The Machinery of Light (35 page)

“We’ll know in less than thirty seconds,” says Spencer.

T
he
Redeemer’s
disaggregation sequence is an absolute last resort. The fact that it needs to be triggered manually is one of several failsafes that keep it from getting activated accidentally. But the Operative and Lynx have already hacked through all the precautions. They’ve won through to this backup control room and killed almost everyone in the vicinity.

And Maschler and Riley were thoughtful enough to take care of the rest. They didn’t know they were working in coordination with the Operative and Lynx. They didn’t need to. All anyone needs to do now is hold on—

“Do it,”
hisses Lynx.

The Operative hits the last command. Sirens wail. Airlocks slam shut. Explosive charges throughout the ship detonate.

“On to the next round,” says the Operative.

“Goddamn,” says Maschler.

The
Redeemer
is breaking into twenty modular pieces. Designed for emergencies that might befall the mother-ship in Mars orbit or beyond, each is a spaceship in its own right. Each starts maneuvering into the L2 fleet on routes already established by the Operative and Lynx. Some of the L2 guns begin firing at the anomaly that’s sprouting in their midst, but most of them hold off in the absence of orders—even as the
Redeemer
’s fragments close in on them—even as one fragment in particular closes in on—

“That one there,” says Lynx.

“Everybody brace yourself,” yells the Operative.

S
till don’t think it’s over?” asks Haskell.

“Shut the fuck up,”
says Montrose. “Jharek, this is an
outrage
. You shoot your way into my headquarters and—”

“Please, Stephanie.” Szilard raises a hand. “No need to make this embarrassing. We both know the game we’ve been playing.”

“I’ve been trying to win this war—”

“And trying to win the war against me while you were at it. Yes. And now you see why you couldn’t. I’m never where anyone expects me to be.”

“You’re a traitor,” says Montrose.

“I asked you not to make this embarrassing.”

“Spare me and I’ll put the InfoCom net at your disposal.”

“It already
is
at my disposal,” says Szilard. “Except for one thing.”

He gestures at two of his men, who grab Montrose’s suit—she kicks against them, but they ignore her as they rip away the suit’s safety seals. Montrose starts screaming. They haul off her helmet—hold her suit upright while she convulses in the vacuum. It’s over quick—and when it’s done, they drop her back onto the ground in front of Szilard. He turns to Haskell.

“So nice to finally meet you,” he says.

M
y fellow Americans.”

It’s two days later. The U.S. president is on the screen. The latest one, at any rate. It’s been getting increasingly hard to keep up. Particularly when it seems to matter less and less each time a new one takes over.

“I come before you at a critical hour. Since I last addressed you, the situation has grown graver. All our peace overtures to the Eurasian Coalition have been rejected out of hand. It is now clear that the only peace the Coalition envisions is one that involves our complete submission. As long as I am president, that will never happen.

“But I must be candid regarding the magnitude of what has befallen us. We have heard nothing from our forces planetside. All we know is what we can see: that the Coalition has occupied North America, and has begun what I can only term the enslavement of our population. To the extent resistance continues, it is confined deep below the surface, and has no military impact that we can discern. The East’s control of Earth’s orbits is now total, and the buildup of their fleets at L4 and L5 has continued without abatement.

All of our forces at L5 are either dead or prisoners of war. I wish I could offer you assurances that they are receiving the treatment that the laws of war demand, but I am unable to do so. The East was always capable of anything; now that they are on the brink of domination, we at last see their true colors.

“We are the only thing remaining in their way. When I addressed you two days back it was to tell you of the sad news of my predecessor’s death. But it was also to inform you that President Montrose met the same hero’s end as our beloved Andrew Harrison: at the head of our forces, fighting for the liberty of all of us. And with her last breath she bequeathed the presidency to me and charged me with the leadership of our nation. I accepted this sacred trust, and with that trust, I swore to be true to the American people.

“Nor can there be any doubt now as to what we face next. We are confined to the Moon and the immediate lunar orbits. And we still have our fleet at L2. But the Eurasian Coalition controls all else. Once their fleets at L4 and L5 have reached critical mass, they will strike at us from two sides with a combined force far larger than our own. They will seek to crush all resistance and trample the last American flags beneath their boots. They will seek to place us in bondage and rule humanity forever. We are all that stands in defense of freedom.

