The Machinery Of Light Part 9

They don't take their eyes off him, but both men are laughing in a way that makes it clear they're both sharing the same joke. And now the Operative gets it too.

The American command center is a series of rooms that open into one another. Screens line the walls. Equipment's everywhere. Haskell's guards wheel her forward, maneuvering her down narrow aisles lined with consoles and seated technicians. No one pays her any attention. Apparently they've got other things on their mind. The atmosphere's thick with tension. Haskell's feeling the same way herself. She's wheeled up a ramp and onto a raised area that presides over the lower levels beneath. More bodyguards eye her. Stephanie Montrose turns from a conversation she's having with a member of her staff and regards Haskell with cold curiosity.

"So this is the famous Manilishi," she says.

"And this is the woman who stole the presidency."

"This isn't about who's president," snaps Montrose. "It's about our country."

"What's left of it."

"Exactly. We're losing this war."

"And you're the one who had to go and start it."

You want me to bag Szilard," says the Operative.

"Think of it as your greatest hit," says Riley.

Lunar horizon's dropping away from the window. The Operative exhales slowly, getting ready to move fast if he has to.

"So what happened to the real guys?" The asks.

"The real who?"

"The real Riley. The real Maschler."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play stupid with-"

"Relax," says Riley. "They never knew what hit 'em."

Maschler scoffs. "And why are you asking such silly questions?"

"Was that you back at the Elevator, or was that them?"

"Us. They'd already been taken care of."

"You were riding shotgun on me that whole time."

"We were watching you strut your stuff," says Maschler.

"Did all the work for us and then some," adds Riley.

"f.u.c.k," says the Operative. says the Operative.

"It's all good," says Maschler. "We hung around the Moon and did some odd jobs these last few days."

"Prepping the ground for the chief wh.o.r.e?"

"Ain't no need to get snippy," says Riley.

"We just haul the mail," says Maschler.

"Then you'd better start looking at the big picture. The East is coming to bash your skulls out."

"We've got the high ground, Carson. Those barbarians are about to get blasted back down the well."

"They've won unless you can switch the Manilishi on."

"Well, see, that's all on the boss. She'll find a way."

"You really think so?"

"She's a clever one," says Maschler.

"Not so clever playing with the Lizard."

"She had to do the dance," says Riley.

"She'd better know when the music stops," says the Operative.

"That'd be when you reach L2," says Maschler.

Montrose gestures at one of the screens behind her. The screen splits in two. Each half shows one of the ma.s.sive Eurasian ships.

"Take a look at those things," she says.

Haskell's looking. "How big are they?" she asks.

"Two klicks long. Tungsten armor. As well as-"

"Pulse-detonation engines," says Haskell. "Nuclear warheads as fuel."

Montrose nods. "You see what we're up against." She gestures at one of her staff, and the view on the screen expands to take in the larger perspective-a vast armada, rising out of the gravity well. Set against the shadow of the Earth, the ships of the East look almost like phosph.o.r.escence glimmering beneath the sea. And it's almost like Montrose's voice is a wave rolling in from those depths ...

"Our lower orbit position is a total shambles," she says hollowly. "North America is shattered."

"And our defenses up in the geo?"

"Won't last long."

"So you've lost the planet."

"It's only a matter of time."

"I'm not sure I can help," says Haskell slowly.

Montrose gazes at her evenly. "I've already had the Praetorians purged. All the president's men and then some. More than ten thousand executed in the last two hours and you're welcome to join them."

"Cut the s.h.i.t, Stephanie. We both know you're not going to do that."

A flicker of a smile. "Want to bet?"

"What's the point? You've bitten off more than you can chew, and you're not going to pa.s.s up any opportunity to get yourself off the hook. You're dreaming if you think I'm going to cozy up to you-"

"But you could do it," says Montrose, and buried deep in her voice Haskell can hear the faint stirrings of a plea. "Don't deny it. You could hack them, Claire. You could save our lunar forces-"

"Maybe. If the East's ships are even hackable. Have you been trying?"

