The Machinery of Light (74 page)

“Not looking good,” says a voice.

“Who the hell’s this?” says Lynx.

T
hat’d be me,” says the Operative.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Lynx.

“Whatever,” says the Operative. No zone now, all mental—and he’s holding the channel open with almost no effort. He’s surprised at just how adroit he’s getting. It was strange to go through life for so long without any of this—even stranger to go through the next stage with the ability in latent form, just aware of the
presence
of Lynx and Sarmax, but with neither nuance or range beyond that. He’s not even sure what’s propelling him to these new heights. Maybe it’s the influence of Velasquez. Maybe it’s simply the onset of the end-times. Because now he knows how insignificant his abilities are compared to the real masters of the game.

“We’re out of time,” he says.

“That’s why we’re on the line,” adds Velasquez.

“Who the hell’s that?” says Lynx.

“Your worst nightmare,” replies Sarmax.

T
hat’s about how Spencer’s feeling. He and Jarvin are doubling back and forth through the nearside rail-networks, trying to triangulate on the place that Jarvin is so sure of yet just can’t seem to find. Judging by the shaking of this tunnel, the Eurasian machinery is only a few levels up now.

“Other way,” says Jarvin.

“Again?”

“This time I’m sure.”

“No kidding.”

But Spencer turns the vehicle anyway, heads down the new passage. Maglev gives way to rails—which give out after a few more klicks, leaving Spencer to power them onward by rockets. Lights flicker across the klicks. And finally—

“Dead end.”

“I don’t think so,” says Jarvin.

Spencer doesn’t either. Because there’s definitely some kind of
machinery on the other side of this rock. Some kind of zone. But it’s not like anything he’s ever seen. And as to hacking it—

“Fuck!”

“What?” says Jarvin.

“That burns.”

“It takes a light touch”—and Spencer feels Jarvin’s mind brush by his, reach out onto the zone. A section of wall slides away. Spencer stares at the elevator car revealed—and then he claps slowly.

“Never doubted you,” he says.

Jarvin looks at him, shrugs. “Makes one of us.”

T
he ceiling of the outer Room hurtles toward her, the structures through which she’s been passing falling away like the tower tops of some vast, demented city. She has yet to see any sign of Sinclair coming after her. As far as she can tell, he’s still exactly where he was to begin with—back in the hub. She’s beginning to wonder if that’s a decoy. He could be somewhere in the ceiling itself, hiding within the psychic emanations of the membrane, waiting for her. She’s analyzing that membrane now—running her mind across it. She braces herself, runs the sequences on the trapdoors coming ever closer.

O
kay,” says the Operative. “We’re all on the same line now.”

Or at least the ones who count. Velasquez is speaking for her triad. As far as the Operative knows, she’s speaking for Sarmax, too. That man seems happier than he’s been in years. It’s something that seems to amuse Lynx considerably, a few hundred klicks distant.

“Finally found your dream girl, huh? Too bad the world’s gonna end in a couple more minutes—”

“Go fuck yourself,” says Sarmax.

“Shut up,” says the Operative. “All of you
shut up and listen
. Our only hope of getting through this is by combining all our forces. And that starts with us getting on the same fucking page. And we’re in a combat situation, so here’s how it’s going to work: I’m going to make a series of statements, and if I say
anything
that
any
of you disagree with—or if you know something that puts that fact in a new light—then
now’s the time to fucking say it
. Okay?”

No one says anything.

“Okay,” he says. “Sinclair’s in the Room and he’s switching everything on.”

Static. The Operative watches on the zone as their positions close upon one another …

“He’s got Haskell in there with him,” he adds.

“We don’t know that for sure,” says Lynx.

The Operative laughs. “Don’t we? He’s fucking with the
fabric of fucking reality
. Which is shifting
under our fucking feet.”

No one replies.

“So all this war, all this fighting—everything that ever mattered, everything that ever will—all of it is coming down to one thing: whether we can get into the Room before Sinclair finishes hitting buttons.”

“But why hasn’t he yet?” says Velasquez.

“A good question.”

“It’s
the
question,” she says.

“And we can’t wait for the answer—”

“Has it occurred to you that he’s waiting for us?” asks Sarmax.

“Yes,” says the Operative.

They mull that over

“But I can’t see why,” he adds. “Haskell’s the one who—”

“She may not even be
alive,”
says Sarmax. “He may have already
processed
her—”

“Doesn’t matter,” says the Operative. “All that matters is that it’s all converging. That’s why the East’s shock-troops are heading
deeper as fast as they can deploy onto the lunar surface. That’s why Szilard is—”

“—at the bottom,” says Lynx.

A pause. “You sure about that?”

“His advance-guard’s reached the fucking
labyrinth.”

T
hrough the doors and membrane of the Room and that’s where she is, too. Sinclair’s fucking labyrinth. A maze of impossible deathtraps that guard the main entrance to the Room, nestled in between the two perimeters—waves of zone and psychic signals assail her brain, and she can barely tell where the walls are. It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s plowing ahead anyway, her suit-jets flaring as she dives between hyper-sharp filaments that spring out toward her, but she’s maneuvering on pure future now—a moment ahead of all of it as she dodges past the first of the traps, ascending away from the Room ever farther into the maze to end all mazes.

T
hey’re plunging downward at unholy speeds, pressed up against the ceiling as they accelerate. Turns out this elevator’s state-of-the-art maglev. They’re rapidly closing the distance between them and Moon’s core …

“Does this bypass the front door?” says Spencer.

“I sure as shit hope so,” says Jarvin. “His labyrinth’s a killing zone. Nothing’s getting through there.”

Spencer gestures at the elevator. “So how do you know about
this?”

Jarvin shrugs. “A file I cracked and never wrote down. Sinclair’s special entrance so he could bypass all the crap.”

“So we might run into him en route.”

“Sooner or later, we’re
going
to run into him. And when we do, we’re going to give him a little surprise.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I want you to promise me something, Spencer: if it doesn’t work—do
not
let me fall alive into his hands.”

“If
what
doesn’t work?”

“I was one of his
handlers
, Spencer. And no matter what I’ve been telling you, the truth is that I know
way
too much about what he’s trying to do.”

“More than
this?
More than the fucking download we just got from the AI? We’re talking about the ability to fuck with
everything—
”

“And even that’s nothing. He’ll show no mercy to me. So if it all goes wrong—I need you to promise me you’ll kill me before that happens.”

“I might kill you
long
before that happens.”

“Now we’re talking,” says Jarvin.

A
ll their minds are linked now. They’re maneuvering in upon the center of the SpaceCom position—Lynx and Linehan streaking in from the rear, the Operative and Riley and Maschler about to hit the flank. Sarmax and the Rain triad are getting out in front of where they think Szilard is. The plan’s simplicity itself: take Szilard from every direction and take him out, take over his forces and use them as cannon fodder against the labyrinth and Room. Their firepower is a mere fraction of Szilard’s elite marines, but they’ve got the upper ground on zone. And their minds are now operating at a level that nothing within the SpaceCom ranks can touch. They can’t nail the minds of the Com troops. They’re not that good. But they can put them under pressure all the same …