The Machinery of Light (49 page)

“What the hell’s going on?” says Sarmax.

“This was a Rain trap,” says Jarvin, tossing a shape-charge against the entryway hatch.

A
whole world plunges past her. Mining installations sprout off from cliffs like limpet growths; bulldozers parked on the edge of nothing; ramps that lead down to nowhere. She’s dropping below the level of the sun, dropping into darkness, though the contours of the crater echo loud and clear within her head—she sees the view from the satellites overhead, triangulates along a grid as she keeps on falling …

W
hat’s left of Sorenson’s head slides down the wall, the rest of his body crumpling with it. The Operative looks at Linehan.

“Should have been
you,”
he says.

“So work on your aim.”

The Operative opens his mouth to reply—and closes it again as sirens begin wailing at full volume.

T
he hatch disappears in a sheet of flame—the three men charge through, firing while the microbombs they’d planted back at the second and first doors detonate. Sentries go flying. Those who aren’t are facing the wrong way anyway—the three men gun them down as they roar through, desperate to get out of the cul-de-sac and gain some maneuvering room in the face of an onrushing Rain triad.

“Almost there,” says Spencer.

The engines of the Eurasian fleet ignite.

L
ike a myriad of fireflies: Haskell takes in the sprawling clusters of heat-signatures out at L5 and L4, as the Eurasian guns start laying down the mother of all bombardments. Suddenly DE is blanketing vacuum—intensifying even further as the American forces return fire. There’s so much energy out there that Haskell’s losing her wireless links with the U.S. zone. It’s like her fingers are getting pried away from some edge. But right now it doesn’t matter. She fires her vehicle’s retrorockets, powers into the caves within.

A
larms are howling. Klaxons are wailing. Suddenly three men are feeling way too exposed.

“They’ve found us,” says Linehan.

“Worse,” says Lynx. “That’s the general fleet alert.”

“The East is on its way,” says the Operative.

A quick glance on the zone confirms it. And the American fleet behind the Moon is going into ultra-lockdown mode—

“We need to get out of here,” says Linehan.

“Thanks for the newsflash,” says the Operative. He opens up the one-on-one with Lynx.

“Is this for real? Looks like they just—”

“Sealed all ships,” says Lynx. “Yeah.”

Meaning it’s no longer just a matter of nothing being allowed to leave this fleet. Now the same rule’s being applied to each individual ship. Total paranoia is in ascendancy. All intrafleet transport is at an end. Which means that—

“We’re fucked,” says Lynx.

“Not at all,” says the Operative.

“We’re
fucked,”
repeats Lynx, “and it’s all
thanks to you
. This whole Sorenson bullshit was a bridge too far. We’d already gotten all we needed these last two days—”

“We thought he might have a teleporter, remember?”

“So what the fuck are we gonna do now?”

“Show everybody why we’re the best in the business.”

R
ighteous Fire-Dragon
is accelerating at a disturbing rate, moving well out ahead of the rest of the fleet, taking heavy fire from the American lunar positions. But all of that is mere background to what’s front and center on Spencer’s screen: only a few corridors away, the Rain triad is less than fifty meters ahead, steaming straight at them, operating on some kind of zone that’s in a class of its own. Spencer’s only detecting it because he’s using Rain protocols. But as to staying competitive with its—

“We can’t fight this,” says Jarvin.

“We’re not going to,” says Spencer. He meshes his mind with Jarvin, gets his zone-shields up just in time to repel an incoming blow that would have fried the mind of any normal razor. As he does so, he lets the blueprints of this part of the ship whip through his head. Looking for—

“Anything,”
hisses Jarvin. “No time for perfection.”

“Then you’re gonna love this,” snarls Spencer.

T
he caves and tunnels beneath the South Pole are even more tangled than the craters that surround them. Haskell lets her lights shine out ahead of her as she makes hairpin turns. She hasn’t detected any pursuit yet. But she’s under no illusions—it’s underway. If Szilard wants to be a player in the endgame, he’s going to have to get his hands on her brain. He’ll be mobilizing all forces in order to do so. She rockets ever deeper.

A
trashed antechamber that contains the shredded remains of the android-bodyguard-secretary of a man who no longer needs any of those services. Maschler and Riley look up as Carson, Lynx, and Linehan storm into the room.

“What’s up?” asks Maschler.

“Everything,” says Lynx as he sweeps past. Maschler and Riley get the hint—charge after the other three as they rush out of the room, firing their suit-jets. Maschler keys the one-on-one with Linehan.

“Do you know where we’re going?” he asks.