"There's so much interference we can't get through."

"And you think I can?"

"I don't know what what you can do, Claire. And I don't think you do either. But we can plug you into the systems and see." you can do, Claire. And I don't think you do either. But we can plug you into the systems and see."

"With your failsafes keeping an eye on me."

"You won't even notice them."

"d.a.m.n right I won't notice them. I've been down this road before and I know where it f.u.c.king leads. That's why I'm staying right where you've been keeping me. Right inside my skull. Because it sure as s.h.i.t beats serving you."

"G.o.ddammit," says Montrose. "I already told you, this isn't about me me. This is about our nation's darkest hour-"

"Which happened decades decades ago when sc.u.m like you stuck a knife into the heart of America. Snuffed out what was left of the republic and sold our people down the f.u.c.king river-" ago when sc.u.m like you stuck a knife into the heart of America. Snuffed out what was left of the republic and sold our people down the f.u.c.king river-"

"Don't you dare talk about our people," people," snarls Montrose. "Not when you're willing to stand by while they're condemned to slavery-" snarls Montrose. "Not when you're willing to stand by while they're condemned to slavery-"

"They're slaves already. Slaves of you, slaves of the East-what's the f.u.c.king difference in the end?"

"Just because they couldn't govern themselves doesn't mean we weren't in the right to rule them. To save them. They're dying dying, Claire."

"Let them die," says Haskell. "All they wanted to do was watch war on the vid. Now war's. .h.i.t them where it hurts. Ever hear of the chickens coming home to roost?"

"You're talking like a traitor."

"Said the woman who had the president butchered. It's all total s.h.i.t s.h.i.t, and you're all going to be swept away when I get out of here-"

"Enough," says Montrose. She signals to a technician. "We'll find the lever that moves you or we'll break you trying."

"Good luck with that," mutters Haskell.

The screens within her flare with unearthly light.

And then it's as though she's falling down some long dark tunnel, as though she's been falling all her life and then some, as though she's never going to be doing anything else, as though she never ever wanted to. Static surrounds her, a.s.sails her, beats against her. But up ahead a light's growing. She doesn't know what it is. She doesn't want to. She's praying to G.o.d that she won't reach it. She's cursing G.o.d for doing this to her-even though she knows she's the only one worth cursing. The light's growing all around her, shredding all the darkness. Thermal bloom blossoms toward the brightness of the sun.

But then static resolves into laughter that doesn't even sound unkind. She feels a presence close at hand. Even though she still can't see a thing.

"Show yourself," she demands.

"That would be tough," says a voice.

It's not a voice she's heard before. It sounds like it's right next to her. Sounds like it's amused. She's anything but.

"G.o.ddammit," she says. "Tell me who you are." "Tell me who you are."

"What would be a better question," says the voice. would be a better question," says the voice.

"s.h.i.t," she mutters. "You're-"

"A creature of many names."

"Name one."

"We'll start with Control."

Moonscape keeps on falling away. Horizon curves past it. Lights keep on flaring out in s.p.a.ce. The Operative stretches. He's doing his best to look more relaxed than he feels.

"So are you man enough to nail him?" asks Riley.

"A loaded question," says the Operative.

"You're the best a.s.sa.s.sin we've got," says Maschler.

"So what if I am?" says the Operative.

"So the boss can't relax with you prowling around the Moon."

"I've been loyal to-"

"Yourself," says Riley. "So cut the s.h.i.t."

"Though it's not like we can blame you for playing your own angles," says Maschler. "Who would have thought a supercomputer would come in such a tasty little package? You could practically wrap a bow on her and-"

"Careful," says the Operative.

"Easy, Carson." Riley grins. "It's just us guys now."

"And we've got some time to kill," says Maschler.

"Interesting choice of words," says the Operative.

I've been looking forward to meeting you, Claire."

Haskell can well believe it. She's heard about Control: the machine that's Stephanie Montrose's prime razor-and that had more than a little to do with the machinations that brought down Andrew Harrison. Because Control's specialty is intrigue.

And interrogation.