The Machinery of Light (13 page)

“He can’t,” says Lynx.

“What?”

“This ship. Szilard can’t blow it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s one of the largest in his fleet.”

“You’re talking about the man who nuked his own flagship,” says Linehan.

“Back when he was winning the fucking war.”

H
ammer of the Skies
and
Righteous Fire-Dragon
synchronize their assaults. Doors open all along their hulls; both ships start laying down a carpet of bombs as they rise through the heart of the defenses above the American homeland, their accompanying fleets following them in swarms that stretch halfway back across the Pacific.

“Surprised they’d lead with explosives,” says Spencer.

“They’re just softening the joint up.”

And then some. Most of the bombs are getting nailed by ground-based DE. But those that remain are detonating—

“Holy fuck,” says Spencer.

“Xasers,” mutters Sarmax.

The ultimate directed-energy weapon: warheads that channel the X rays of their nuclear explosions into a lethal rain of invisible fire that’s wreaking utter havoc on the def-grids. The ships coming in behind start flinging down hails of nukes. The American cities are going dark.

“Fuck
me
,” says Spencer.

“Those lights won’t be coming on again,” says Sarmax.

The fleets accelerate toward orbit.

T
he Operative’s about as furious as he’s ever been. He’s being hustled through the Congreve spaceport, and his escorts are making sure nobody’s getting near him. They’re refusing to tell him where he’s going. Montrose won’t take his calls. The president has clearly decided that there’s no compelling reason to have him anywhere near her HQ. He wonders if he’s being hauled away to execution. He’s looking for the moment to try something along the way.

But they enter another hangar before he can act. A shuttle sits in the center, prepping for launch. He’s hustled in toward it. The pilots are standing on a ramp, conferring with mechanics. The Operative thinks there’s something familiar about those pilots, but it’s not until one of them turns toward him that he knows for sure.

H
askell’s coming to her senses. They don’t amount to much. Her head hurts. She’s on her back, restrained, in another train moving down another track. The only difference is that the heavily armed soldiers standing along the walls are American. An InfoCom colonel stands next to her.

“Awake at last,” he says. “Just in time to see the president—”

“—go fuck herself?”

“She’ll want you to be more articulate than that.”

“She can
want
all she likes.”

“I’d be careful about pissing her off.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“She’s in a pretty bad mood right now.”

“I can imagine.”

“You don’t need to
imagine
anything. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

She stares up at him. “What’s your part in all this anyway?”

“I’m a loyal servant of the president.”

“That’s a role that’s going out of fashion.”

He shrugs, turns away.

C
arson,” says Riley.

“Been too long,” says Maschler.

“Indeed,” says the Operative. He’s trying not to look surprised. Trying to make it look like he knew this was going to happen—like he knew he was going to run smack into the men who ferried him off Earth all those days ago when that Elevator blew and set this all in motion. “You guys been staying out of trouble?”

“We’ve been staying off Earth,” says Maschler.

“And that’s fine by us,” adds Riley.

They look at one another.

“How soon do we leave?” asks the Operative.

“That’d be now,” says one of the soldiers.

T
he train’s slowing to a halt. Doors hiss open. Haskell’s guards steer her gurney onto a platform, through more doors and into an elevator. She feels her stomach lurch as she drops at speed through the shaft. She’s estimating she’s now a couple of klicks beneath the level of the train, which was nowhere near the surface to begin with.

The doors open. Haskell’s pushed out, down another corridor, up a ramp to a massive pair of blast doors. More InfoCom soldiers stand in front of them. Haskell’s escorts halt.

“Now what?” she says.

“Now we leave you,” says the colonel.

“You mean you don’t make the cut?”

“I follow orders,” he says in a tone that says
maybe it’s time you started doing the same
. But Haskell says nothing. The colonel gestures to his soldiers and leads them back down the corridor while the blast-door guards scan Haskell. They wear the uniforms of Montrose’s bodyguards.

“Can’t be too careful,” she says.

They ignore her, standing back as the doors swing open. Haskell watches as the space behind them becomes visible—

“Huh,” she says.

She’s looking down five more meters of corridor, at an even larger set of blast-doors. The bodyguards push her toward them, stop. As soon as the outer doors behind them close, the soldiers go to town, stripping Haskell down to her skin. Their eyes go wide as they see how that skin’s been marred—covered with half-healed scars of endless intricacy.

“Who did this?” asks one of them.

“That’d be me,” she says.

Back when she was trying to map out the vectors of Autumn Rain’s zone attacks. Now she’s got it all figured out. Though maybe it’s too late anyway. The soldiers get busy lacing her with IVs, transferring her to another gurney and rigging her in yet another suit of specialized armor. They position the suit so that now she’s upright.

“Thanks,” she says.

The inner doors slide open.

C
ongreve’s dropping away. The engines of the shuttle continue to throttle up. The Operative shakes his head.

“You’re InfoCom agents,” he says.

“Imagine that,” says Riley.

“Reporting directly to Montrose?”

Maschler laughs. “And all the time the man thought we were slumming it.”

“Because you do it so well,” says the Operative.

“Easy now,” says Riley. “It’s all just business, right?”

“Going to tell me where we’re going?” asks the Operative.

“L2.”

The Operative furrows his brow. “SpaceCom territory.”

“Sure,” says Riley.

“And if I try anything?”

“Try anything you like,” says Maschler. He smiles—arches one of those bushy eyebrows. “If this ship deviates in its course, it gets taken out.”

“Thought you might say that.”

“So you may as well make yourself comfortable,” says Riley.

The Operative’s got a little too much on his mind for that. He knows that Montrose is moving him as far away from the action as possible. L2’s the last place he wants to be right now. That is, other than in a ship that might blow to hell at any moment …

“Relax,” says Maschler. “If she were gonna do you, she would have just done it back at Congreve.”

“Besides,” says Riley, “you’re too important.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“You’ve got a new mission.”

“Which is?”

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.