The Machinery of Light (37 page)

“Well,” he says, “it’s like this.”

W
here are we now?” she asks.

“Heading for the South Pole,” says Szilard.

“You don’t need to go aboveground to do that.”

“Somewhere nearby, then.”

“Prime real estate, huh?”

Jharek Szilard laughs. Unexpectedly, he sits down on the floor in front of her, folds his lanky body up in a movement that’s almost sinuous. He gazes up at her.

“You’re quite a woman,” he says.

She looks at him without expression.

“Oh don’t worry. My tastes don’t run that way. Doesn’t mean I can’t express admiration for the girl around whom it’s all spinning. Especially with all that
art
you’ve adorned yourself with—”

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” she says.

“Who said it was bullshit?”

“To you I’m just a
tool.”

“Wrong. That’s the mistake that Montrose made.”

“Among others,” says Haskell.

“And I took advantage of most of them.”

“Do you have a back door to me?”

“No.”

“Then how did you beat Montrose?”

“Never ask a magician to reveal his secrets.”

“Control was your creature, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose that’s one possibility,” says Szilard.

“There are others?”

“Stephanie started something she couldn’t finish.”

“Me.”

“Exactly. She couldn’t figure you out.”

Haskell makes a face. “I’ve got the same problem.”

“That’s the way Sinclair set it up.”

“And you
really
think you can beat him?”

“Do I need to? If he’s still alive, the Chinese have him.”

“If that’s so, that’s only because he wants it that way.”

“You think he’s
that
good?”

“I think you need to stop thinking of him as human.”

Szilard sighs. “Look, Claire, I get it. Okay? This war is mere veneer on the real war that’s raging. And to seriously answer your question: I can’t be sure of beating him unless I’ve got you. Will you help?”

“My answer makes no difference.”

“Of course it does.”

“You can’t afford to let me go—ever. Nor can you afford to venture into my mind without the proper key.”

“Let me get back to you on that,” says Szilard.

T
ime to go,” says the Operative.

“Just when I was winning,” says Linehan.

They troop out of the rec room. They’re all dressed as SpaceCom marines—as is virtually everyone else they pass in the halls. They start climbing ladders down to the shuttle bays.

“These guys are fucking with us,” says Riley.

“You’ve said that already,” says Linehan.

“Nothing wrong with restating the facts,” says Maschler.

The three men are on their own wireless channel, with their own codes—ones that Spencer gave Linehan back in the day. He knows that there’s a chance Carson or Lynx might have hacked the line. He wonders if they’re using him to keep an eye on the other two. He scarcely cares. He feels that his grip on reality has been getting ever more tenuous these last two days. But that doesn’t mean he’s not up to playing a role.

“The facts are that neither of you guys is a razor.”

“You ain’t either,” says Maschler.

“Which is why we’re getting buttfucked by two men who are.”

“Mechs are worth less and less every day,” says Riley.

Linehan snorts. “So why the hell
did
Montrose detail two mechs to keep an eye on Carson?”

“What should she have done?”

“Use a fucking razor!”

“She did,” says Maschler.

“The Manilishi was riding shotgun,” says Riley.

“That didn’t seem to work as well as your boss hoped.”

“That’s why she’s not our boss anymore.”

“And Carson is.”

“Or Lynx,” says Maschler. “No telling who’s got the upper hand.”

“I’d bet on Carson,” says Linehan.

“You do that,” says Riley. “We won’t get in your way.”

“Not when we’ve seen the man in action,” says Maschler. “He was hell on bloody wheels when that Elevator blew.”

“You already told me,” says Linehan wearily.

“It bears repeating,” says Riley. “He’s a fucking Houdini, and no mistake. We were fresh out of options and he found a way to get us high and dry.”

“You think he’ll be able to get us off this fleet?” asks Linehan.

Maschler laugh.
“Himself
off, sure.”

“Even when there’s
literally
no way to do that?”

“That’s when the man’s at his best,” says Riley.

T
hat is
so
much bullshit,” says Sarmax.

“I wish it was,” says Spencer.

“It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I daresay you’ll hear crazier before it’s all over.”

But while he replies to Sarmax, Spencer’s keeping an eye on Jarvin. That’s the reaction he’s really interested in. He watches that man’s face behind that visor, watches him mull over possibilities—watches his lips form the words—

“What’s your angle on this?” asks Jarvin.

“My angle’s getting us off this ship.”

“But this—what you’re saying—it’s
insane—
”

“Does it hurt that I’ve gotten ahead of you on these files?”

Jarvin says nothing. Spencer decides that it probably does. He decides to rub it in.

“Take a look at what you’re missing,” he says, beaming data to Jarvin and Sarmax. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to make the point. He waits—counts to just shy of thirty seconds—

“You got this from the
files?”
says Sarmax.

“No,” says Spencer, “I used the files to get this.”

“What kind of yarn are you spinning?”

“The best kind,” says Jarvin. “He’s right.”

“You’re convinced?” says Spencer.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

T
he shuttle’s been pitching and yawing for some time, as though it’s maneuvering through rugged terrain. Not being able to see where it’s going makes for a disquieting experience. Haskell’s relieved when the craft finally touches down. She feels vibration roll beneath her as whatever platform the shuttle’s just landed on starts lowering. Ten seconds later, all motion stops.

Five seconds after that, there’s a knock on her door. She doesn’t know why they bother, but Szilard seems determined to keep up appearances. So far he’s been the only one to show up unannounced. She figures she may as well humor them.

“Come in,” she says.

The door opens. The marine who stands there won’t meet her eyes.

“We need you to put on a suit, ma’am,” he says.

“To go where?”

Hesitation—“The president awaits you.”

T
he auxiliary hangar of the
Spartacus
has several shuttles docked, several bays empty. There are a lot of mechanics and technicians. Lot of soldiers, too. Looks like someone’s making last-minute rearrangements of the fleet’s garrisons. There are five men in particular who aren’t complaining.

“Let’s go,” says the Operative. He moves toward the shuttle door; the other four follow him. They give their IDs—a commando squad getting reassigned. They get on board. The shuttle pushes back. The hull of the
Spartacus
falls past, giving way to a spectacular view: the L2 fleet stretching away, ships slowly rotating in the sun. The Operative gets on the one-on-one with Linehan.

“Was wondering if you had time for a quick chat,” he says.

“Why not,” replies Linehan.

T
hey maneuver stealthily past more Chinese soldiers. There’s still a lot of cleanup going on. Blood’s literally getting mopped off the walls. They’re well into the rear of the craft now. Spencer’s mind billows out around him, gathering the whole ship under its sway. A hatch swings open.

“Let’s go,” he says.

S
he’s in a suit that contains just the basics, being led along passages of a place that could be virtually any lunar base. A few more minutes, and her escorts usher her through into a much larger room—possibly a quarter-kilometer across. It’s a dome.