The Machinery of Light (82 page)

“The picture of romance,” says Morat.

“Careful,” says Marlowe.

“So, Jason, let me guess,” says Lynx. “Mr. Cyber promised you Claire when it was all over.”

“So what if he did?”

“He already rescued her once,” says Morat. “Kept her on schedule. Back at Leo’s place, got his heart all a-patter—”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Marlowe.

“Hang on,” says the Operative, “how the fuck do we know you’re Jason anyway? What the hell are you, really?”

“Your worst nightmare,” says Marlowe.

“A clone,” says Lynx.

“No,” says Control.

“A download,” says the Operative.

“Nope,” says Marlowe.

“I’m
the download,” says Morat.

“Leaving only one possibility,” says Spencer.

T
hey all look at him then, and he knows he’d better talk fast. They’ll be suspecting he’s Sinclair next—shooting him through the head on pure suspicion. But he’s got to stand fast—got to get past this somehow. He can see there’s still maneuvering room between the players—can see only one way to get the party started—

“Marlowe’s from a parallel reality,” he says.

“No,” says Marlowe,
“you are.”

Spencer shrugs. “What are your memories?”

“I—what do you mean?”

“Did you kill Claire Haskell in your world?”

Marlowe looks like he’s just been shot—like he’s about to gun Spencer down. But Control just laughs: “Both of you calm down. You’re not so different, really. You were all prepared. All your memories—all the focus
on
memory—and so many of those memories the recollections of your other selves. Thus the infinitely-reprogrammable agent. Thus the culmination of what those of you who survive might become—under
my
supervision, of course. Could there be a higher calling?”

“I’d like to think so,” says Jarvin.

“You of all people should be on my side,” says Control.

“You’d merely accomplish the abomination the old man was seeking.”

“But with so much more aplomb, Alek. You’re professional enough to admit that, no?” Control gestures at Haskell. “Sinclair prepared the ultimate bride—the end-of-all-flesh—and how can he be blamed for not seeing that the groom had to be silicon? Haskell’s half synthetic herself anyway—receiving full-on transmissions from the beyond throughout both meat and circuitry. But it requires the machinery of the Room to exit the universe entirely. Powered by—”

“The minds of those dying outside,” says Jarvin.

“You’re joking,” says Linehan.

“Wish I was,” replies Jarvin.

“Sinclair should have had you terminated,” says Control.

“He would have had he known about the file I was assembling.”

“Which is where?”

“In my head. And you’ve damaged the software beyond repair—”

“I deliberately stopped short of that. So download the file before I remove it the old-fashioned—”

“It’s yours,” says Jarvin—a moment passes—

“This isn’t complete,” says Control.

“Spencer figured out the rest of it,” says Jarvin.

Control steps away from Velasquez, moves in toward Spencer—who feels the scans within his body increasing—

“Sinclair’s files,” says Control.
“Give them to me.”

Spencer knows that Jarvin must be wondering if he’s going to rat him out in return. He’s severely tempted. It might redirect some of the pressure. Then again, it might prevent him from driving this conversation in the only direction that matters—

“You’re a quantum computer,” he says.

“The first,” says Control.

“The last,” snarls Carson. “This thing means to rule all futures—”

“I
am
all futures,” says Control. “Calculations done across the multiverse—”

“That’s all theoretical,” snaps Sarmax.

“The theory’s standing before your eyes,” says Morat.

A
nd Sinclair thought he could control it,” says Lynx. He sees what the others are doing now, gets where the game to stay alive is going. But if you want to play, you’ve got to stick your neck out—

“Those teleporters out there,” he says.

“What about them?” says Control.

“They aren’t remote duplication, are they? They’re point-to-point connections
sliced
through dimensional folds—”

“Thereby enabling travel faster than the speed of light,” mutters Sarmax.

“One implication among many,” says Spencer.

“Let’s not overstate it,” says Carson. “You’d still need to get out there the old-fashioned way—cross the fucking empty to
build
each gateway first. And that’s assuming it
wasn’t
remote—”

“This is pathetic,” says Control. “You think to keep me prattling while Haskell breaks through. Gentlemen,
she’s already there
. And I’m riding her mind all the way while we speak. And the only reason I’m even tolerating this conversation is so I can take Matthew Sinclair alive—”

“And learn something along the way,” says Spencer.

