The Machinery of Light (83 page)

“Ask Sarmax.”

“Man doesn’t care if he’s alive. You do. Two seconds—”

“Fine,” says Spencer—beams it all over. Morat and Marlowe’s suits are starting to smoke while they look around wildly—

“Not looking good,” says Carson.

“Out of your suit,” Control snarls at Marlowe. He leaps down to Morat, grabs him by the head—

“What are you
doing?”
yells Morat.

“Can’t have you turned against me.”

“For the love of God,”
says Morat—but Control’s already tearing at Morat’s head, ripping it off, tossing it past Haskell. What’s left of Morat’s smoking chassis flares out. Marlowe is climbing out of his suit, wearing the look of a man who’s glad he still has a body. He grabs a weapon from a rack on his suit’s leg—an automatic rifle—and points it at the others arrayed about.

“Everyone stay where you are,” he yells.

Control leaps past him, lands in front of Spencer—who’s wondering how he’s going to get out of this one. The razor looks up into that visor-that’s-no-visor, sees no mercy.

“Don’t do it,” he says anyway.

“Got to narrow it down,” says Control—fires—

—e
verything winking out in one flashing photonegative of this moment superimposed against all he’s ever known, all he ever might have, all memories bound up in a single moment and past that moment is the Room itself receding from him at relentless speeds, collapsing away to reveal itself as a single fragment of a woman’s face—

—S
pencer’s head explodes in a shower of brain; Control’s already whirling toward Linehan, who starts to dive to the right—but Jarvin’s leaping in at Control—flinging his body across several meters in less than a second—a move Linehan’s never seen a human make outside of armor—and now Jarvin is clinging to the back of Control, screaming at him and tearing at him while Control struggles to shake him off. Sparks are flying everywhere. Marlowe moves in, trying to get a shot off—trying to line Jarvin up with the rifle—and then Marlowe grunts and topples, a dart sticking from his back—line of sight in the direction of—

“
Leo?”
says Carson.

“Watch out!” yells Sarmax—

—a
s Control’s suit goes crazy, gyros propelling it against a wall and then bouncing back toward the Operative, who hurls himself aside, hearing Jarvin cursing Control for traitor and ingrate and Control begging Jarvin not to absorb his mind, and the Operative realizes in that moment that Control hasn’t a chance—that none of them do—and the blood of Spencer drips down past Haskell’s face and the body of Marlowe floats above them and the man who isn’t really Alek Jarvin smashes Control against another wall with a force that sends parts flying, some kind of machine howl filling all their heads as the consciousness of a full-fledged quantum computer starts getting absorbed by something else altogether—

“Let’s get out of here,” says Lynx.

“Nowhere to run,” says Sarmax.

Jarvin tosses what’s left of Control aside.

A
nd looks at them like he’s sizing up his prey—

“Easy,” says Carson. Linehan’s jaw drops open as Jarvin’s face just—
shimmers
, the molded software that covers it switching off, peeling back to reveal another face—a smile that he recognizes from newsvid—

“Welcome to the endgame,” says Matthew Sinclair.

F
uck,” says the Operative.

Sinclair’s smile broadens. “Good to see you too.”

“You fucking
bastard.”

“I’ll be the first to admit it’s been a long, strange trip.”

“What the fuck have you become, Matthew?”

“Ask him,” says Sinclair—gestures at Linehan.

A
nd now they’re all looking at him again; one in particular, and it’s all Linehan can do not to wilt before the gaze of the
thing
that’s not even vaguely human …

“You …
ate
Control,” he says.

Sinclair shrugs. “In point of fact, I’m still doing that.”

“Fucking
digesting
him,” mutters Lynx.

“It’ll take a few minutes,” says Sinclair. He looks around. “Thanks for the assist, Leo.”

“Not like I knew who I was assisting,” says Sarmax.

“Not like it really matters. And the rest of you can forget about whatever dick-ass weaponry you’ve still got.”

“When did you replace Jarvin?” asks Lynx.

“Long before he could do any damage.”

S
o there
was
a Jarvin?” says the Operative.

“Yes,” says Sinclair. “And he really
did
steal my files.”

“That’s why he died,” says Lynx.

Sinclair looks amused. “Raise your thinking,” he says. “There is no
why
. There just is.”

“That’s what Control was just saying,” says Sarmax.

“My only student worth the name.”

“Other than Claire,” says Lynx.

“Claire’s no student.” Sinclair points toward her. “Look at that face. Look at those
eyes
. Enough to make even Carson lose his way—”

“God damn you,” says the Operative.

“That would be tough,” says Sinclair.

“You’ve been playing us the whole time,” says Sarmax. “You
needed
us to make it in here.”

“Another of these funny words,” says Sinclair.
“Need’s
right up there with
why
. There was a pattern involving all of us. And all I’ve been doing these past few days is—”

“Steer,”
says the Operative.

Sinclair smiles. “Quantum decoherence necessitates the splitting-off of world-lines. Every time anyone makes a choice—every time a particle goes down one of two paths—the universe divides anew.
Every time
. All the other interpretations of quantum mechanics were just desperate attempts to explain away the problem by those who couldn’t accept the idea they weren’t the center of some single existence. Meaning the
real
question is how to exploit existence’s true nature. Once Deutsch refined Feynman’s quantum computer concept to postulate a machine that computes across multiple universes—that contains more calculations than any
one
universe—the road ahead was clear.”

“Clear as
mud,”
says Sarmax. “This is about a lot more than just a rogue quantum comp—”

“Of course.” Sinclair moves over to where Sarmax is looking up at him. He looks down at Indigo—”

“We can bring her back, you know,” he says quietly.

B
ullshit,” whispers Sarmax. But he feels hope rise within him even so—”