The Machinery of Light (17 page)

“Why not? Let’s go say hi.”

Y
ou’re playing a dangerous game,” says the Operative.

“You’re one to talk,” says Maschler.

“The difference is I’m under no illusions,”

“Name a single one that governs InfoCom.”

“Keeping Sinclair alive is a good idea.”

For a moment there’s silence.

“We already discussed why that’s necessary,” says Riley.

“Have we?”

“He’s the only one who knows the formula that created Autumn Rain.”

“You sure about that?” asks the Operative.

“Who else did you have in mind?” asks Maschler.

“There must have been scientists. Technicians. Lab records.”

“Yeah?” asks Riley. “You seen any?”

The Operative shrugs. “I heard Sinclair had a file—”

“Which went AWOL,” sneers Riley. “As you damn well know.”

“News to me.”

“I can’t believe I’m even
listening
to this bullshit,” says Maschler. “For all we know you were watching while Sinclair burnt everybody involved.”

“For all we know you were the one who did it,” adds Riley.

“I didn’t have that kind of access,” says the Operative mildly.

“I’d bet you’d like to.”

“Is that an offer?” asks the Operative. “Does this mean you’re turning off the goddamn tape and beaming Montrose back some dubbed bullshit while the three of us get down to business?”

“We’ve already gotten down to business, Carson.”

“Then why don’t you start acting serious, huh? Haven’t you numb-nuts interrogated Sinclair already?”

“Harrison already tried,” says Riley.

“Before you shot him,” says Maschler. “As you well know. Christ, Sinclair’s just fucking gone.”

“Like nothing we’ve ever seen,” snarls Riley. “Fucker taunts us and then he just seems to switch off. Even though he’s still fucking
breathing. Chemicals and pain and none of it matters. Not now. He’s beyond our reach.”

“As opposed to me?” asks the Operative.

“Ah, yes,” says Maschler. “Riley, what do we think of what Carson told Montrose about what he’d done to his own mind?”

“I think we think it’s bullshit,” says Riley.

“Though give him points for trying,” says Maschler. “But Carson, even if you really
did
rig yourself with death-switches to prevent your head from being skull-fucked, what makes you think we’d hesitate to put you to the question anyway?”

“Because it’d be the last question you’d get to ask.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Or maybe you’re just too chickenshit to take the chance and take me apart.”

“Or else we’d rather have you take out Szilard instead.”

The Operative yawns. The ship keeps on motoring toward L2.

S
he wandered in that desert for forty days and forty nights. The whole time she knew she was just moving through the wilderness of her own mind. It didn’t matter—it was still as real as anything she’d ever seen. Or remembered: She trudged beneath two suns that scattered her shadow into long fragments across the sands—kept on stumbling through the desolation while evening draped around her and morning rose, and all the while she knew that scarcely seconds were going by, that the greatest war in history was still raging on outside, that she was still helpless in the depths of Montrose’s command center with the creature called Control still crawling through her brain. She didn’t dare go to sleep, not even for a moment. She knew as soon as that happened that Control would penetrate whatever was left of her: that he would rule her dreams and subjugate her to everything within her she’d feared and never understood. So she just wandered through those trekless dunes, fighting off that mounting
urge through sheer force of will. Her eyes remained open and her spirit remained hers—and by night those suns gave way to starless expanse in which was set a single moon that shimmered in her heart and looked identical to the one that had swallowed her back in the world she’d left so long ago. She felt that moon all around her—felt it calling to her, telling her all the things she already knew and didn’t want to hear. The fortieth dawn rose but there was only one sun now. It wore a face.

T
hey keep on crawling through the industrial plant of the colony ship-turned-warship: an endless maze of crawlspaces and narrow passages. If they’re being pursued, Linehan hasn’t seen a sign of it. Then again, he’s figuring that by the time he does, it’ll be too late anyway. Meaning it’s all coming down to whatever’s going on in Lynx’s head. And Lynx is even more close-mouthed than usual. His standard cock-of-the-walk attitude seems to have faded a little. Linehan thinks about this. He opens up the one-on-one.

