The Machinery of Light (9 page)

Buy time.

“Got it,” says Spencer.

“Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.

Spencer beams the data over. He hasn’t totally cracked the vehicle’s microzone, but he’s made some serious inroads. He’s figured out where all the places worth cracking
are
. There’s one in particular that’s looming large on all his screens, more than a kilometer above them.

“That’s it,” he says. “The cockpit.”

“How well defended?”

“So well I can’t even see how to get in.”

“I don’t think we
want
to get in yet anyway.”

Spencer nods. Sarmax is right. There’s no reason to fuck with the flow. This thing’s taking off, and they’re going with it. Intervention can come later. Spencer takes in the position of the craft’s cockpit and its defenses—marvels at how suspicious the Russians and the Chinese are of each other. The multileveled cockpit’s nestled in just above the forward vehicle-hangars, all approaches scrupulously divided between the soldiers of the two nations. Same with the cockpit personnel. There are two captains, both of them strapped down, along with everybody else. Spencer turns to Sarmax.

“They’re getting ready to hit it.”

“Let’s get in closer before they do.”

S
he’s plunging downward into herself. Darkness swirls in from all around. She can feel Tsien somewhere out there—circling her like a predator, hungry for what she contains. Fear billows up, threatening to choke her like thick smoke. She knows damn well what her captors are trying to do: turn her into something they can use.

And if they can’t do that, they’re going to destroy her. And since they’re on the brink of utter defeat, they don’t have much time. They’ll have to cut some corners. She can feel them going at it too—coming in from all sides, trying to unravel her to find out what the hell she really is. It’s tough when she doesn’t even know herself. She wants to help them—she really does. She’d do anything to avoid the pressure that’s now gripping her brain. But she can’t see a way past it. She can’t evade it: it’s all starting to come apart and so is she. Darkness starts to shimmer. Shapes start to form within it—a face emerges from out of the blackness. A voice sounds in her ear.

“Claire.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ve got to wake up.”

“Fuck
you,”
she repeats.

“Fuck
this,”
says the voice—and then it’s fire flashing through her, causing her heart to kick into overdrive, and she comes awake in a single instant. She gasps in pain, opens her eyes—finds herself staring into the eyes of Strom Carson.

“Shit,” she says.

Blood’s everywhere. So are shattered suits. What’s left of Colonel Tsien’s seems to have been mashed against the wall.

“You killed them all,” she mutters.

“No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”

“Except for you.”

“You’ll see the light soon enough.”

L
ynx steps it up, making the zone think they’re something they’re not, making the sentinels past whom they’re creeping think they’re having just another boring moment. The two men slide on through the makeshift perimeter that’s been thrown up around this portion of the
Montana’s
docks. They’re starting to pick up a lot of static.

“Jamming,” says Linehan.

“Not exactly,” says Lynx.

They crawl between steel girders, emerging onto the ceiling of one of the medium-sized hangars. Two corvettes dominate the floor. They look like they’re in the final stages of boarding. SpaceCom marines are positioned at the hangar’s interior doorways. The larger exterior door is shut.

“Looks like we’re on time,” says Linehan.

“Just barely,” replies Lynx.

According to his calculations, pushback’s only a few minutes away. He starts leading Linehan along the latticed ceiling, toward the
Montana’s
hull. They climb up another level and find themselves in a crawlspace. Unearthly light shimmers from some opening up ahead.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” says Linehan.

“Set your visor for maximum shielding.”

The two men creep to the opening, peer out. The fleet beyond is visible—along with so much else.

“Oh my fucking God,” says Linehan.

“God’s dead,” says Lynx. “And that’s the fucking proof.”

T
he railcar’s accelerating once again, down tunnels whose incline has steepened noticeably. Lights flash past, playing upon the faces of the men within the car.

“What’d you say to that guy?” asks the driver.

“What needed to be said,” says the man.

“Which was?”

“We’re about to reach the end of maglev.”

