The Machinery of Light (29 page)

“So how did you get your hands on her?” asks Sullivan.

“Long story,” says the Operative.

The elevator stops going down, starts going sideways. It’s all relative anyway. The ship’s got several sections, some of them rotating, others in zero-G. The Operative maximizes the magnetism of his boots, braces himself in a corner, and leans back. Looks at Sullivan.

“So what do you do every day?” he asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you were his PR man.”

“Sure.”

“So what do you do?”

“Manage his image.”

The Operative snorts. “He keeps a pretty low profile.”

“That’s the idea,” says Sullivan.

L
inehan’s flamer cuts out. The blast-door’s still intact, but it’s sporting a hole wide enough to crawl through.

“After you,” says Lynx.

“Figures,” says Linehan, but he scrambles through anyway, triple-scans the corridor on the other side. It’s empty. It’s becoming increasingly apparent to him how this is working. Szilard’s cleared as large an area as possible inside his perimeters. Anything moving within them is a problem by definition. Though that logic falters if you lose your view and don’t know it. Linehan assumes that Lynx has that one covered. He wonders when Lynx will decide he no longer needs a mech—resolves to be one step ahead of that moment.

I
t’s like being on the surface of some demented comet. Space is all around them, sheets of stars wallpapering the sky. Energy is surging past: the DE fusillade that’s aimed at the ship, the bombs that comprise the ship’s own fuel. Spencer catches a glimpse of the Moon amidst a glimmering blackness. He can’t help but notice that they’ve emerged on the side of the ship that’s facing away from Earth. He’s guessing that’s quite deliberate, intended to reduce the likelihood that this little outing will be seen by Eastern eyes. Anything American
might
hesitate before shooting at them. Because there’s no good reason why the Eurasians would be going walkabout on the wrong side of the thickest armor ever created. That armor’s received so many hits now that it’s like a pockmarked landscape. Sarmax keeps maneuvering the vehicle in and around craters that raw energy’s scooped from the surface. Spencer can only imagine what contortions Jarvin’s going through to keep the ship’s sensors from picking up the vehicle that’s sliding over them. His helmet keeps on adjusting as gunnery flares right next to them. His brain’s too gone to think of anything save a single question.

“So how the fuck do we get back inside?”
asks Sarmax.

“I’m working on it,”
says Jarvin.

A
nd after we take out Szilard?” asks Haskell.

“Win the war,” says Montrose.

“How?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Haskell shrugs. She gets it. The president’s a practical politician. The next problem isn’t nearly as important as the one right now. So Montrose is applying the same strategy to Szilard that she applied to the Eurasians.

“Get your blow in first,” says Haskell. “That’s what it’s all about?”

“That’s what it’s
always
about,” says Montrose. “That’s why I need both you and Carson—”

“Did you have this kind of caper in mind all along? Or did things go off the rails with Szilard?”

“A little bit of both.”

“Because he wants to be president.”

“Because he was a little too interested in you.”

“Seems like that’s been going around—” And suddenly it’s like she’s shoved back underwater; Control’s angling her in, plowing through Szilard’s outer perimeter, keeping pace with the men on the scene—

T
he elevator doors open. Sullivan leads the way out; the Operative follows, the two soldiers bringing up the rear, still pushing the thing that Montrose has sent Szilard—the thing that the Operative’s supposed to have stolen. The Operative’s starting to lose track of who’s supposed to believe what. He regards that as a sure sign he’s about to get dealt out of the game for good. But as they keep moving, he can’t help but notice something.

“You guys fail to pay the rent or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where the hell is everybody?”

“There’s a war on,” says Sullivan. “Didn’t you notice?”

“Must be getting down to the wire,” says the Operative.

Same with the overhead lighting. The Operative assumes if he asked Sullivan about that, the man would say that everything was being channeled toward the DE batteries. Which might even be true. But the effect’s a little eerie nonetheless. The lights are turning on only in the sections of the corridor they’re in, are remaining illuminated only in the five meters ahead and behind them. Everything else is darkness. The Operative snorts, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

“This is how you guys set up perimeters?”

“I’m not in charge of security,” says Sullivan.

“I’d like to meet the guy who is.”

“You’re about to.”

They turn the corner and come face to face with a mammoth blast-door.

N
ow what?” says Linehan.

“Now we hold tight again,” replies Lynx.

They’re still crouched in darkness. Linehan just saw some light in the distance, but now it’s gone. He thinks they’re inside the inner perimeter, but he doesn’t know for sure. He’s starting to wonder if Szilard’s really the target here. Maybe it’s someone else. Or something else. He wonders where that hot bitch of a cyborg got to, wonders whether she’s wrapped up in this somehow. He can’t wait to get something tangible in his sights. He glances at Lynx, but only sees the expression of a man who’s thinking furiously. Linehan starts doing the opposite—just gets ready to respond on reflex.

T
his may be the hull of the largest ship ever launched, but there’s only so much room for a way-too-fast crawler to crawl. They’re through onto the forward sections. And as they round a curve, close in upon the nose, they can see what the
Hammer of the Skies
is heading toward—

“We’re running out of margin,” says Sarmax.

“I get that,” says Jarvin.

Spencer can see that Sarmax isn’t kidding. The lights of L5 shimmer in the sky ahead like some kind of nebula. Their guns are firing full-on at the monster that’s roaring in toward them. Spencer looks around for some way out—

“There,”
says Jarvin—but Sarmax is already on it, swerving into an indentation, swiveling the craft, hitting the brakes. They shudder to a halt.

“This won’t buy us much,” says Spencer.

“Stop complaining,” says Jarvin. “I need your help.”

“You
need
my
help?”

“Whatever you guys are going to do, do it quick,” says Sarmax.

T
he inner perimeter,” says Control.

“On it,” she says—and she is, dodging left and right in a million directions with a million limbs. Szilard’s new flagship is falling prey to a whole new bag of tricks. She’s narrowing down his location, too, closing in on the place from which the SpaceCom reins are getting pulled. She can see all the false leads and dead-ends Szilard’s configured. He’s good—she has to give him that. There’s a reason he’s managed to stay alive for so long. But those defenses weren’t designed for the likes of her. She’s becoming acutely aware that Montrose and Control now know things about her that she doesn’t—that they’re operating from a larger play-book she can’t see. They’ve got the strategy. She’s been reduced to tactics. She’s peeling back the
Redeemer
’s security like the layers of an onion. Everything’s checking out. Running perfectly.