The Machinery Of Light Part 47

"I did," says Sinclair. "In my own image, I might add. Same with all of you. Endlessly scheming, endlessly rebelling, and all of it really just furthering my own purpose. But in the end, everyone here is going to have to make a choice. A genuine one. I was born human like all of you, but we've broken beyond all frameworks now. The lives you left behind were plotted through one particular universe. That's what made the Autumn Rain hit-teams so unstoppable. They made the right choice every time-threading their way through the most advantaged world-line, navigating the forking paths of multiverse to get the drop on their enemies."

"And those versions of the Rain that didn't?" asks Sarmax.

"Got left behind in the dust," says Sinclair. He shrugs. "You have to s.h.i.+ft your thinking. Multiverse is a matter of probabilities. Everything happens. Some things happen more than others. Once we had a mind that could ride existence like a water-strider rides liquid-that was when things got interesting. That was what laid the groundwork for steering one universe in particular toward- "A singularity," says Haskell.

any moment now The Operative breathes out slowly, relaxing his body, preparing his flesh. It seems to him that Lynx and Sarmax are doing the same thing-like they know what's about to happen even though they don't know which way everybody's about to jump. Linehan seems to be off in a world of his own. Most of the screens are blank now. There are only a few left. And Sinclair just seems focused on whatever duel he's waging with the thing that Haskell's become- "Exactly," he says. "A real singularity. Not the low-rent kind they envisioned back at the dawn of the networked era. Paltry imaginations capable only of conceiving some kind of ma.s.s-uploading-like we'd ever take the ma.s.ses ma.s.ses-some silicon version of the Heaven they'd been conditioned to think of as their birthright-or some machine overmind to act as the G.o.d they'd been promised as children and which their subconscious was still bleating for. Infantile's the only word to describe any of it."

"What was infantile about it was the conflation of the fate of the self with the fate of the species," says Haskell. "The l.u.s.t for personal immortality. The same thing you've been offering-"

"And the prize which everyone here can claim. We've already broken through all the barriers humans were never meant to cross. This meat meat we inhabit is of no more significance than flea-bitten clothing. And I'll have need of servants as I explore the ultimate. Why would I deny them attributes worthy of their station?" we inhabit is of no more significance than flea-bitten clothing. And I'll have need of servants as I explore the ultimate. Why would I deny them attributes worthy of their station?"

"But that's not the real reason you brought us here," says the Operative.

"You're the ones who've done that," says Sinclair. "Came here under your own power, of your own initiative-the strongest members of the Rain-the survivors survivors ... all of you converging upon this point along a precise sequence of events in which you mirrored each others' actions, ebbing and flowing against one another, running point and counterpoint in games of byzantine complexity played out across the Earth-Moon system, patterns so intricate no single mind could possibly divine the probability clouds that define them-" ... all of you converging upon this point along a precise sequence of events in which you mirrored each others' actions, ebbing and flowing against one another, running point and counterpoint in games of byzantine complexity played out across the Earth-Moon system, patterns so intricate no single mind could possibly divine the probability clouds that define them-"

"Save your own," snaps Lynx.

He can barely follow the conversation, but he can see that things are coming to a head. He's aware, too, of these creatures in his mind, and they don't seem to be able to make up theirs. One's struggling to absorb the infernal machine. The other's not coming through too clearly. It sounds like the woman from earlier, though. Even though Linehan can barely hear her. He can remember even less. But there was was a woman. It's her face-on the screens in front of him. And on the vast screen beyond all of that ... a woman. It's her face-on the screens in front of him. And on the vast screen beyond all of that ...

You really want to know that price," says Sinclair.

"I think I already do," says the Operative.

"Then how about spelling it out?" says Lynx.

"We climb aboard and ride it," says Sarmax.

"More like get plugged in," says the Operative.