Not an answer, just more instructions. It’s what the crew needs. They work the controls, seamlessly transitioning the train as maglev gives out and wheels extend. The train rolls on into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the Himalayas. Only about a fifth of the Eurasian rail fleet is capable of traveling on legacy track. That’s one of the reasons the man chose this train. As for the others—

“Are you hunting traitors?” asks the engineer.

The major laughs. “What would give you that idea?”

“You’re some kind of top-secret agent, right?”

“I am?”

“I saw the way that guy looked at you. You’re trying to move so that you’re invisible, and this is a black base and—”

“Will you
shut up?”
snarls the driver.

“What’s your problem—”

“Now he’s going to have to kill us—”

“He already knows we know more than we should!”

“Both of you relax,” says the man. “You’re loyal servants of Eurasia. That’s all that matters.”

The downward grade steepens even further. Now that they’ve gone beyond maglev, the engineer’s having to apply the brakes. The train sways from side to side, rattles slightly. Up ahead a pinprick of light is visible. The man seems to relax slightly.

“What the hell is that?” asks the driver.

The man just holds a finger to his lips. The light keeps on growing closer. The engineer crosses himself.

“You’re taking us to Hades,” whispers the engineer.

The man shrugs. The train rushes out into an impossibly mammoth cavern—rumbles out over a bridge that spans that cavern, moving in toward the gigantic object that’s the center of more than a thousand searchlights.

“Saints preserve us,” says the engineer—and hits the brakes. The train slides to a halt on one of the adjoining platforms. The
driver glances back at the major—isn’t surprised to see what’s in his hand. He holds up his own hands with an expression of what might be resignation.

“You deserved to see it,” says the man.

And fires twice.

T
his is going to be bumpy,” says Spencer.

“I realize that,” says Sarmax.

They’ve done what they can. Each man has wedged himself into a corner of this particular part of the shaft, three levels down from the cockpit. Their armor’s magnetic clamps are on. But they don’t have the backup straps that the soldiers upstairs do. So they’re just going to have to see what happens next.

Which turns out to be a countdown.

“Three minutes,” says Spencer.

“Roger that,” says Sarmax.

Spencer nods—watches the ship’s zone as all systems sync with the countdown. All the exterior doors slide shut.

Except for one.

J
esus Christ,” says Haskell.

“Thought you might say that,” says Carson.

Fun and games beneath the Moon: He’s propped her up in one of the driver’s seats of the railcar—has strapped her suit in. Through the windows she can see a large cave. The railcar’s sitting on a trestle bridge in the middle of it. Tunnels in the floor lead farther downward.

“What the hell was the East doing?” she asks.

“Not
was,”
says Carson. “Is. I only killed the ones up here. The rest are down there digging.”

“For what?”

“A way in.”

She stares at him. “How the hell do they know about
that?”

“Maybe you told them.”

“Just now? They’ve been set up here for a while.”

“But not for much longer. My charges are about to go off. We need to get the fuck out of here pronto.”

He hits the gas. She feels the vehicle lurch into life as its retrorockets fire. It starts reversing. She watches through the window as cave gives way to tunnel. The Operative works the controls, and the train does a smooth 180-degree turn—and then accelerates forward …

“We’re heading to Tsiolkovskiy,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Is the East still holding out there?”

“Who knows?”

“Then why the hell are we going that way?”

“No one’s going to see us coming.”

T
he view is almost overwhelming. The Moon’s just backdrop to frenzied space warfare. Ships are strewn all around, firing at will. The L2 fleet is locked in combat with an unseen foe. The DE isn’t on the visible spectrum. It’s lighting up their screens all the same, a barrage of every type of energy weapon imaginable.

“Any idea how it’s going?” says Linehan.

“We’re destroying ’em,” replies Lynx.

Though the East is clearly putting up a fight. Parts of some of the larger ships look like plastic when it’s hit by a blowtorch. A lot of the smaller ships just aren’t there anymore. Clouds of missiles start emanating from a nearby dreadnaught—firing motors, they streak off into space.