“So hand over the goddamn files,” says Morat.

S
pencer deploys what’s left of his skull’s software, beams the files to Sarmax instead. Who starts from where he’s cradling Velasquez, whirls around—

“What the fuck did you just do?” he asks.

“You’ve got copies of the files now,” says Spencer.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Sarmax, “I already know the—”

“Mathematics?” Spencer laughs. “The blueprints for Control?”

“How about giving me a taste?” says Lynx.

“I’ll give you a little more than that,” says Control.

“Otherwise you can’t seal off Sinclair’s escape route,” says Spencer. “Right?” He looks at that sightless face, tries to see behind those eyes-that-aren’t-eyes. He feels a strange buzzing on the edge of his awareness—feels the Room starting to somehow
shift
around him. The others seem to sense it too.

“It’s starting,” says Morat. “We don’t have time for—”

“We don’t have time
period,”
says Control. “It’s all an illusion.
We’re standing outside it all. And what’s happening around us is par for the course when a being like me closes upon its origins. The armadas of the East batter at the door, the creatures of the West barred beyond their reach. None of us in here need give two shits. By now those fleets have melted away into a fucking
wave-function.”

“Existence ends at that membrane,” mutters Sarmax.

“The Room’s a no-room,” says Linehan suddenly.

“The man nails it,” says Lynx.

L
inehan takes in Lynx’s glance, realizes that everyone else is looking at him now, too. And no one had even thought twice about what was in his head till now. He shakes that head, knows he’s got to clear it. He gets that he’s been too much the brute to be the object of much suspicion. But disguise is all about surprise …

“Seb Linehan,” says Control.

“Sure,” says Linehan. “We met before.”

“But now you’ve been down ayahuasca alley.”

“Now I’ve—” and suddenly Linehan gets it: Control’s the demon he’s been running from this whole while, the beast that sits at the end of time and laps up all pretenders. All futures flow through this thing. That’s the way this thing wants it. That’s what Linehan’s got to somehow stop. He glances at Haskell’s form hovering above him. Or below. He can’t tell. Time’s doing the same thing space has already done, spreading out in all directions. All perspectives …

“As always, the man with the least training is the best trained.” Linehan realizes that each word Control’s speaking is a musical note intended to call up something from deep within him. “Ironic, no? What we’re conscious of plays so little
real
role in riding the raw moment. Give a man drugs to awaken doors within him; you can’t argue with the result. Ayahuasca, peyote, mushrooms,
LSD—whatever it takes: There’s a reason shamans worldwide all did the same damn thing—tuned the nervous system to get in touch with the source. And yet modern society forgot. Even as its physics moved in directions that undermined the very assumptions that society was based on. There’s infinite worlds out there. Infinite spaces beyond this one. And all of it only a vibration away. Sensitives
know
this. And with the right preparation, anyone can climb those gradients—”

“I didn’t ask to be here,” says Linehan.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Control.

“You’ve got something special planned for me.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not Sinclair!”

“It doesn’t matter”—and as Control says this, Morat sidles toward Linehan, who backs away from the oncoming suit.

“What the fuck is this?”

“We need what’s in your brain.”

“I don’t know
anything!”

“You don’t have to,” says Control. “Not when you’ve still got the files that Autumn Rain stashed on you back in Hong Kong.”

“Bullshit,”
says Carson.

“Those were cleaned out of me a long time back,” says Linehan.

“The surface ones, sure. They thought they’d given you the fake ones. Thought they were just a decoy. And everyone who busted you open thought they’d gotten to the bottom of it. Turns out they just weren’t going far enough. Because the only way to the bottom of what’s planted in
your
mind is via surgery.”

“You guys are
crazy
,” says Linehan.

“That’s the least of your problems,” says Morat—a buzzsaw emanates from his glove. Linehan keeps on backing up, backs into a corner—finds himself staring at Morat’s implacable visor even as he wonders what the fuck’s really going on, even as he realizes he’s never going to find out—but now Morat suddenly staggers back—

“We’re under attack,” says Control—turns to Spencer—

G
ive me what you’ve got or you are
dead.”