She straining at the tethers, but the Room's not coming with her. It's still attached with part of herself-Sinclair's still got her in lockdown. She increases her energy, grinds against the shoals of limitless ocean, but all she's doing is expanding her purview and not her power- "Too bad," says Sinclair. "You've got the world's best view, but you just can't seem to get to grips with it." He gestures at the three pods on the tripod that sprouts off around her, looks at everyone else. "Sentimentality's a b.i.t.c.h: I'd like it to be the original triad, but-"

"And why the f.u.c.k would we be stupid enough to climb inside?" says Carson. "We'd be your playthings-your pets- pets-"

"Earth to Carson," says Sarmax. "We've been that all along."

Everyone looks at him. He can feel energy pulsating through the Room-practically radiating from the screens. He can only a.s.sume they feel it too. He struggles to keep his mind off Indigo, struggles to stay focused.

"Matthew intends to absorb Haskell the same way he absorbed Control," he says.

"But he still needs us why?" why?" asks Lynx. asks Lynx.

"Buffers," says Carson. says Carson.

"Let's not get carried away," says Sinclair.

He doesn't need need any of you," says Haskell. "Not anymore." any of you," says Haskell. "Not anymore."

"It just makes it easier," says Sinclair. "Think of it as outriggers on a canoe. Helps keep the balance. I've prepped your minds since inception to be the amplifiers in the grid I've formed around Claire. Even one of you would be useful, but all three would be just peachy-as specialized a set of neurotransmitters as I could orchestrate, and Linehan's chowed down enough psychedelics to qualify as a spare tire. In return, you'll get-"

"Consumed," says the Operative. says the Operative.

"Transformed," says Sinclair. "Into G.o.dlings." says Sinclair. "Into G.o.dlings."

"Under your direction," says Lynx.

"The alternative being I butcher you all right now."

"Butcher?" says Haskell. She's making one last effort now. She can feel something start to give way. "Butcher? "Butcher? If you If you absorb absorb me-the amount of energy-the psychic backwash when the Room breaks free of its last moorings will kill every living thing back within the Earth-Moon system-probably wipe the slate clean out beyond the radius of me-the amount of energy-the psychic backwash when the Room breaks free of its last moorings will kill every living thing back within the Earth-Moon system-probably wipe the slate clean out beyond the radius of Mars- Mars-"

"And it's all just fuel for the engines," says Sinclair. "Necessary to attain our Archimedes point on all else. You came through a labyrinth to get in here, but the real real labyrinth is everything that's beyond: all of it just interlocking labyrinth is everything that's beyond: all of it just interlocking computations computations. And your last-ditch efforts are merely strengthening my hand. So you better take a good look, Claire, because it's the last you're going to get with eyes that aren't f.u.c.king mine-" aren't f.u.c.king mine-"

"I don't think so," says Haskell-she reaches out- "I do," says Sinclair-flicks his wrist. A dart whips toward the Operative's head- -who ducks out of the way. Shakes his head.

"Now why did you have to do a thing like that?" he asks.

"Take him," says Sinclair.

Lynx and Sarmax move toward the Operative. But Linehan heads in the other direction, dropping down to where Haskell is. Sinclair whirls, hurls another dart after him, but just misses as Linehan ducks behind the pod that contains Haskell.

"What the f.u.c.k do you think you're doing?" Sinclair asks.

"f.u.c.king your whole day up," says Linehan- -by doing what Haskell's telling him to. She's managed to s.h.i.+eld his mind with hers, managed to convince Sinclair that he'll do whatever he asks. But the cat's out of the bag now. And Sinclair's coming right after him-will be on him in seconds. He starts grabbing at the piping around Haskell's pod, ripping it straight out of the paneling- The Operative's scrambling up the side of the inner Room, Sarmax and Lynx in hot pursuit. A knife thrown by Sarmax just misses his head. A dart flung by Lynx whips past his leg, skitters past him. He s.n.a.t.c.hes it from the floor as he clambers up. They're down to basics now. Behind him he can hear Linehan going to town on Haskell's equipment-can hear the belching of pneumatic pipes torn asunder while something presses in upon his mind- "You can't escape us," says Lynx.

