The Machinery Of Light Part 21

"So where are we gonna hide?" asks Spencer.

"In the c.o.c.kpit," says Jarvin.

Haskell takes it all in. She feels like a skier at the top of a vast hill-only one direction to go, and ready to maneuver as fast as possible. She feels everything closing in around her-feels reality collapsing in upon a single point. She observes Control moving in behind her-can see Montrose somewhere beyond that. Coordinates mesh as she moves toward the L2 fleet. The Redeemer Redeemer clicks in around her, a vast cage of lights- clicks in around her, a vast cage of lights- The Operative climbs back down to the cargo bay-moves through to the adjunct bay beyond that. The sarcophagus is closed, though all vital signs still check out, indicating the flesh within is functioning just fine. The Operative braces himself, feels the s.h.i.+p shudder as it docks, followed by a m.u.f.fled clanking as the locks slide into place. The floor beneath him starts to sink. He holds himself steady, then keys the intercom to the c.o.c.kpit.

"What about a suit?" he asks.

"What about it?" asks Maschler. There's the noise of laughter.

"I knew we were forgetting something," says Riley. "Now where where did we put that battlesuit that Carson was gonna wear?" did we put that battlesuit that Carson was gonna wear?"

"Gotta be around here somewhere," says Maschler-the Operative turns off the intercom-realizing he should have known better than to ask. It's not like Szilard would let him aboard in anything other than a normal uniform anyway. He's going to walk in with neither weapons nor armor. He'll die that much more quickly. That's the plan. He's gets it now-finally sees he's not even the triggerman. He wonders who is.

Lynx closes his eyes. Carson's shuttle has docked. The hangar's airlock has sealed. The doors of the shuttle are opening, meaning the doors of this tiny room are about to as well. Lynx can't wait to get busy punking Carson one last time. He can't wait to use Linehan as the cannon fodder that he was born to be-can't wait to feed Szilard his own entrails. This time it's going to work, especially now that InfoCom is on board. And he doesn't mind taking out the trash for Montrose either. He's going to screw her over too, once he gets back to the Moon and back into the real game. It's all going down any moment now. He looks at Linehan.

"Let's do this," he says.

They've made their way into one of the s.h.i.+p's storage areas: a multileveled warehouse of equipment of every type. No human presence is visible. There are cameras, but Spencer's guessing that Jarvin's jamming them. If not, they're about to have bigger problems anyway ...

"How the f.u.c.k do we get to the c.o.c.kpit from here?" says Spencer.

"We need some hardware," says Jarvin-and reaches out to hold on as the room suddenly shudders- "We're taking fire," says Sarmax. "s.h.i.+p's getting it hard." hard."

"So what?" says Jarvin. "We're going to crush L5 to rubble."

"You still think we can take control of this s.h.i.+p?"

"I don't think it," says Jarvin. "I know." He moves toward one piece of hardware in particular. A vehicle. Sarmax and Spencer stare at it.

"You're s.h.i.+tting me," says Spencer.

"Wish I was," says Jarvin.

She's running sleek and perfect now, maneuvering through the data-grids of the Redeemer Redeemer, her mind doubling back upon itself as she bypa.s.ses security codes and failsafes. She takes in the specs, marvels at the way it's been rigged for dual purposes: a fully equipped colony s.h.i.+p modified with all the capabilities of a Cla.s.s A dreadnaught, rigged with DE and KE batteries capable of striking targets in the low Earth orbits. The s.h.i.+p contains several companies of s.p.a.ceCom marines-as well as ten thousand colonists. She checks that one again, confirms it. They've been in hibernation for months now. She's guessing there has to be more to that story. She sets her mind on the problem even as she triangulates on Szilard's location-even as she keeps on searching for some way out of the lock that Control's got on her.

The shuttle's cargo hatch swings open. Light pours in. As do suited s.p.a.ceCom marines. They shove the Operative against the wall and search him while others climb up toward the c.o.c.kpit. Another moves to the cargo, begins scanning it.

"Easy," says the Operative. "The admiral wouldn't want that damaged."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up," says a sergeant, activating the controls on the sarcophagus. Wheels extend along the floor. The faceplate slides back. The woman inside is still out cold. The Operative's glad to see that. It's going to make this a little easier. The s.p.a.ceCom marines step away from him, and he turns around to face them.

"I'm here to-"

"We know why you're here," says the sergeant.

The Operative hopes that's not the case. He hopes that Maschler and Riley are holding their own in the c.o.c.kpit. A s.p.a.ceCom lieutenant strides into the cargo bay. He's not wearing a suit-just a smile that looks all too fake.

"Strom Carson," he says. He holds out a hand, shakes the Operative's. "My name's Sullivan. Szilard's chief of public relations."

"Public relations?" asks the Operative.

"Why not?"

"Who the h.e.l.l's the public?"

Sullivan shrugs, gestures at the cargo. "You'll be pleased to know everything checks out."

"Of course."

