s.s. So he can afford to write it off."

Linehan shakes his head. "f.u.c.k," he says.

"Textbook power play," says Lynx. "Szilard's luring everyone in his suspect file aboard this crate-all those other s.p.a.ceCom factions and anybody else who even might might be trying to plot against him. All of them got a.s.signed aboard the be trying to plot against him. All of them got a.s.signed aboard the Montana Montana. Seven out of nine of his generals, all the key prisoners, several of his less-reliable wet-ops squads: everyone's gonna get it good. Gotta admit, Linehan, we really got outplayed by him. Though he still would have gotten f.u.c.ked if-"

"-you and Carson had managed to stick together."

"Yeah. Exactly. Look, we need to get off this ship."

"There's still a way?"

Lynx nods. "And it ain't even by way of heaven."

The codes get transferred; the authorization gets transmitted. The train starts up again, accelerating down the tunnels. Walls flick past as two men struggle to figure out how to deal with a third.

"So what happens to us?" asks the engineer.

"Nothing."

"You're going to kill us," says the driver.

"Keep driving and you'll keep living."

"You're an American agent," says the engineer.

"What gives you that idea?"

"Why else would you have that gun out?"

"I could be Chinese."

"He could be Chinese," says the engineer.

"Doesn't look it," says the driver.

"Doesn't matter," says the man. "Not these days. Anyone could be anyone."

The seismic tremors are starting up again, with renewed intensity. The major glances at the controls.

"And now I need you to ditch this train," he adds.

"You mean get off it?" asks the driver.

"No," says the man, "sever our link to the rest of it."

The driver stares at him. "But it'll stop-it's not authorized-"

"I don't feel like arguing."

Neither does the driver. There's a b.u.mp, then a lurch. The car accelerates markedly as the cars behind them go into automatic shutoff, disappearing in the rearview. The engineer pulls himself to his feet, stares at the major.

"We just dumped twenty f.u.c.king cars," he says. he says.

"And I'll dump you if you breathe another word," says the major. "Now floor it."

"That was our freight," mutters the driver.

"I'm your freight," says the man. your freight," says the man.

The driver nods, doesn't take his eye from the rail ahead of him. It lances out, not bending for at least the next twenty kilometers. The train builds speed toward the supersonic. The driver exhales slowly.

"So who are you?" he whispers.

"I'm here to make sure we win this war."

"How?"

"The Americans are killing us," says the driver.

"Just proceed along the following routes." The major hands the driver a sheet of paper.

"This is paper."

"Indeed. Now tell your engineer to sit the f.u.c.k down."

"Sit the"-but the engineer already has.

"And don't dwell on the baggage we just lost," says the man. "Tunnel control has already been notified of a breakdown. And no one's going to believe that the engine disappeared, so they'll just leave that out of their reports."

"Someone will think someone's mainlining vodka," says the engineer, laughing in a tone that's just a little too shrill.

"But this is taking us off the maps," says the driver suddenly.

"Your point being?"

"We should slow down. We're heading way beneath the Himalayas."

"Best place to be right now," says the man.

Hanging in a shaft in the machine to end all machines: Spencer lets his mind expand out into the world around him. Not that it gets very far-he's stopped at the confines of this vehicle within its microzone, completely shorn from any larger zone. But he can see everything he needs to all the same.

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

"Boarding," says Spencer-and transmits pictures to the mech's helmet, letting him take in the shuffle of boots through corridors, the syncopated beat of marching suits. For over a half-kilometer above them, pa.s.sages are filling with Russian soldiers. The wider galleries beyond that are filling with treaded vehicles.

"Fourth Mountain Division," says Sarmax.

"You know them?"

"Of them, sure. They're special forces." them, sure. They're special forces."

"They're just the half of it," says Spencer, sending more images-these from the half-kilometer of corridors above the Russians. Sarmax laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head.

"Chinese," he mutters. "Fifth Commando."

Looking like they're ready for the fight of their lives and then some. Their suits shuffle forward almost languidly, sit down and start strapping in while swarms of mechanics bolt their vehicles to the walls.

"Time to get this show on the road," says Sarmax.

"I'm working on it," says Spencer.

"Work faster," says Sarmax, as the elevators above them slide into motion.

Haskell becomes dimly aware of faint vibrations. She's lying on her back, strapped down. She opens her eyes, finds she's in yet another train. Soldiers stand around her, their guns on her as they make signs to ward off the evil eye. She's wishing she could find some way to live up to her reputation.

But the soldiers have something else to worry about. Someone more senior is entering the car-the soldiers are saluting, clearly ill at ease. Haskell can see the newcomer only by craning her head inside her helmet-which is abruptly yanked off her. Someone strikes her over the head. Someone puts a metal clamp on the back of her skull. It hurts.

"f.u.c.k," she says. she says.

"The Manilishi," says a voice.

She's looking up at the newcomer-a Chinese officer. His suit's insignia's that of colonel. His English is perfect.

"I'm Colonel Tsien," he says.

"Chinese Intelligence."

"Of course."

"And this whole incursion was for my benefit?"

"So to speak," he says.

"I'm useless to you."

"No need to be so modest."

"You know I'm not going to help you."

"I'm afraid that's not up to you to decide."

"Don't be so sure. A lot could happen between now and Tsiolkovskiy."

He smiles. "What makes you think we're going there?"

"Don't bulls.h.i.t me. It's the closest base you've got."

"Tsiolkovskiy's getting overrun."

"Yeah?"

"It's true," he says. "We just got word. Your accursed Stars and Stripes will be raised over what's left of it within a quarter-hour. Something that even these soldiers around you don't know. See how I confide in you, Claire?"