He might just have a point. Sarmax alone would still be more than a match for him. And with Lynx in the equation, it's even more of a long shot. Especially when there's no zone left for him to access, his mind pressed back into his skull by the vortex the Room's becoming, his brain once more having purview over nothing save his body. The Operative depresses a trigger in his mouth, feels a needle slide into his cheek, one last shot of grade-A combat drugs surging through him, a rush that's intensified by the certain knowledge that Sarmax and Lynx are riding the same wave, too, building still further as he thinks of Claire at the center of it all ... remembering her on the edge of seventeen, a mind like nothing he'd ever seen, a single endless summer ...

Hide-and-seek: Linehan's on one side of the pod, Sinclair's on the other. Linehan's doing his best to keep it that way, moving back and forth to prevent Sinclair from coming to grips with him. He knows the only reason he's still sane is because Haskell's offering some protection. But this is a game that can have only one ending. So he's smas.h.i.+ng against the equipment with his bare fists, rending metal as Sinclair starts bellowing like a wounded animal and Haskell's mind starts convulsing- The Operative feels it too: a mind in meltdown, flailing against him as Lynx and Sarmax close in from both directions. It's like all surfaces are twisting around him now-mentally and physically-more darts flung by Lynx and Sarmax slicing past him as he struggles to breathe and the walls along which he's climbing seem to be somehow bending- bending- "What the f.u.c.k is going on?" on?" yells Lynx. yells Lynx.

"The no-room's cras.h.i.+ng," mutters Sarmax.

The Operative shoves off one of the screens, straight back toward his pursuers-Lynx draws a knife, slices it in toward him- -just as Linehan doubles back again-wrong way this time. Sinclair's right there, scuttling in toward him like some kind of demented crab, hands looking more like claws claws-and Linehan does the only thing he can do: leaps at him, burying his teeth in Sinclair's neck- -as the Operative ducks in under Lynx's killing blow, smas.h.i.+ng his fist into Lynx's face, puncturing the skin with a fingernail that hides a needle that extrudes- "f.u.c.k," yells Lynx-the last coherent thing he says as the poison enters his brain and he starts frothing at the mouth- yells Lynx-the last coherent thing he says as the poison enters his brain and he starts frothing at the mouth- "Good riddance," says Sarmax.

"Just us now," says the Operative.

"Like it should be."

Teeth tearing through flesh that's really something more-Linehan feels Sinclair's claws rending him but he's still pus.h.i.+ng the man-who's-no-man backward, shoving him up against the canopy-door as Sinclair's blood gushes into his mouth, turning to acid as it does so-burning, overwhelming him with pain even as his teeth clash together, even as the thing he's fighting keeps on rending him- -even as Sarmax feints left, goes right, then lashes a kick against the Operative-who pulls his leg out of the way as the blade that's extending from Sarmax's ankle just misses hamstringing him.

"Oldest trick in the book," he mutters, as he stabs Lynx's dart at Sarmax's face- "This one's even older," says Sarmax, knocking the dart flying as he unleashes an almost impossibly strong punch-but the Operative ducks, grabs that arm, hauls Sarmax in as they start to grapple- "Like we're back in the ice," he says.

"Ice is all there is," says Sarmax as he gets the Operative in a headlock. The Operative tries to break free, but it's no use. Sarmax always was the stronger. And now his former mentor is cutting off his air.

"Over soon enough," says Sarmax.

"Like right now," says the Operative-he shoves backward, smas.h.i.+ng Sarmax through one of the screens. Shards of plastic fly. Blood's all over the back of Sarmax's head. But- "Won't save you," says Sarmax.