"He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I'm ready when you are," says the Operative.

The door opens. Lynx and Linehan head on out, finding themselves in a maze of pa.s.sages. They head along them, turning left, right, left again. They climb up stairs.

"Notice something?" asks Lynx.

Linehan's noticing all sorts of things, but most of them are doing a magic-lantern act in his head. He's feeling like these corridors are merely part of some labyrinth within his own mind. Maybe Szilard shoved him into a virtual reality construct and all this is merely the s.p.a.ceCom admiral toying with him. He scans the corridor they've just turned into.

"This place is empty," he says.

Lynx chuckles. "It looks that way on the screens too."

The vehicle's a standard minicrawler, optimized for low-gravity a.s.sault by virtue of its magnetic treads. It's about four meters long. Jarvin is releasing the deadbolts that hold it in place.

"Get in," he says.

But Spencer and Sarmax are already doing so. It's a tight fit. It gets even more so when Jarvin joins them. He seals the craft, gestures at Sarmax.

"You'd better drive," he says.

"Why?"

"You're the better driver."

"Sure," says Sarmax, "but where?"

"We were talking about the c.o.c.kpit," says Jarvin as part of the wall slides back.

There's no way out of this. She's checked that six billion times in the last second. The fact that she hasn't given up yet is more a matter of sheer stubborness than any rational consideration. Control's grip is ironclad. He's covering all the angles, using her like a battering ram now, propelling her forward in spite of herself. She's almost cracked the Redeemer's Redeemer's inner enclave. She'd better finish the job quick, before Carson reaches his destination. She knows she's in denial that he's about to die, even though she feels that he may as well have bitten it all those years ago-that the man she thought was telling her all his secrets was actually holding out on her, maybe even on himself. He's become ensnared in the web of his own schemes, and he's going under. But she's got a feeling he's going to go down fighting, and she's going to have to watch it. Live with it, too, though she doubts she'll have to do so for much longer. Deep in the inner enclave. She'd better finish the job quick, before Carson reaches his destination. She knows she's in denial that he's about to die, even though she feels that he may as well have bitten it all those years ago-that the man she thought was telling her all his secrets was actually holding out on her, maybe even on himself. He's become ensnared in the web of his own schemes, and he's going under. But she's got a feeling he's going to go down fighting, and she's going to have to watch it. Live with it, too, though she doubts she'll have to do so for much longer. Deep in the Redeemer's Redeemer's zone, she watches on one camera in particular, one hangar bay among so many- zone, she watches on one camera in particular, one hangar bay among so many- The Operative emerges from the shuttle, takes in the moon-and-eagle banners of s.p.a.ceCom emblazoned on the hangar walls. Marines are everywhere. Two of them trundle the faux Haskell down the ramp behind him. Her face remains exposed behind plastic. The Operative stares at it as it pa.s.ses him.

"Everything okay?" asks Szilard's public relations officer.

The Operative turns back to him. "Of course."

"Then follow me." The faux Haskell is pushed along behind the Operative and Sullivan, through the hangar bays, and deeper into the Redeemer Redeemer. At every intersection, the Operative catches glimpses of marines blocking off all other access to the route that he's being led upon. They reach an elevator bank containing several lifts. One of those doors slides open.

"After you," says Sullivan.

Hurry the f.u.c.k up," says Lynx. Linehan's doing his best, but it's tough when Lynx keeps changing the route. They've doubled back once already. Now they're doing it again.

"Can't you get this straight?" asks Linehan.

"They're taking another way in," says Lynx. "Now open this f.u.c.king door." He gestures at the blast-door they've stopped at, but Linehan's already on it. A flamer protrudes from his shoulder, swivels, starts up. Linehan glances over at Lynx.

"You've got the zone behind this door covered, right?"

"I will by the time you get there," says Lynx.

Holy s.h.i.+t," says Spencer.

"Shut up," says Sarmax. He hits the gas and starts piloting the crawler into the Hammer's Hammer's hull. It's a real maze. There are several layers of armor. Even Jarvin's hacking at the failsafes can't open all the doors at once. Each one opens to admit them, then slides shut behind the crawler in succession as the craft moves on through. Finally bolts extrude, and the largest door of all slides back- hull. It's a real maze. There are several layers of armor. Even Jarvin's hacking at the failsafes can't open all the doors at once. Each one opens to admit them, then slides shut behind the crawler in succession as the craft moves on through. Finally bolts extrude, and the largest door of all slides back- "Ah f.u.c.k," f.u.c.k," says Spencer. says Spencer.

"Hold on," says Sarmax.

Closing," she says.

"Good," says Montrose.

Strange conversation: Haskell feels like some kind of underwater creature that's protruded an eye-stalk above the surface. Her mind swings in behind Lynx while she locks in on Carson, Control increasing the pressure as Montrose sits in her command chair and presides over it all. Haskell can see that face so clearly now-gritted teeth, aquiline nose, resolute eyes. She feels that under different circ.u.mstances, she might have even liked this woman. But given how it's all turned out- "You're not going to pull this off," she says.