“So when do you kill me?” he asks.

“What?” says Lynx.

“You heard me.”

“Why would I want to kill you?”

“Same reason you’re keeping me alive.”

“I told you, you’re making your own decisions—”

“Tell me what you’re planning.”

“I’m making things up as we go.”

“But you must have
some
idea how we’re getting off this ship.”

“Who said we’re getting off this ship?”

“We’re just going to stay here?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because we’re in the middle of World War—”

“Sure we are,” says Lynx, “but you’re not thinking.”

“Sometimes I have that problem.”

“So let me spell it out for you. We got the drop on SpaceCom by getting onto this fucking ship, right?”

“Right,” says Linehan. “Though it seemed more like luck than skill to me—why the fuck are you laughing?”

“Because luck’s the best kind of skill,” says Lynx.

Y
ou really want to pay this guy a visit?” asks Spencer.

“It’s either that, or we have a crack at the cockpit.”

“Which we eventually have to try. So why take unnecessary risks in the meantime?”

“Define
unnecessary
,” says Sarmax.

Spencer shakes his head, ponders what he can see of zone and all the space that lies beyond. The ship’s still running smooth, putting the Earth behind it at speeds that ought to be illegal as it continues to vector in toward the Moon, taking increasing amounts of fire. It doesn’t seem to be troubled in the slightest.

“Look,” adds Sarmax, “it’s real simple. This guy looks important. And he also looks like he’s a damn sight easier to get to than the cockpit.”

“Which may be the point.”

“Meaning?”

“Could be a trap.”

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, “I thought of that—”

“Well, keep thinking. Because I can’t think of a better way to catch whatever assholes might be lurking in the woodwork—”

Sarmax laughs. “We’ve snuck into a secret weapon that’s gone operational and you’re still clucking about the
risks?”

“I’m just trying to calibrate them.”

“Doesn’t change the basic picture. We need to get control of this ship before it hits the Moon, sure. But maybe that guy has part of the key to doing so. Maybe he’s planning the same thing himself.”

“Why the hell would he be doing
that?”

“Because the Eurasians are like us, man: they’re divided against themselves. Look at the way the ivans watch the chinks and the chinks keep an eye on the ivans. No one trusts anyone for shit. And with things looking ever worse for Uncle Sam, the tension’s getting cranked up ever higher.”

“You really think the East might succumb to civil war?”

“Let’s just say they wouldn’t be the first.”

T
he ship keeps on throttling heavenward. The Moon’s now a ball in the window, and the L2 fleet is looking like a starfield preparing to engulf them. The Operative laughs.

“This hasn’t a chance of working,” he says.

“It
working
and you
living
are two very different things,” says Riley.

“Touché.”

The most basic rule of assassinations: the shooter is expendable—or better still, marked for disposal. The Operative’s pretty sure that’s how this one is going to go down. Right after he’s managed to kill the Lizard, he’ll be gunned down by either Szilard’s bodyguards or the men he’s talking to right now. That’s why Montrose has sent him up here in the first place. This is a one-way trip. Even so, he can’t see how the hell Montrose is expecting him to take out Szilard. Unless—

“And here we were thinking that you’re the expert in connnecting dots,” says Riley.

“Sometimes I need a little nudge.”

“That’s for sure.” Maschler looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Look, there are three ways to crack a fortress. You either blast your way in, you sneak on through, or else you …” His voice trails off.

The Operative stares. “Or what? You’re telling me we’ve been
invited
to see Szilard?”

“Why not? We’re all trying to stop the East, aren’t we?”

“He’ll be suspicious as all fuck.”

“Of course he will be.”

“So what’s the angle?”

Riley and Maschler look at each other.

“Well?” repeats the Operative.

“Maybe it’s time to show him the cargo,” says Riley.

T
he sun’s face is one she recognizes. Even though she doesn’t want to. Even though she hasn’t seen it in so long. She stands in the midst of her own desert, endless wastelands stretching out on all sides as she looks up at what’s leering down upon her.