"Think again," says the Operative-he's grabbing one of those shards, twisting his arm as he plunges it through Sarmax's eye- He's blind now, Sinclair gouging out both eyes, but still Linehan fights on, pure dying adrenaline pumping as his opponent starts crus.h.i.+ng his skull with fingers that may as well be drills. As the bone cracks, the brain within processes images: temples opening into universes that unfold onto the ramparts of all the heavens, all of it falling past him like myriad shooting stars, far-flung patterns somehow coalescing into the face of the woman he's giving his life for and even with his ruined mouth he's still going out smiling- -whereas Sarmax just stares at the Operative for a moment with the one eye he's got left. The shard protrudes from the other- "b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he says.

"You just won," says the Operative. "You'll see her now-"

"Always ..." mutters Sarmax-trails off, his remaining eye rolling upward in his head. The Operative springs to his feet, whirls-takes in Sinclair standing at the base of the pod, facing him- "Time for your final lesson," he says-just as Claire Haskell leaps from the pod- -her body manipulating gravity itself as she throws herself onto his back like some kind of wildcat, biting and scratching and clawing while his mind reels back before her and she tells him exactly what's on hers- "Didn't count on me getting out of jail, huh?"

"Whatever it takes to tame you," he mutters, but the battle between them isn't really a function of what's going on between their bodies. Their minds surge into each other-hers billowing in from every direction, his coalescing around the core of Control that he's absorbed-straining against each other, seeking even the most momentary of advantages as they navigate endless quantum architectures of no-s.p.a.ce and no-time, begetting infinite numbers of progeny minds that swarm in upon one another, a growing cloud of probabilities as the no-room goes ever further out of control and the multiverses start to blur. Somehow Sinclair's staying focused. She's not. It's as though he planned for this. Her mind's unraveling through labyrinthine chains of universe, infinite regressions prior to the one she's left, each universe a chunk of false time that hangs in the true reality, each one a fragment of some greater picture that's still blurry. But through that haze she can see the Operative moving in- "Stay back," she mutters, knowing he won't- -can't-as he grabs a piece of piping and swings it with all his might down upon the rear of Sinclair's head-yet as it impacts with that skull, there's a blinding flash as untold energies run along the pipe back into the Operative's body; he's blasted backward, vision collapsing in upon him, the last thing he sees is those two inhuman figures grappling- -and it's just the fraction of the merest instant, but she's taking all she can get at this point-Sinclair's distracted momentarily and she's threading in through a wilderness of worlds to take advantage of that fact, diving in toward his center as- -he sees what she's doing and- -s.h.i.+fts- -gets past her- -their positions reversed- -her mind dropping back into her flesh- -his accelerating out into the infinite- -receding jaws snapping at her and missing- -her brain blasting his body- -which catches fire. What's left of his meat is going up in smoke. She's scarcely had time to process this when the entire no-room shudders- -a force so great that even the Operative becomes aware of it, drifting back from death's door, holding onto the writhing floor- force so great that even the Operative becomes aware of it, drifting back from death's door, holding onto the writhing floor- "Carson?" says a voice.

He opens his eyes. Haskell's bending over him.

Except it's not Haskell. It's something that wears the face of every woman. Yet somehow all of them are the Claire he's always known- "f.u.c.k," he says.

"Easy," she mutters.

"What's happening?"

"Ever heard of a crash landing?"

She's staggering out of the realms of no-s.p.a.ce and it's all she can do to maintain any kind of structural integrity as the wave-functions collapse and the membranes burn away and everything around her gets back to the business of being real real, guiding this bubble universe back into the one that sp.a.w.ned it, infinite vectors all around and nearly all of them leading to the total destruction of her and everything else the Room contains. Her intuition's now the only way out as she steers her own way back, all those existences flas.h.i.+ng by until finally- f.u.c.k," screams the Operative-a huge m.u.f.fled boom that seems to pervade his very soul. He stares up at the eyes of Haskell, sees the screens flicker back to life all around-sees something on them that he just can't even begin to comprehend- "What the f.u.c.k," f.u.c.k," he mutters. he mutters.

"We're back," she says.