"No," says Montrose, "you're going to do it for me."

The Operative spares scarcely a glance at Sullivan and the two marines in the elevator with him. It's a tight fit, to say the least. Particularly with the contraption that's taking up most of the room.

"So how did you get your hands on her?" asks Sullivan.

"Long story," says the Operative.

The elevator stops going down, starts going sideways. It's all relative anyway. The s.h.i.+p's got several sections, some of them rotating, others in zero-G. The Operative maximizes the magnetism of his boots, braces himself in a corner, and leans back. Looks at Sullivan.

"So what do you do every day?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you were his PR man."

"Sure."

"So what do you do?"

"Manage his image."

The Operative snorts. "He keeps a pretty low profile."

"That's the idea," says Sullivan.

Linehan's flamer cuts out. The blast-door's still intact, but it's sporting a hole wide enough to crawl through.

"After you," says Lynx.

"Figures," says Linehan, but he scrambles through anyway, triple-scans the corridor on the other side. It's empty. It's becoming increasingly apparent to him how this is working. Szilard's cleared as large an area as possible inside his perimeters. Anything moving within them is a problem by definition. Though that logic falters if you lose your view and don't know it. Linehan a.s.sumes that Lynx has that one covered. He wonders when Lynx will decide he no longer needs a mech-resolves to be one step ahead of that moment.

It's like being on the surface of some demented comet. s.p.a.ce is all around them, sheets of stars wallpapering the sky. Energy is surging past: the DE fusillade that's aimed at the s.h.i.+p, the bombs that comprise the s.h.i.+p's own fuel. Spencer catches a glimpse of the Moon amidst a glimmering blackness. He can't help but notice that they've emerged on the side of the s.h.i.+p that's facing away from Earth. He's guessing that's quite deliberate, intended to reduce the likelihood that this little outing will be seen by Eastern eyes. Anything American might might hesitate before shooting at them. Because there's no good reason why the Eurasians would be going walkabout on the wrong side of the thickest armor ever created. That armor's received so many hits now that it's like a pockmarked landscape. Sarmax keeps maneuvering the vehicle in and around craters that raw energy's scooped from the surface. Spencer can only imagine what contortions Jarvin's going through to keep the s.h.i.+p's sensors from picking up the vehicle that's sliding over them. His helmet keeps on adjusting as gunnery flares right next to them. His brain's too gone to think of anything save a single question. hesitate before shooting at them. Because there's no good reason why the Eurasians would be going walkabout on the wrong side of the thickest armor ever created. That armor's received so many hits now that it's like a pockmarked landscape. Sarmax keeps maneuvering the vehicle in and around craters that raw energy's scooped from the surface. Spencer can only imagine what contortions Jarvin's going through to keep the s.h.i.+p's sensors from picking up the vehicle that's sliding over them. His helmet keeps on adjusting as gunnery flares right next to them. His brain's too gone to think of anything save a single question.

"So how the f.u.c.k do we get back inside?" asks Sarmax. asks Sarmax.

"I'm working on it," says Jarvin. says Jarvin.

And after we take out Szilard?" asks Haskell.

"Win the war," says Montrose.

"How?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Haskell shrugs. She gets it. The president's a practical politician. The next problem isn't nearly as important as the one right now. So Montrose is applying the same strategy to Szilard that she applied to the Eurasians.

"Get your blow in first," says Haskell. "That's what it's all about?"

"That's what it's always always about," says Montrose. "That's why I need both you and Carson-" about," says Montrose. "That's why I need both you and Carson-"

"Did you have this kind of caper in mind all along? Or did things go off the rails with Szilard?"

"A little bit of both."

"Because he wants to be president."

"Because he was a little too interested in you."

"Seems like that's been going around-" And suddenly it's like she's shoved back underwater; Control's angling her in, plowing through Szilard's outer perimeter, keeping pace with the men on the scene- The elevator doors open. Sullivan leads the way out; the Operative follows, the two soldiers bringing up the rear, still pus.h.i.+ng the thing that Montrose has sent Szilard-the thing that the Operative's supposed to have stolen. The Operative's starting to lose track of who's supposed to believe what. He regards that as a sure sign he's about to get dealt out of the game for good. But as they keep moving, he can't help but notice something.

"You guys fail to pay the rent or something?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where the h.e.l.l is everybody?"

"There's a war on," says Sullivan. "Didn't you notice?"

"Must be getting down to the wire," says the Operative.

Same with the overhead lighting. The Operative a.s.sumes if he asked Sullivan about that, the man would say that everything was being channeled toward the DE batteries. Which might even be true. But the effect's a little eerie nonetheless. The lights are turning on only in the sections of the corridor they're in, are remaining illuminated only in the five meters ahead and behind them. Everything else is darkness. The Operative snorts, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

"This is how you guys set up perimeters?"

"I'm not in charge of security," says Sullivan.