The Machinery of Light (79 page)

No one is. They’re just looking at the two insectlike figures standing on the very surface of the sphere that’s now coming into view. Those two figures are looking up at them.

“You made it,” she says.

W
asn’t easy,” says Spencer.

But the directions the Manilishi gave him were enough to do the trick, using one of two teleport chambers with the ability to reach the Room directly. All the others were just sideshows. But all that matters now is—

“We were being followed,” he says.

“By who?”

“They were Rain. Couldn’t tell beyond that.”

“But you blew the rig behind you?”

“Yeah. There’s no way they could have—”

“Assume nothing,” she says.

“Yes ma’am.”

“This man you have with you?”

“Alek Jarvin—”

“High time I talked to him.”

Y
ou were Sinclair’s man,” she says as she scans his mind.

“I was cut off in HK when he was arrested.”

“I know.”

“He wants to make himself God Almighty.”

“He may already have,” she says. “Who was following you?”

“His final triad.”

She nods. She’s presuming it was the same one that pursued her. But why it would still be operating outside the Room makes no sense to her. The only thing that counts now is in here. Meaning she has to assume that somehow that triad got in too. Thus the dilemma: it’s imperative to destroy your teleportation devices behind you, yet you can never be totally sure you’ve done it. The fact that Sinclair still has servants is one more reason why she’s sought to acquire her own—one more reason why she’s not going in alone. The metal to which Spencer and Jarvin have affixed their armor starts to slide aside. The inner Room’s opening once again, in accordance with her zone-instructions. She gives more orders, watches as everyone starts to scramble from the elevator cars.

S
eb Linehan,” says Spencer.

Linehan looks at him with eyes that seem to have gone hollow. “Spencer,” he whispers slowly.

“Good to see you again, man.”

“I’m not the man you remember,” says Linehan.

“Let’s move,” says the Operative.

T
he inner Room’s as she left it. Except for the fact that there’s no longer any presence looming here. She stares through the maze of ramps and girders at the innermost sphere of all. She can detect nothing within. But there’s only one way to be sure. The ceiling of the inner Room slides shut above them as they close in on the hub that sits astride the very center.

Y
ou’ve got to listen to me,” says the Operative.

“I know what I’m doing,” she says.

“He’s in here somewhere.”

“I realize that.”

“He could be one of us.”

But she just nods. That’s one scenario she’s playing—that when she first showed up maybe Control had been assigned to hold down the place with deceptions and that Sinclair has only arrived in this Room just now, disguised as somebody else. In which case he undoubtedly thinks he’s got her where he wants her. She welcomes any such thinking. She’s in the final stages of a duel she’s been fighting all her life. Even if she’s only just waking up to that fact. The doors to the core of Room slide open.

O
h Jesus Christ,” says Lynx.

Better than any drug he’s ever ridden: glow pours out at him as though the thing in the depths of Moon is really a captured sun. But as his visors adjust, he can see that’s merely a function of the lights and mirrors he’s descending through. Vast pipes run down the walls, shimmering as though through heat. Screens everywhere show views throughout the Earth-Moon system: the Eurasian legions consolidating their hold, the first power in history to achieve total domination of humanity. But now those screens are starting to blur with static—

“We’re getting cut off,” says Haskell.

A
nondescript interface on just one more piece of piping: the controls at the very hub of the Room are exposed for all to see. She expected as much—expected, too, to see the pod that hangs above them, the door that hangs open, the form-fitted couch that she’s sure is contoured for her exactly. But what she hadn’t expected to see are the three canisters hanging around it—three more pods sprouting out, almost as though they’re the legs of a tripod. Each pod’s doors are partially open, giving them the look of metal flowers. She turns to Carson.

“You know I have to do this,” she says.

J
ust you? What about—”

“Just defend my flesh.”

He nods. Perhaps she’s scanned him to her satisfaction. Perhaps his betraying her is merely one scenario among many. He knows that he’s no longer capable of lifting a hand against her knowingly. But he also knows he wouldn’t be the first in whom compulsions arose from out of the depths of past. He
watches for a moment as Haskell climbs out of her armor, her strangely inked skin visible on all the places her clothes don’t cover. She climbs into the machine at the Room’s center. He turns, starts giving the orders for a perimeter to be established.

S
he pulls herself into the pod while the rest scramble to take up their positions. All but one. Haskell isn’t surprised to see who. Velasquez looks at her—

“What the fuck are you
doing?”
she asks.