With a bang. As they reoccupy the s.p.a.ce within the depths of the Moon-or rather, become become that s.p.a.ce again-compressed energy flows outward, the disintegrating membranes channeling a force that, thanks to her guidance, has almost no impact on what's inside the Room. But as to what's beyond- that s.p.a.ce again-compressed energy flows outward, the disintegrating membranes channeling a force that, thanks to her guidance, has almost no impact on what's inside the Room. But as to what's beyond- "f.u.c.k," whispers Carson.

She says nothing, just cradles his head in her lap, watches on the screens in the Room as the entire Moon disintegrates-along with everything on it: the Eurasian legions on the cusp of victory, the Americans fighting with their backs to the wall, all the refugees caught in all the levels of that rock-all of them snuffed out, their minds caught within hers by Sinclair's infernal machinery, her consciousness swelling ever farther outward, expanding now as pieces of the Moon churn out in all directions and the Room starts to sprout more guns and engines than the Eurasian fleet combined- f.u.c.k," he says again.

It's really all he can muster. Because now he gets it. Sinclair planned for everything. He set up the Room as something that could become a bubble moving past realities. But he also configured it as something that could wreak havoc in any real world it dropped into- "We're in a f.u.c.king s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p," s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p," he says. he says.

One that sports the Stars and Stripes. She doesn't know whether that's Sinclair's joke or whether it meant something to him after all: and now it no longer matters, because she's at the helm of a behemoth to end all others, armored on all sides by more than half a klick of moonrock, looking more like a planetoid than a s.h.i.+p, and far beyond anything the Eurasians have left to throw against it. The monstrosity emerging from the resultant asteroid-field of rock and chunks of cooling magma is several klicks long, plasma drives blazing as it vectors in toward the remainder of the Eastern s.h.i.+ps. And Haskell's mind is racing ahead of it. It's no contest. Nothing can stand against her anymore. She shudders as she suddenly sees there's only one future left to her.

"What's wrong?" Carson asks.

"You're dying," she says.

"I know that," that," he says. he says.

"Jesus Christ, Carson. Jesus f.u.c.king Christ-"

"What happened to Sinclair?"

"I think he pulled it off."

"Becoming G.o.d?"

"Going off to find Him."

Maybe it was what he had in mind all along. Maybe he just improvised. Doesn't matter-he got past her, changed places with her, became the nexus he'd created within her while she dropped back into the world she'd left. She's scanning across this world for any sign of him, but she already knows he won't be back. This place is a backwater compared to what he was going for. And she finally sees that he wasn't even that interested in domination. It was all just a springboard for him. He was beyond the range of ordinary definition.

Then again, so is she.

"It's going dark," mutters Carson.

"I'm still here," she says.

He reaches out with his arm, pulls her head slowly down upon his chest. She doesn't resist, just lets herself lay there for a moment-and another-and another as his breathing gets shallower and the s.h.i.+p rains fire and brimstone into the Eurasian fleet. He's struggling to form words- "I know," she says. "I know."

"Took me way too long to admit," he whispers.

"Some things are buried deep." She starts to weep-for him, for Marlowe. For all of them. She grips him tighter. "See, now I love-"

"Everyone," he says.

"I never thought it would be like this."

"You'll take care of them, won't you?"

"They're all I've got left."

He smiles faintly. Tightens his grip on her hand, closes his eyes. Doesn't open them again. He's no longer breathing-his consciousness flickers out, past her-she tries to catch it, misses, knows that all she's got is memories now. Maybe that's all she ever had. She watches as the remnants of the Eurasian fleet scatter, stares at endless stars as tears obscure her vision. But she's not blind. She'll never be blind again. Her real vision keeps on expanding around her, encompa.s.sing all those other minds across the Earth-Moon system, all the scattered fragments of humanity that she's now gathering up into herself: the soldiers who man the remnants of shattered war-machines, the survivors of the wreckage of the cities, the ma.s.ses huddled throughout the globe-all of them abruptly aware of all others as group-mind coalesces under her guidance, the Earth s.h.i.+ning like a star as suddenly she's lifting humanity straight on through to a new phase of evolution. Collective consciousness coalesces; spirit and matter unite in final alchemy; archetypes s.h.i.+ft and suddenly everything's alive alive. As the light blasts through her, she finds herself wondering if Autumn Rain succeeded-finds herself smiling at the thought. She motors past the wreckage of the fleets of nations, sets course back toward the planet and her people.

