The Machinery of Light (12 page)

C
learing ten thousand meters,” says Spencer.

“Roger that,” says Sarmax.

The coast of Asia is passing beneath them. The vid-feeds show the chaos that’s gripped the Chinese cities across the last hour. The American attack has punctured the Eastern def-grids in multiple places and left the population centers helpless.

“They’re still intact,” breathes Spencer.

“Exactly,” says Sarmax.

The logic’s plain enough. Why wipe out cities when you can tip them into anarchy instead? The electric grids are gone. The zone’s fucked. Spencer and Sarmax gaze on pure pandemonium in the streets of New Shanghai and all its brethren. The occasional DE blast from the American satellites overhead has only added to the madness.

“Not gonna distract the East that much,” says Spencer.

“But every little bit helps.”

Meaning that every military resource the Coalition had in its megacities has been totally preoccupied. Meaning there’s been that much more that the East’s command structure has had to worry about. But now the tide is turning. The fleet that’s just over a minute into its ascent is spreading out around all sides of the
Hammer
, all ships careful not to stray within the fiery clouds of the behemoth’s exhaust. Yet Spencer can see that he hasn’t been thinking big enough all the same …

“Fuck,” he says.

“Hello,” says Sarmax.

Off to the north:
Hammer of the Skies
has a twin. With its own fleet spread out around it. Combined, the carpet of Eurasian ships extends for several hundred klicks in all directions. An armada the likes of which the world has never seen—and Spencer can only imagine what it must look like from the American positions in low-orbit.

B
lotting out the fucking planet,” she mutters.

“I see it,” he says.

The camera-feeds they’re hacking into go out. Haskell can’t tell whether they got destroyed or whether she’s just lost zone-contact with what’s going on closer to the Earth. There’s enough shit going down that the answer could be both. Though the lunar portion of it still seems to be holding up. Congreve sprawls on the horizon, drifting ever closer. It looks almost serene from up here.

Haskell’s mind is anything but. She turns toward Carson—is surprised to find she can move her neck far enough to do so. He glances at her while he works the craft’s controls.

“Don’t say it,” he says.

“How do you know what I’m about to say?”

“Because you never could fool me.”

“You’re saying you can read minds too?”

“I’m saying we have a connection.”

She almost smiles at that, shakes her head.

“Why did you join with Sinclair?”

“You asked me that already.”

“He’s going to eat you alive.”

“He’ll choke if he tries that.”

T
he corvette veers and yaws, partially the result of the struggle for control within its systems, but also a function of the evasive maneuvers that Lynx is putting it through. But the colony ship is almost on them; Lynx reaches out, commandeering that ship’s emergency docking procedures. Hangar doors open on the colony ship as the corvette streaks into the outer hangars—plowing through into the inner hangars—

T
hey’re way out over ocean now, gaining height on a trajectory that will cross the coast of North America within the minute. Spencer feels himself shaken ever harder as the
Hammer
accelerates, spitting out incrementally larger bombs that send it streaking over the eastern Pacific. Directed energy is striking the hull from every direction, though it doesn’t stand much chance of getting through several layers of tungsten hull.

“They can’t touch this,” says Sarmax.

Not by a long shot. Spencer can see that the
Hammer
’s twin is keeping pace, a hundred klicks north and slightly higher. He zeroes in on it while Sarmax watches over his virtual shoulder.

“We got a name on that thing?”

“Righteous Fire-Dragon,”
says Spencer.

“What kind of a name is
that?”

“I’m guessing it sounds better in Chinese.”

“Wonder if it’s exclusively theirs.”

“Probably divvied up the same as this one.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as they get to beat up on the Yanks.”

“Speaking of—”

Sarmax nods. The coast of California sweeps toward them.

T
wo people in a room that comprises their whole ship. There’s so much history between them it threatens to swamp the here and now. But that just seems to amuse Carson. Which pisses off Haskell even more. Especially when they’re talking about the one man who no one’s seen for far too long.

“Sinclair had me train you for a reason,” says Carson.

“Did he arrange for you to fuck me too?”

“Who’s to say I can’t have ideas of my own?”

“Don’t start that again,” she snaps. “I was in
love
with Jason.”

“Only because you could no longer have me.”

Haskell turns to look back out the window. Congreve’s filling most of it now. Most of the dome’s dark. But lights blink throughout the spaceport that sits atop it. She turns back toward Carson.

“If I wanted you, it was only because I was rigged that way.”

“But what about now?”

“Why does it matter?”

“For me, it was the only thing that did.”

“You are
such
a fucking liar.”

He looks at her for a moment like she’s never seen him look. “That’d make all this a lot easier.”

“You’re even more cold-blooded than Sinclair.”

“Not so cold as to not see that we’re two of a kind.”

“You and Sinclair?”

“You and me.”

“Give me a
break.”

“Already did.”

“What?”

“I trained you for ten years. Watched you grow up. C’mon, Claire. How could I
not
have fallen for you just a little along the way?”

“This is bullshit.”

“Fine. It’s bullshit.”

“You murdered Andrew Harrison.”

“I’ve murdered a lot of people.”

She raises an eyebrow. He laughs, but it’s not really laughter. “And I had to make it look like I was being played by Montrose. Had to say what she needed to hear.”

“You were about to deliver me into her hands.”

“I was going to break you out later.”

“That is
so
much shit.”

“Is it? How can I afford to let anyone else possess—”

“Exactly. That word.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“You’ve fucking injected me with a paralyzing—”

“It’s worn off.”

“What?”

“Try it.”

And she does. She’s moving. In the zone as well: the shackles are starting to fall from her mind. She runs sequences as Carson brings the craft down toward a landing.

“I could crush you now,” she says.

“I’m betting you won’t.”

Or has he rigged her to preclude that? Is this all part of his latest game? She starts checking over her systems as the craft touches down—which is when the InfoCom special-ops team that has been staking out this area of the spaceport switches on its lights. Blinding glare pervades the cockpit. The
ping
of sonic targeting echoes through the ship.

“Fuck,” says Carson. “They’re—”

“Off the zone,” she snarls. “You
planned
this.”

“I swear to God I didn’t.”

“Then let’s get the fuck out of—”

“We’ve got to make it look like you’re still my captive,” says the Operative—and switches Haskell’s zone-restraints back on.

She stares at him. “You sick little
fuck—
”

“Sorry, Claire,” says Carson—hits another switch; Haskell convulses—just as the door to the pod gets yanked open by a man wearing a colonel’s uniform. Carson stands up, pulling at Haskell.

“I need you to take us to Montrose,” he says.

“You’re no longer giving orders,” says the colonel.

N
ow
that’s
what I call a landing,” says Linehan.

“Shut
up,”
says Lynx.

But neither man’s pressing the point. They’ve already put what’s left of the corvette behind them. They’re both feeling lucky to be alive. Though Linehan has his doubts about how much longer that’s going to last. Because surely any moment this whole ship will …