“And we have no choice but to be worthy of that task. My admirals and I are formulating plans that will take advantage of the overwhelming overconfidence that the Eurasians now display. They think that they have already won. We are going to show them just how wrong they are. We shall deploy new weapons, about which I can provide no details lest we play into the hands of our enemies. To say we have not yet begun to fight is mere understatement.

“I know these last few days have tried us all to our very depths. The hours to come will try us still further. Our hope is to destroy the Eurasian ships before they reach the Moon, but this may not be possible in all cases—some enemy units may attain the Moon before our countermeasures take full effect. They may even force
their way into the lunar cities. Should this happen, we will fight them every step of the way. We will battle them in the streets and in the tunnels, because there can be no surrender. Because Americans have no place in the dark new order the Coalition is bent on establishing—no place at all, save that of slaves.

“We did not choose this war. We offered the Coalition an honorable peace, and instead they struck down the greatest of our leaders. The Eurasians have waged this war without mercy, and we will defeat them utterly. We will hurl the East from the orbits, and we will retake our homeland. May God aid us in this sacred task. May God defend the United States of America—”

T
he screen beside the window goes blank. Presumably the rest of the screens across this ship have done the same. Lynx chuckles.

“He’s fucked.”

“Not necessarily,” replies the Operative.

“You believe all that shit about secret weapons?”

“He’s already got at least one,” says the Operative.

“
If
he can figure out how to harness her.”

“I’m sure he’s working on it.”

“Why would he succeed where you and Montrose both failed?”

“It’s funny. Everyone keeps underestimating Szilard. Yet here he is, still in the game.”

“Not for much longer,” says Lynx.

“Think about it, man. He’s already had more chance to crack Haskell than Montrose got.”

“He’s certainly done a better job of keeping hold of the reins than she did.”

“The man’s an expert at keeping out of sight.”

“So where is he now?”

“Nowhere near us,” says the Operative.

“Can’t disagree with that.”

They gaze out the window. A swathe of the L2 fleet is clearly visible, stretching away from them like a bridge of lights. The far side of the Moon lies beyond.

“He’s still down there,” says Lynx.

“Leaving us in a real fucking bind.”

Lynx sighs. “Surely there are
some
exceptions being made?”

“In theory, sure.”

“But not in practice.”

“You’ve seen the data,” says the Operative. “If you spot anything I’ve missed, name it. Nothing’s left this fleet. Nothing’s gone back to the Moon. Nothing will.”

“Funny how our minions don’t seem to get it.”

“They’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

“Linehan was trying to strut his stuff in front of the dynamic duo. Telling them that Szilard’s keeping the fleet out here makes no strategic sense.”

“He may not be wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

“Relax,” says the Operative. “Feed the current situation into ten battle-management computers and—”

“They’d just laugh in your face. Tell us we’re screwed.”

“Sure. But the question is how to play a shit hand. I’ll bet you it’d be a split jury, and at least a couple of those comps would say what Linehan just said—oh yeah, get those ships close in behind the Moon
pronto
—and the others might say hold back here and engage from long range. Who knows? We’re in uncharted waters now. But none of this relates to the
real
reason the fleet’s staying put out here—”

“Us.”

“Yeah,” says the Operative. There’s a moment’s pause. “Nice to be wanted, huh?”

“Two of the three members of the first Rain triad, still on the loose, with the
Redeemer
blown all over the rest of the L2 fleet. At least fifteen sections docked in different places. You and I could be anywhere by now.”

“But still on the goddamn fleet. Pinned down.”

“It’s stalemate,” says Lynx. “We can’t get at him and he can’t get at us.”

“So let’s talk about what we
can
get.”

T
hey can’t get their hands on anything that matters. To say they’ve been outmaneuvered is putting it mildly. They’ve been trapped on this stupid ship for two days now. These last forty-eight hours have seemed like years. Long enough to cut their way through to some of the main shafts, not that it’s done them any good. All the places worth getting to involve leaving this ship.