THE END.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Special thanks to Brian De Groodt, for getting out Mich.e.l.le Marcoccia, for getting back James w.a.n.g, for the big picture Marc Haimes, for the road less traveled Mark Williams, for riding shotgun from the early days Steven Klotz, for helping me keep dinosaurs at bay Peter Watts, giant squid and SF giant Rebecca Fischler, 'cos she's into survival Ca.s.sandra Stern, legend in her own lifetime Spartacus, for having no concept of time Jen Hitt, for talking me out of the tree Magen Aucoin, for taking charge of the legions Jenny Rappaport, for getting me started David Pomerico, for helping me finish Michael Schur, for teaching me much about acceleration Thanks also to ...

Ajax, John Joseph Adams, Jon Allison, Charlie-Jane Anders, Greg Bear, Alan Beatts, Kat Beight, Al Billings, Patricia Bray, Mike Brotherton, Michael Briggs, Colleen Cahill, John Carrasquillo, Jeff Carlson, Gail Carriger, Karen Casey, Erin Cas.h.i.+er, Roz Clarke, Mike Collins, Lino Conti, Rob Cunningham, Richard Dansky, Jessica Dawson, David Deutsch, Eric Dorsett, Tom Doyle, David Louis Edelman, Jerry Ellis, Kelley Eskridge, Nathan Evans, Jude Feldman, Graeme Flory, Jim Freund, Rick Fullerton, Larry Giammo, Tom Goss, Nicola Griffith, Mia Haimes, Inga Hawley, Lisa Heselton, Jess Horsley, Leslie Howle, Dave Hutchinson, Faisal Jawdat, Michael Kanouse, Joshua Korwin, Justin Kugler, Randall MacDonald, Justin Mac.u.mber, Richard Morgan, Mollie Mulvanity, Mysterious Galaxy, Rob Neppell, James Nicoll, Annalee Newitz, Hope O'Keefe, Mike O'Malley, Joshua Palmatier, Maria Perry, David Pickar, Heidi Pickman, Jerry Pournelle, Glenn Reynolds, Ripley, Paul Ruskay, Jack Sarfatti, Zakhorov Sawyer, Joseph Scalora, Tom Schaad, Russ Selinger, Mike Shepherd, Stacey Sinclair, Jeri Smith-Ready, Steven Sobel, Stars.h.i.+p Sofa, Tim Stringer, Melinda Thielbar, Robert Thompson, Sanho Tree, Uberjumper, Juliet Ulman, Duane Wilkins, Albert Williams, Sarah Williams, Susan Williams, Pete Yared, Don Zukas, Derek Zumsteg, and Captain Zoom.

Dupont Circle, Was.h.i.+ngton D.C.

September 2000-February 2010

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Descended from Australian convicts, DAVID J. W J. WILLIAMS nonetheless managed to be born in Hertfords.h.i.+re, England, and subsequently moved to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Graduating from Yale with a degree in history some time later, he narrowly escaped the life of a graduate student and ended up doing time in Corporate America, which drove him so crazy he started moonlighting on video games and (as he got even crazier) novels. Learn more about the world of the early twenty-second century at nonetheless managed to be born in Hertfords.h.i.+re, England, and subsequently moved to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Graduating from Yale with a degree in history some time later, he narrowly escaped the life of a graduate student and ended up doing time in Corporate America, which drove him so crazy he started moonlighting on video games and (as he got even crazier) novels. Learn more about the world of the early twenty-second century at www.autumnrain2110.com.