The Machinery of Light (33 page)

“Americans,” says Sarmax. “Must be.”

“Not a chance,” says Spencer.

He knows there’s no way—not in the numbers that are now wreaking havoc aboard this ship. This involves the ship’s soldiers and crew. And the only Americans aboard are in this shaft.

As far as they know.

“It’s Autumn Rain,” says Jarvin.

“Shit,”
says Sarmax.

T
he last of the lifeless bodyguards collapses against the wall, shredded, busy being deceased again. The woman who’s neither dead nor living keeps on screaming.

“You’ve lost,” she howls. “You’ve fucking
lost
and your souls are forfeit and Satan’s going to fuck you in the
ass—
”

“Shut
up,”
yells Lynx—and puts a bullet through her head, sends chunks of brain flying. The Operative whirls on him.

“Goddamn you—”

“You’ve got bigger problems,” says Lynx.

The Operative can see he’s not kidding. Lynx’s powered armor looks virtually undamaged. The Operative’s got fuck-all. He stares as his erstwhile razor’s guns line him up.

“You were saying?” asks Lynx.

“We need to work together,” says the Operative.

“Feel like I’ve heard that one before.”

“He’s right,” says Linehan. “We need to join—”

“I’m making the decisions,” says Lynx.

“Sure you are,” says the Operative, “but where the fuck’s Szilard?”

“I’m asking the questions!”
yells Lynx.

“You’ve lost him, haven’t you?”

They hear more gunfire in the distance.

W
e’ve got shooting outside the bunker,” says Control.

“What the
hell?”
mutters Montrose.

The bunker’s emergency blast-doors slide shut. Montrose’s bodyguards take up positions around her, help her into her suit. Haskell notices the command bunker’s been systematically cut off from the zone. She has no idea how that’s happening. She wonders what she’s missing.

“You,” screams a voice.

It’s Montrose. She’s in her armor now. She strides over to Haskell and starts shaking her.

“What the hell are you seeing?”
she demands.

“Why don’t you release my fucking bindings and let me fucking find out!”

Montrose shakes her all the harder. “Don’t think you can fucking trick me that easy!”

“Fuck you and your paranoia!” yells Haskell. “I lost the fix on Szilard. I got booted from my amplifier. I—
get your fucking hands off me!”

Montrose slaps her across the face—hard enough to turn Haskell’s head, nearly hard enough to snap her neck. Her bodyguards move in as though they’re about to restrain their boss.

“We can still salvage this,” says Control.

One of the blast-doors suddenly bursts inward.

L
5’s outer perimeter is breached. The American flanks are turned. The megaships swoop past L5, curve back in toward the libration point. It’s going to be over within minutes. Data on the collapsing defenses keeps on flashing across the screens of the cockpit, and the crew keeps on holding course—

Even as they try to deal with more immediate problems. The automated guns that protect the shafts that lead to the cockpit are getting taken out. On the camera feeds, Spencer catches glimpses of power-suited infantry through a blizzard of static. The two captains are doing their utmost to raise the rest of the ship. They’re not succeeding. That’s when one of them draws a pistol and shoots the other through the head.

“Goddamn,”
says Spencer.

“Should have guessed,” mutters Jarvin.

G
ive me one good reason I shouldn’t just pull this fucking trigger,” says Lynx.

“That’s your reason right there,” says the Operative, gesturing in the direction of the gunfire.

“You already backstabbed me once!”

“For a chance to win it all, you’d have done the same.”

“And look where it got you,” says Lynx. “Standing here with my guns aimed at your head—”

“And nothing in yours,” snarls the Operative. “The Manilishi’s approaching activation. Sinclair’s still at L5. He may have a full
triad with him. He may have
more
. And meanwhile your scam to nail Szilard has gone so far off the rails you can’t even see the fucking
tracks—”

Another blast shakes the room. Much closer now. Linehan looks at Lynx—

“Shit or get off the pot,” he says.

“Let’s get the man a suit,” says Lynx.

P
ower-suited infantry are storming into the InfoCom command bunker, firing at everything in sight.

Explosions start ripping apart consoles. Smoke’s everywhere. It’s pandemonium.

“Get the president out of here!” screams Control.

But the bodyguards are already moving. One of them releases the restraints on Haskell, slides a helmet on her, seals her suit, and pulls her from her berth. Her neck hurts like hell. She flops over the shoulder of the bodyguard while he starts scrambling after the others—vaulting over more consoles toward the emergency exit that’s opening in the wall. She gets a glimpse of oncoming shock troops—sees the insignia on their suits.

“SpaceCom,”
she says.

“I noticed,” mutters the bodyguard.

Along with everybody else. Virtually all of the bunker staff are suitless. They’re trying to surrender. They’re being given no quarter. It’s a total massacre. Montrose’s bodyguards charge into the escape passage. Haskell can see the consoles that house Control getting shredded.

T
he elite of the Chinese Fifth Commando kick down the elevator door and start shooting. Blood and bodies fly.

It looks to be totally out of control.

Though really it’s quite targeted.

“So much for the Russians,” says Spencer.

“Bet you this is going on across the fleet,” says Sarmax.

“Try throughout the Coalition,” says Jarvin.

Certainly throughout this ship. The view’s becoming a lot clearer as the Chinese zone dissolves its Russian counterpart. The EMP surge from earlier was just an opening salvo. Camera-feeds show suited Russian soldiers getting zapped in their armor, suitless technicians getting exposed to vacuum as airlocks open.

“So much for the great partnership,” says Sarmax.

“Had to end sometime,” says Spencer.

And no better time than now. With the East on the brink of winning the war, China’s chosen to get its blow in first. It’s obviously been planned that way. Across the vast fleet in Earth orbit, Russian soldiers and pilots are being purged en masse. A bombardment of the Russian homeland is in progress.

“How’s your Mandarin?” says Sarmax.

T
hey’re moving out of Szilard’s audience chamber at speed. The Operative is wearing one of the less-damaged suits of the bodyguard. The smell of rotting flesh assails his nostrils. He considers himself fortunate that his own isn’t going the same way. He meshes his zone-capabilities with Lynx and they start devising strategies while their suits kill everything that moves.

“Why the hell aren’t we heading for the hangars?” yells Linehan.

“Shut up and keep shooting,” yells Lynx.

The Operative nods. They’ve got enough to do without Linehan demanding to be kept in the loop. Every ship in the
Redeemer’s
hangar is forfeit. The shuttle the Operative rode in on was the first to get blasted. So now they’re closing in on a very different objective. The Operative’s not surprised that the combat they’re hearing nearby is tracking in the same direction.